'Three years had passed. Five years had passed, and still the trees remained with their roots spread out on the bottom of the water. It looked almost as if they were still alive now. Ohina thought to herself; in those days my legs were still strong. My eyes could still see far.'
     – Michiko Ishimure, Tenko, 1997 (tr. Bruce Allen).

The post-war years in Japan were accompanied by an ideological shift in the ideas of work and family, with the development of the sarariiman myth. The ideal household, promoted by the Japanese government, was one in which the wife took care of the housework and the children's education, while the husband provided for the family's economic needs. This dream was made possible by the employment conditions of the 1960s and 1970s, when the average worker could expect to spend their entire career with the same company. Representations of the Japanese sarariiman have largely evolved over time, making him both an archetype of ideal masculinity through his loyalty to his employer and his sacrifice for his family (kigyō senshi, corporate warrior). At the same time, other representations emphasise his submissiveness, in line with the westernisation of Japanese culture [1].

     And every morning the door closes

The collapse of the economic bubble in the 1990s shattered this ideal, weakening the labour market and the salaried middle class [2]. The destruction of this family harmony, based on a patriarchal concept of sacrifice, led to the dysfunction of Japanese households and the gradual disappearance of fathers from the family unit. The generation born after the 1970s had no memory of the economic miracle of previous decades and found themselves thrust into a world where inequalities were apparent from school and career prospects were mediocre at best. Authority figures were viewed with suspicion and contempt, including the government, teachers and parents. They are said to have failed in their role as guardians: teachers are portrayed as incompetent or murderers, politicians as indifferent to misery and colluding to steal public money, while fathers resign and mothers weep at their powerlessness [3].

The destruction of traditional masculinity, which is still struggling to build a new mythology, has been followed by a reassessment of the place of women, who are regarded as the driving force for Japan's economic recovery and the bulwark against demographic decline. Unsurprisingly, Shinzo Abe's economic programme has focused heavily on the role of women, both as workers and as mothers. Yet Abenomics have failed to transform the labour market environment: government coalitions have been largely conservative, and measures for women have been anemic at best [4]. What remains is a vain discourse to encourage reproduction – despite the economic conditions hardly being met for raising a child – which is reflected in cultural production.

     Undoing ikumen in post-Abe Japan

The overrepresentation of motherhood, however, should not obscure the transformations of fatherhood in the 2000s and 2010s. Xenoblade Chronicles 3: Future Redeemed is a striking example as it deals directly with this issue, whereas the original game looked at the question of reproduction and family in a broader way [5]. The heroes of the first two games return, each embodying a different vision of masculinity. Shulk retains his candour while appearing more calm and disciplined. He represents a self-controlled masculinity driven by both elegance and intellect, in the style of the erudite warriors of pre-modern Asia. Rex is much rougher, constantly struggling to find a way to express his feelings and frustrations, despite his good intentions. In some ways, his development is reminiscent of that of Ryōta Nonomiya in Hirokazu Kore-eda's Soshite chichi ni naru (2013), an architect who is unable to provide emotional comfort to his family. Confronted with the way Shulk interacts with Nikol, Rex finds a new harmony with Glimmer, full of empathy and love.

Perhaps the most important aspect of these relationships is that their nature remains implicit. Many of the reminiscent and contemplative passages in Future Redeemed rely on knowledge of the franchise, but the theme of fatherhood runs throughout the DLC. Ultimately, the heroes' distance from their children is a response to the debates surrounding ikumen, a term used to describe fathers who are involved in raising their children in order to make them appear 'cool'. The ideological programme of Abe's Japan relied heavily on this imaginary to encourage fathers to participate in the household, but the figure of the ikumen has been widely criticised for giving men a nice label, even though they contribute to the dysfunction of both the domestic economy and their working environment [6].

