Imagine this: Summer 2049. A gaunt man, clutching a rusty pipe, cowers behind a shelf in a dilapidated building. A chilling voice offers him a pact: immense power, if he sacrifices his soul. “Take it,” the voice urges, “and save your daughter…” You later witness his daughter’s persistent cough, feeling the raw anguish of a parent watching their child suffer. His promise that monsters won’t harm her, his fierce growl warding off foes, and his desperate pleas for help as he cradles her—all convey a profound, protective fear.
Now, fast forward to Summer 2053. A young, innocent-faced boy finds himself in the same desolate setting, gripping the same rusted pipe. An eerie voice extends a similar offer: power, unspoken, to protect, also unspoken. When this boy confronts the towering monsters, you sense not the father’s dangerous edge, but the sheer vulnerability of youth overwhelmed. His plea for monsters to stay away from his sister is soft, almost timid. His screams for help carry the desperation of someone far too young to bear such a burden.
These two vivid scenarios represent the 2010 English release of NieR and its 2021 English counterpart. Director Yoko Taro originally crafted two distinct versions of the game in 2010: one with a boy protagonist protecting his sister, and another, NieR Gestalt, featuring a father saving his daughter. The father version was reportedly created for the Western market, as Square Enix’s American marketing team believed audiences might not connect as strongly with a younger male lead. However, with the playfully titled 2021 re-release, NieR Replicant ver.1.22474487139…, Taro opted for the boy protagonist in English-speaking regions, making him the sole focus of the modern English experience.
Surprisingly, when players discuss NieR today, these significant differences often get glossed over. The main character might be different, they argue, but the core game remains largely the same. It “doesn’t really matter that much,” is the common sentiment.
But does it not?
How can these two gaming experiences be truly identical? Their emotional resonance and narrative perspective are clearly distinct, eliciting vastly different reactions. Critic Dia Lacina perceptively discussed this issue for Vice, and her insights inspired me to compare the opening sequences of both versions. To me, they undeniably offer unique sensations.
Many other classic games are undergoing remakes or remasters, including titles like Shadow of the Colossus, Silent Hill 2, Resident Evil, Metal Gear Solid 3, Suikoden I and II, and Final Fantasy Tactics. I often wonder if players fully appreciate just how divergent these new experiences can be from their originals, especially given that the originals are often the source of these games’ fame and historical importance.
Film buffs meticulously analyze the differences between Peter Jackson’s theatrical and extended editions of The Lord of the Rings, or the fascinating alterations in Wong Kar-wai’s cuts of The Grandmaster (with critic David Ehrlich even suggesting that if you’ve only seen the American version, you haven’t truly seen the film). Readers will endlessly debate the best translations of Dostoevsky or Hugo. Gamers, however, seem more inclined to overlook shifts in narrative and art direction, even in story-driven titles.
Consider Final Fantasy VII, one of gaming’s most iconic titles. Many players have experienced it, but what exactly was that experience?
Perhaps you played the original Japanese release on PlayStation in 1997. Or maybe you encountered the localized version that arrived in America and Europe for the same console, which included new gameplay features. Did you delve into the 1998 Eidos PC version, where characters suddenly sported mouths? Did you enhance your gameplay with mods, or utilize features like the Character Booster in modern re-releases? You might have even experienced an abridged version, Ever Crisis, on your phone.
The remarkable aspect is just how varied these interpretations of a classic can be. The initial Japanese release of FFVII, for instance, reportedly lacked a crucial flashback scene in the Nibelheim Mansion basement near the game’s end. This scene, a fan favorite, offers a touching glimpse into Zack Fair’s character, who gains immense importance later in the series.
Then there’s the English localization. As translator and critic Tim Rogers explored in his video series, some English dialogue arguably alters the emotional dynamics of Aerith and Zack’s relationship. Or should I say Aeris, the name many of us remember from the original Western release, which is now almost obsolete? Meanwhile, the PC version’s character models with mouths fundamentally changed the feel of certain scenes. Aerith’s demise, with Sephiroth bizarrely agape as if at an opera, arguably loses some of its emotional impact. Maybe you just skipped the original entirely and played the remake, assuming it’s the same Final Fantasy VII, right?
