Today marks the 20th anniversary of Shadow of the Colossus, a landmark title that continues to spark discussions about its profound moral complexities. We delve into how its silent protagonist shapes its narrative and challenges conventional player identification.
Many video games lean into the idea that a silent protagonist serves as a blank canvas for player immersion. Characters like Gordon Freeman and Link rarely speak, allowing players to project themselves into their roles. Even helmeted heroes like Master Chief offer a similar, albeit less complete, sense of anonymity.
However, silence can also create distance, a technique masterfully employed by Fumito Ueda in his revered works, including Shadow of the Colossus, Ico, and The Last Guardian. Their heroes are often mute or speak an unfamiliar language, making direct identification difficult. Key moments of dialogue or player-independent action are scarce and deeply impactful.
Contrary to the typical ‘self-insert’ assumption, Ueda’s deliberate narrative gaps foster a unique empathetic connection with his characters. Two decades on, Shadow of the Colossus endures as a powerful moral fable precisely because it maintains this distance, inviting deeper contemplation rather than simple projection.
This isn’t to suggest Shadow of the Colossus disregards the video game medium. Protagonist Wander’s quest to revive his beloved mirrors classic gaming tropes: vanquishing colossal foes in a forbidden land, guided by a celestial voice, and wielding a fabled sword. On the surface, Wander appears to be the archetypal hero on a noble quest against monstrous adversaries.
Yet, a crucial twist reveals Wander as the aggressor. Many colossi only react when provoked, often by Wander’s arrows. As he scales and stabs these magnificent, animalistic beings, they bleed black, moaning, flailing, and screaming in agony. This portrayal transforms the heroic fantasy into a chilling, horrifying experience, with each element meticulously crafted to challenge player perception.
Wander is far from a simple placeholder. Unlike games where silent protagonists emerge from ordinary beginnings (like Gordon Freeman’s commute or Link’s childhood village), Shadow of the Colossus drops us into Wander’s journey already underway. We see him arriving to place Mono on an altar, learning only fragments: an ‘ancient sword,’ a desperate bid to defy death, and the unwavering loyalty of his horse, Agro. This suggests a life and motivations beyond the player’s immediate grasp, adding layers to his character.
His precise motivations remain shrouded in mystery. His bond with Mono is never explicitly shown; instead, we witness his actions in her absence. His relentless pursuit of the colossi, despite immense danger and hardship, reveals a profound, almost obsessive love – one that could be perceived as selfish, given the devastation he causes. The game often highlights this through subtle cues, like the camera’s rare intimate zoom when Wander stands over Mono, prompting players to interpret his actions indirectly.
Through these carefully designed narrative gestures, the game achieves a theatrical quality. Players inhabit Wander like an actor embodies a role, making choices within a predetermined framework. Whether one plays Wander as a skilled warrior or a determined, if clumsy, commoner, his core decisions are already set. The player’s role is primarily one of interpretation, not creation.
This approach starkly contrasts with games that directly tackle protagonist morality, often making the player a surrogate. Titles like BioShock and Spec Ops: The Line use plot devices to underscore the player’s limited agency, with heroes acting as mere tools or having their will equated with the player’s complicity. Spec Ops, for instance, overtly chastises the player for continuing the game.
While these games offer interesting critiques, their method of player condemnation can feel superficial. Developers remain detached from this moral calculus. BioShock’s twist, though dramatic, lacks deep emotional resonance, as its protagonist feels more like a blank slate than a developed character. Spec Ops: The Line fares better, offering a more nuanced Walker, but the constant admonishment of player complicity sometimes overshadows his genuine character arc.
Shadow of the Colossus, however, focuses on Wander’s own agency, not the player’s. Unlike the overt, often ‘loud’ thematic explanations from antagonists like Andrew Ryan or John Konrad, Shadow of the Colossus embraces quietude. Its world is vast, filled with empty spaces and moments of silence that cultivate a distant, yet empathetic, understanding. Through the act of playing, players gradually grasp Wander’s character. This embodiment is complex, mythical, and resists simple reduction. The game never infantilizes the player, expecting them to understand Wander’s actions and their consequences without explicit lectures. His wrongdoing isn’t a surprise twist; it’s a truth that players confront and internalize, even as they embody it.
True understanding is hard-won, unlike cheap condemnation. Despite Walker’s extensive dialogue, Wander feels more authentic because his identity is distinct from the player’s. This fosters a profound exchange where we mourn for Wander, and that connection holds a deeper moral weight than mere guilt-tripping. If we question our own culpability, Shadow of the Colossus offers no easy answers, remaining eloquently silent.
In the game’s poignant conclusion, Wander is sealed within the forbidden land by a pursuing fellowship, transformed into a helpless child. The resurrected Mono then appears, seemingly to raise him. Stripped of his heroism and strength, Wander is no longer capable of holding a controller, his fate now entirely his own, separate from the player’s control.
This ambiguous ending contributes significantly to Shadow of the Colossus’ enduring legacy. We journeyed alongside Wander as his companions, but his destiny, like our own, remains uniquely his.