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I’m nowhere near the first to wax poetic about Final Fantasy VII and I know I won’t be the last. It’s been 25 years since the groundbreaking RPG hit shelves in Japan, and in the time since, countless people have discovered countless levels of meaning within the game, as well as countless ways to apply these interpretations to their own lives. However, what’s even more impressive about Final Fantasy VII is its ability to evolve and remain meaningful at different times in a person’s life, and help usher in growth in a subtle yet powerful way. This is why, as I reflect on this game on its 25th anniversary, I find myself incapable of thinking about it without also considering how it helped shape the trajectory of my life.
The first time I played Final Fantasy VII was as a 4-year-old girl sitting on my mother’s lap. I was far too young to fully grasp the plot, politics, occasional sex jokes, or that I wasn’t even really playing the game. But, regardless, I sat in her lap, convinced that I was in control of the automatic chocobo races during which she’d let me hold that clunky, grey controller, and listened to her tell me the story of a young group of friends, different in so many ways but bonded together by compassion. I cried when my mom cried, grew frustrated when she grew frustrated. While I couldn’t fully understand at the time why the game was so special, I knew with absolute certainty that it was, and savored all of the low-poly characters and every bit of its world my mother elected to share with me.
I was 8 the first time I truly played Final Fantasy VII. By this point in my life, I had already been forced to say goodbye to enough friends and schools that I was becoming a bit isolated. So, I turned to stories–the kinds filled with daring heroes and fierce friendships. I poured myself into books, movies, and games, and daydreamed about finding my own greater calling and ragtag group of friends that even my parent’s moving habits couldn’t separate me from. Out of all the stories I immersed myself in, however, Final Fantasy VII was the one that set itself apart.
At a surface level, Final Fantasy VII is a game highly concerned with relationships, bonds, and the complex forms they take. It’s a large part of its initial draw. There’s a reason why the Cloud-Tifa-Aerith love triangle is still hotly contested. There’s a reason why the dynamics between Cid and Sherra, Barrett and Dyne, and countless others are all so compelling. Hell, there’s a reason why Sephiroth is frequently cited as one of gaming’s most iconic villains. In each of these instances, it’s because all the characters involved–and their relationships with one another–are complex and nuanced, with easily identifiable pieces of ourselves and our relationship dynamics tucked away within them. And in Sephiroth’s case in particular, it’s because before we see him as a nemesis, we see him as an aloof-yet-troubled SOLDIER, fighting alongside our own starry-eyed Cloud Strife.
Much like so many of my real-life relationships, the ones in Final Fantasy VII are hardly ever tidy–but they are meaningful. Even optional characters Vincent Valentine and Yuffie Kisaragi find themselves tightly intertwined in the game’s narrative and the lives of various others. In addition, the game’s secondary cast members–like the members of AVALANCHE or the Turks–still possess enough charm and personality to make us actively care about them.
Wildly enough, Final Fantasy VII even has a “dating mechanic,” with players earning points towards their relationship with their party members depending upon the dialogue options they select. And while the romance mechanic might not pack the same “oomf” as a BioWare game, it’s a curious and meaningful inclusion that asks the player to see these companions as people you want to bond with–something I’ve always been more than willing to do in my games.
However, as I entered adolescence, I found myself increasingly more interested in ideas. I dug into new books, “edgier” movies, punk music, and found myself more heavily identifying with absolutely anyone who was, well, pissed off. Fortunately for me, I found comfort in my already-established favorite game being chockfull of people who were. Final Fantasy VII is an extremely punk game, abundant with political sentiments and messages regarding the distribution of power, our treatment of the environment, and the evil found in complicity. It demands we pause and examine what we give up for the sake of progress and ease, and more importantly, asks us if any future is worth those sacrifices.
We begin Final Fantasy VII in the Midgar slums, a place stripped of nature and power. A place where, as Barret reminds us, people feel confined to the tracks they’re set on. And while we can look around and easily observe how rapid and irresponsible progress, militarization, facism, and corporate overreach have decimated this area and extinguished hope to the point where those resisting oppression are hated even by the oppressed, these messages do not stop here.
We see these messages in Rocket Town, where Cid was promised funding for science that was then stripped away and given to the military while he was left to steep in resentment; in Junon, where a military base all but suffocates a small seaside town; and in Wutai, where Shinra elected to go to war against the isolationist country in an attempt to capture its resources and force its people to adapt to the Shinra idea of modern living. We also see them in the juxtaposition of the Golden Saucer–a shimmering theme park of fantasy and excess–being sandwiched between a prison and an impoverished mining town. Hell, on a more intimate level, we even see the way being complicit in inhumane practices literally makes man a monster, as Vincent Valentine reflects on how he stood idly by as the woman he loved partook in genetic experimentation and created Sephiroth.