The figure of the ikumen can be understood as a way for fathers to make themselves useful somewhere and gain recognition from their peers, a way to find a place to belong (ibasho) after being ejected from both the family unit and the corporate space. Future Redeemed responds to this sociological question in the same way as several local associations have done, through the figure of the ikimen, men who decide to foster communities of solidarity in the same way that they would look after their children [7]. Shulk and Rex, thanks to their experience, become the tutelary figures of the Liberators and Colony 9, but they are more interested in being mentors than leaders. Like the base game, Future Redeemed focuses on building bonds between the various members of the community until their resilience is no longer in doubt. As the various characters point out to Matthew, the virtue of a leader is to bring people together when necessary, not to control their lives. Through the various side-quests, the inhabitants of Colony 9 also gain texture and individuality, autonomy and confidence – more so than in the base game, thanks to a sparser cast.

     Maybe tomorrow

There is an optimistic melancholy to Future Redeemed, between the series' various iconic locations reduced to lonely ruins and the forward-looking language of the characters. Like Tetsuya Takahashi's other games, the DLC shines by magnifying the ties that bind individuals, variations on the theme of friendship, love and togetherness – lessons that must be carried beyond the game. A single existence is but a drop in the ocean of human history. Civilisations, buildings, masterpieces, passions, dreams and memories can vanish in an instant, but there remains an explicit duty to cherish the past, not in blind adoration, but in preparation for the future. Future Redeemed constantly refuses to elevate Shulk and Rex onto a pedestal: they are already fading figures, as their injuries attest. Even A, for all her unwavering calm and penetrating gaze, chooses to remain outside the life that Colony 9 and the Liberators have decided to cherish; not because she is without compassion for the survivors, but because she knows – and this is her legacy – that the future belongs to them alone.

As Xeno veterans know, every story has an ending, and not all sequels need to be told. Looking back at Lost Jerusalem and thinking about building a better world is poignant, but this is the everyday story. Fighting for a fairer and more humane world. It may take generations, but the important thing is to keep dreaming and struggling for it, because there is nothing more tragic than an existence without hope, even when darkness seems to engulf everything. Of course, there is something idealistic and simplistic about this statement, but Future Redeemed, like the base game Xenogears (1998) or Xenosaga (2002-2006), leaves room for misery and sadness. Inequality is part of every society, and Takahashi has no illusions about the ghosts that will always roam the Rhadamanthus of the future. This is how Future Redeemed concludes the epic of the Xenoblade Chronicles, just as Episode III: Also sprach Zarathustra (2006) invited one to close their eyes for a while, until the light of hope reappears, maybe tomorrow. In a way, Future Redeemed is just an open door. Its more meticulous progression with Affinity Points, its more fluid exploration thanks to numerous ergonomic additions, and its gameplay designed around accessories rather than classes all point to rich ideas for Monolith Soft's next projects.

I may still be around to see what paths they take.

Maybe I won't.

I will sleep a while, until the dawn wakes me up again...

I still believe... come what may...

__________
[1] Annette Schad-Seifert, 'Samurai and Sarariiman: The Discourse on Masculinity in Modern Japan', in Arne Holzhausen (ed.), Can Japan Globalize? Studies on Japan's Changing Political Economy and the Process of Globalization, Springer, Berlin, 2001, pp. 206-208.
[2] Some contextual details are provided in my reviews of Kaze no NOTAM (1997) and Power Shovel (1999).
[3] This is a rather simplified picture of the cultural representations of the 1990s and 2000s, but they occupy an important part of successful audiovisual production in Japan. On the topic, see Shuk-ting Kinnia Yau, 'Bad Father and Good Mother: The Changing Image of Masculinity in Post-Bubble-Economy Japan', in David G. Hebert (ed.), International Perspectives on Translation, Education and Innovation in Japanese and Korean Societies, Springer, New York, 2018, pp. 243-253.
[4] Mark Crawford, 'Abe’s Womenomics Policy, 2013-2020: Tokenism, Gradualism, or Failed Strategy?', in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 19, no. 4-4, 2021.
[5] On the topic, see my review of Xenoblade Chronicles 3 (2022).
[6] In particular, wives and employers are very suspicious of the ikumen modoki, the father who prides himself on being involved in running the household and bringing up the children, but in reality makes no effort at all. He builds a positive image of himself on his wife's efforts and uses the household as an excuse to shirk his professional responsibilities. The yarisugi ikumen, the man who is overly proactive in his domestic involvement, is equally feared by women, both because he often disrupts household routines and wastes time, unnecessarily burdening his spouse with additional work. On the topic, see Nicholas Michael Feinig, Rearing the Family, Moving Society: Rethinking Gender, Kinship, and Work through Japan’s Fathering Movement, PhD thesis, University of Toronto, 2020, pp. 99-134.
[7] This figure is also subject to specific criticisms, notably the contamination of spaces intended for women by a corporatist and hierarchical masculinity, and the fact that these groups are more places for fathers to socialise than spaces for improving local community life; nevertheless, they are a new ibasho for men, outside the workplace. On the topic, see Nicholas Michael Feinig, op. cit., pp. 230-276.

