On the cusp of Rebirth
Some thoughts on loving Final Fantasy VII, a game that has wonderfully dominated various seasons of my life
When you spend a lot of time thinking about something, it gets bigger in your mind than it is in real life.
Think about a time you tried to share something you’re passionate about with someone you care about. This was something you love that’s not of yourself but that has bonded with you externally, like a TV show or a song. You sit down with them to consume something you love, and as it unfurls, you become increasingly aware that they are missing everything special about it. As you divide your attention between the object of your heart and this other person, to gauge their reaction, you notice how certain moments, details, ornaments, and aspects appear to make no impression on them. Lyrics or lines that strike you as special, that resonate within you and speak to you, land like plain yogurt on their tongue — wet, flavorless goop. You have to fight the urge to turn it off, to protect your passion from someone who doesn’t appreciate it the way it deserves. When it’s done, you discuss this art that has stirred you, and all you can think about is how disconnected you feel from this person. You are embarrassed, and they, sensing your energy, are sympathetic. They understand you less, not more, but they appreciate your vulnerability so they want to protect you from shame.
For me, this is Final Fantasy VII. A preacher once told me he became a pastor because the story of Jesus Christ is “the greatest story I’ve ever heard.” Ever since, I’ve been trying to identify what I believe to be the greatest story I’ve ever heard so I can dedicate my life to it. (It’s OK to be impressionable.) It’s either the Bible, the NBA, the Green Bay Packers, Final Fantasy VII, or something else more elusive that I haven’t yet divined. What an odd subset of things.
Final Fantasy VII came out when I was four, I first played it when I was seven, and I spent most of my childhood struggling to obtain it and play it. This sounds like such a simple thing, a child playing a video game, that it should never have been this hard, but it was. Obstacles to playing this game I faced as a child included: having our PlayStation stolen, not owning a memory card that I could use to save progress, having our PlayStation stolen again, our family’s copy of the game being lent out by my older brother, the local Family Video not having a copy of the game available for rent, the local Game Exchange not having a copy of the game available for purchase, one of the game’s three discs being scratched, not having the correct software on our family computer to install the PC version of the game, a glitch in which our PC version of the game froze at the same point every time I tried to play through it (the iconic cutscene where Sephiroth walks through the fire, a glitch I believe I overcame by recklessly opening and closing the disc drive through the moments of transition from cutscene to loading what came after). There were also the daily obstacles like earning facetime with our family computer or television over my older brothers, my mom confiscating controllers (or the computer keyboard or mouse) as punishment for a transgression, and others. Seriously, as a child I devoted tremendous time and energy into obtaining the means to play this game, probably equal to or at least significant in comparison to the amount of time I spent playing the game. If there was a cartoon made about my youth, that would be the plot—every episode about some random new obstacle I encountered while trying to play Final Fantasy VII.
The plot of the game is massive, requiring dozens of hours to progress through. In high school, two friends and I completed a playthrough of the game in 24 hours, but when I was 7 years old and hadn’t beaten it several times, it took much longer. Essentially, you spend the game trying to save the world. At first, you are an eco-terrorist blowing up reactors of a power company whose convenient energy source happens to be the planet’s lifeblood. Eventually, you square off with your childhood idol, who has discovered that as an embryo he was experimentally infused with cells from an alien lifeform, and he eventually hatches a plot to wound the planet so gravely that it will heal itself, a process in which he plans to intervene so as to merge himself with the planet, and from there he can roam the universe conquering other worlds as a giant planet-monster, which is a good gig if you can get it. Along the way, you fall in love, meet a diverse cast of friends, and get really strong.
Final Fantasy VII captivated me as a child for two reasons: I took it seriously and so did its developers. I am an optimist as an adult, and was so as a child as well. I didn’t have the understanding at 7 years old that I was looking at a work of computer programming. I felt like the world of Final Fantasy VII was organic and explorable. When I found items and treasures, it felt like I was really just “finding” them, as if they wouldn’t be there if I had waited too long and one of the game’s seemingly infinite non-playable characters had picked it up.
When I was about 12, rumors began of a remake of Final Fantasy VII, using modern graphics technology, which had come an astoundingly long way in the previous five or so years. Then, in 2005, this came out:
As a 12-year-old, I thought this demo meant a remake was happening. And it was beautiful. It may as well have been real, with human actors and everything. I had wanted to live in the world of Final Fantasy VII, and this demo made me believe that was imminent. It would not be. As is pointed out in the comment section of that video, that demo came out 8 years after the release of Final Fantasy VII, and it wound up being 15 years after the demo was released that Final Fantasy VII: Remake came to fruition. It was only the first part of the story, however. The 40-hour game was an expanded look at the original’s first 8 or so hours. As cynics chuckled that Square Enix was remaking the game for a cost of at least $700 ($210 for three separate installments and $500 for a new console required to play the latter two — and mind you it could end up being three consoles and more installments, who really knows), I chuckled and wadded up my money in preparation to throw it away.
The game released right during the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic, its release was moved up early, I’m guessing as a way to get people out to stores to buy it before the lockdowns hit full effect? Not safe, but very capitalist, very Shinra-esque1. I purchased the game digitally, safely, which I later came to regret because physical media matters, and played it and …
…it was beautiful. A dreamwalk. An affectionately rendered adaptation of the game I lived for. Like a birthday present from a significant other where every detail was considered, each crevice caulked with shared memories. And again, this was only the game’s first leg. Undergirding the nostalgia was a vaguely presented multiversal appendage, subverting the notion of “remake” and rerouting the story where convenient, a virtually seamless plot device that allowed the game to live multiple functions simultaneously. It was a remake and a new game at the same time2. The energy put into resolving the remake conundrum makes me feel loved. They needed to remake the game, but it couldn’t be a sheer nostalgia ploy, it had to be fresh and new as well. The balance may not have been correct for some folks, but I can’t judge it harshly because I’m too busy feeling flattered that they cared enough to try.
If they had gotten it wrong, it could have soured the memories of the original game for old fans, or failed to appeal enough to new fans. It could have been like so many other remakes, one that people communally agree to ignore for the sake of their canonical bond. As I played through it, I was continually anxious, rooting for the game to play out successfully. It honestly was a little like being a parent. Your kid is this new version of you that exists within a new world, and you want them to be like you in certain ways and be improved in other ways. The main difference being that loving a video game is conditional. If it’s garbage, we’re not going to stick by it.
In a week, the sequel to Remake, Final Fantasy VII: Rebirth will be released. I’ll play through it, tussling with the same emotions I felt during the first installment, only with more confidence, and also with the tacit assurance that even if Rebirth is an utter failure, I was afforded at least a share of the experience I craved already3. If the universe can’t bring to fruition a complete masterful reincarnation of the story I obsessed over as a kid, I always have the option of handling it like an adult and focusing on other things in my life.
Shinra being the aforementioned corporate monopoly killing the planet.
Like season two of “The Good Place.”
A resounding “No comment” on whether this bit also applies to parenting.