However, Final Fantasy VII didn’t stop at merely expressing these thoughts and validating my fear and anger at the powers that be; it also bestowed upon me a gift: a greater understanding of compassion. I would argue that in a game filled with warm characters, none other than Barret Wallace stands above all others as a beacon of optimism and empathy. This is because Final Fantasy VII–and Barret in particular–understands that it takes love, strength, bravery, and hope to want better for the world. That hope comes from the courage to dream, to act, and to face forces larger than you without hesitation because you can’t imagine keeping others trapped in a world that tried to trap you.
While we see Barret and the rest of AVALANCHE wrestle with guilt at times as they consider the toll their work takes on the people they care about and society as a whole, in both VII and in Final Fantasy 7 Remake, developer Square Enix is brave enough to say, “No, the ends don’t always justify the means because that also leads to an abuse of power, but we refuse to accept complicit behavior or settling for cruelty.” Final Fantasy VII acknowledges it takes a certain level of strength and softness to endure the world Shinra built, just as our world does too, and to this day it’s still pretty incredible to find that sort of message–or conviction–in a big-budget game.
Final Fantasy VII’s lessons in tenderness don’t stop here, and as I reflect on the game as an adult, that’s been another compelling layer of the game that drives home the feeling that its meaning has evolved alongside my own maturation and changes. Final Fantasy VII has been an incredible aide in helping me come to terms with my identity, my mental health, and, as my initiation into it draws nearer, motherhood.
Tifa Lockhart is the first character I ever remember wanting to be. She was cool, sexy, caring, fiercely kind, as tough as her red combat boots, and a nurturing presence. When I saw her, I saw a shining example of a woman who could be all things in a world that largely promoted this idea that being the type of girl who could throw a punch and serve up a mean drink was in direct opposition to being the type of girl who could yearn for romance and rock a mini-skirt. And of course both of these “types of girls” were also so far removed from the ones deemed useful to society and fit to raise children.
However, somehow, Tifa was all these things and then some. And while I’m not trying to suggest Tifa is the end-all-be-all feminist icon for working “mothers,” especially when so many real working mothers often go overlooked and underappreciated, this childhood friend of mine serves as a gentle reminder of all I can be and am capable of–which is often more than I give myself credit for.
While it seems baffling that, in 1997, a character like her was dreamed up, it’s ultimately unsurprising when you consider the reverence for tenderness, femininity, and motherhood Final Fantasy VII is steeped in. Final Fantasy VII began as a game I associated with my mother because of our time playing together. However, in time, it grew to be one of the few games I’d dare say is focused on motherhood. When this realization set in, I began to wonder how much of it was a projection–until I discovered Final Fantasy VII was partially created as a way for director Hironobu Sakaguchi to grieve his mother.
Beyond that, so much within the game itself reflects the importance of motherhood: the scenes between Aerith and her adopted mother, Elmyra; Cloud’s conversation with his mom about finding an older woman who could take care of him; Marlene’s lack of a mother and how Tifa and Aerith both serve as caretakers for her at various points. We also witness several female characters–such as Sherra, Yuffie, and even Elena–act as leaders willing to sacrifice themselves for their respective people in displays of strength that are rooted in love.
Even the game’s grandest figures, Jenova and the lifestream, are “mothers,” each intent on protecting their creations–the lifestream ultimately doing so in spite of all that her children have done to her. The game is so abundant in love, compassion, and all these human qualities so casually dismissed as feminine or motherly, that they pour into the ostensibly more masculine characters as well, making so many of them a breath of fresh air.
Despite his massive sword and equally imposing hair, Cloud is an incredibly vulnerable character, ultimately delivering the game’s most heartbreaking and tear-filled tribute on loss, both breaking and rebuilding himself by addressing his trauma. In Final Fantasy VII, being soft is never perceived as being weak, but is rather a celebrated quality–an idea that made me become increasingly okay with understanding my trauma and embracing my softness. I now understand both these things take up space beside my strength, not in place of it.
I was a child when I first played Final Fantasy VII, eager to learn what love, friendship, comfort, and compassion were alongside a bunch of misfits, mercs, warriors, and eco-terrorists still figuring it out themselves. And now, 25 years later, I still find myself learning from this game. In a very real way, it feels as though I’ve grown alongside Final Fantasy VII. On a practical level, this is because of Remake and the titles slated to follow that make the franchise feel like a living, breathing thing. However, it is also because of how all-encompassing that first game was–how it bestowed upon its players lessons and themes that grow stronger and more resonant with the passing of time.
The best games are the ones that stick with you, that still have a hold on you years later. They’re the games we revisit regularly, whether that’s through replays, casual conversations, or reverent essays like this one. They’re the ones that keep finding new ways to be relevant, day after day and year after year, and give us reasons to keep coming back by offering new meaning and perspectives. After 25 years, Final Fantasy VII has proven it is one of those games, and one that, when I need it most, will always be there for me.