If you’ve played the Final Fantasy VII Remake games, you’ve undeniably experienced a different narrative from the original. This is a hotly debated topic within the fandom. While the remake covers the main plot points, it also introduces new elements, removes others, and reinterprets classic scenes. Suddenly, antagonist Sephiroth appears in parts of the story where he was absent in the original. Director Yoshinori Kitase intended Sephiroth to be a mysterious, Jaws-like figure in the original, an emphasis that is less pronounced in the remake.
In Rebirth, you can even briefly control Sephiroth, a concept unthinkable in the original where he remained a critically distant, terrifyingly powerful entity. Zack, a minor character in the original, is now far more prominent, even temporarily fighting alongside Cloud in Rebirth. Beyond story alterations, the revamped visuals, music, direction, gameplay, and the addition of voice acting all contribute to a profoundly different experience.
It’s astonishing how quickly players dismiss these types of changes. “It’s still basically the same story,” they often shrug. Some even treat a remake as a direct substitute for the original, but as Carolyn Petit pointed out for Polygon, this perspective doesn’t hold up.
Translations, too, significantly shape a work’s feel—a topic frequently discussed in literature and cinema, but less so in video games outside of specialized communities. For example, in a crucial (though optional) scene in Final Fantasy VI, Celes dramatically leaps from a cliff. In the original English Super Nintendo version (released as Final Fantasy III), this act followed tales of others taking a “leap of faith” to rekindle their spirits. However, newer, more faithful English translations frame it as starkly darker. Both interpretations inevitably feel different, even if, as translator Clyde Mandelin observed, some players in 1996 already found the old version grim.
The visual direction alone can transform how a work is perceived. The distinctions between the original Silent Hill 2 and its remake are immediately striking, and extensively documented by others. Many have noted that the original’s pervasive fog obscured character faces, creating a unique sense of dread. Similar atmospheric shifts are evident in the Shadow of the Colossus remake. Comparing the mansion in the original Resident Evil on PlayStation to its GameCube remake reveals dramatically different aesthetics; the former felt like an old, empty hotel, while the latter adopted a darker, Gothic style, fit for Dracula. For me, the original felt scarier precisely because it resembled a place I might have encountered in real life.
These are all official changes, but the gaming landscape becomes even more intricate when considering the deep integration of modding. Mods are so widespread, especially in PC gaming, that many players casually download them to “improve” a game in various ways, often without fully contemplating how these alterations fundamentally reshape their experience of visuals, audio, and interactivity. People apply mods as effortlessly as they add ketchup to food. These mods might promise to make a game look “sharper,” provide more “accurate” translations, or restore cut content, all supposedly to “greatly enhance” your experience. But at that point, which game are you truly playing?
Perhaps there is no single, definitive version of a game. Perhaps the medium is simply too multifaceted, with countless factors, even down to your choice of input—keyboard and mouse versus a console controller—dramatically influencing your experience. Consider how playing a text-heavy game like Disco Elysium can feel more akin to reading a book when experienced on a handheld system.
I don’t advocate for a “right” way to play a game. Instead, I believe in approaching your gaming experiences with awareness and thoughtful consideration. This might be more demanding than the casual approach many of us adopt, but it’s also incredibly exciting, forcing us to engage with one of gaming’s most powerful attributes: its inherent fluidity. When confronted with waves of different game versions, choose wisely. Your favorite might not be the one universally recommended, or even the one the creator prefers. It will be the version that resonates most deeply with you, for whatever personal reason.
Remakes, remasters, and mods are valuable concepts, even wonderful, especially given the difficulty of accessing older classics today. It’s crucial to celebrate the abundance of versions we have, but equally important to regard each version as a distinct work. The focus shouldn’t be on declaring one better or worse, but rather on reflecting on the fascinating differences that define the classic works of the video game medium.