this game is super cool. it's a high-grade experiment that barely cares about the (already not that established) Mario tropes in exchange for nonsense tiny playgrounds that have more ideas than they have "levels" inside them. i think that's cool. it barely feels like you're playing a videogame sometimes. the floating pieces of land that you walk on are there almost entirely to take advantage of a piece of Mario's movement options, so they actually feel like those 2D Mario levels where every single thing is there in the name of the core game. but i unfortunately kinda hate that part.

i've never been a fan of nintendo's utilitarian approach to design. it just means that areas must be in some way useful more than they are actual places. in 64 this means that you're forced to care about Mario's (conceptually cool) moveset at every opportunity. i can't even enjoy my abstract nothinglands in peace without having to engage with some random setpiece to get a star.

it's the structure as well… yuno.. i'm not one to usually care about intricate challenges when a game cares about it more than anything. even considering how loose some star objectives are, they're still filled with specific little challenges that completely ruin any sense of hanging out i could've had. yeah, i also really dislike the way almost all stars kick you out of the levels. they sometimes linearly change the level to different versions of themselves that make other stars possible and some others impossible, but sometimes that just makes the levels way too bite-sized to make an impact. like, i have to get at least 70 stars in this thing, so i have no time to keep playing around because that shit takes time to do. i get a similar feeling when i'm done with 4 worlds in 2D Mario games and i know that i still gotta make my way through another 4 worlds. i'm already dreading to do the rest before i'm even there.

when you get used to a level's flow in Mario 64, it gets a little better - but then you gotta consciously go through that all over again and see some new tiny setpieces in another level. and it's gonna really suck when you realize that you can only get all the red coins (of which you already spent some time looking for) when the level changes to another star and a path to that last one opens up.

but it's such a magical game with magical lands… these understated little boxes of characters and structures made tangible only by Mario's presence are a thing to behold. the level Tall, Tall Mountain, for example, is just this huge chunk of a mountain that you gotta climb multiple times to get different stars in different situations. it feels monumental because it's one of the few levels that takes the game's trend toward up/downhill climbing to the foreground of the play. in this level specifically, stopping to smell the roses feels positively uncanny because, since everything is there for a mechanical purpose, it loses itself in the absence of interaction. that's kinda awesome but it makes my head hurt a little.

it irks me because i genuinely enjoy the landscapes in here. they're the extreme version of the visually agnostic Mario levels that feel completely alien because of how random and generic their assets are. by setting the levels up as these random paintings that you stumble onto and not holding on to even some basic staples like the turtle guys and pipes, they made something that feels really uncanny.

i don't really get how people frame some games like Majora's Mask as being "mysterious" when they feature some really charming and normal-ass writing, full-on cutscenes, and NPCs with schedules walking around the world. it feels way more deliberate than the surprising nothings that Mario 64 gives players. there's a vague sense that Bowser took over Peach's Castle but absolutely nothing that contextualizes the bonkers structure. for me that's what makes it interesting! it just really loses me when those cool aspects are stuck with nintendo's approach to games.

Mario 64 is stuck in an impossible equation in my head bc it's at once the coolest game by nintendo that i've touched because it's made by them and also a game that i dislike playing because it still tries to follow their design pillars so much. goddamnit now i wanna play more nintendo games to satisfy my curiosity. please help me

There's something amusing about seeing a lot of big fans of Persona 5 in my circle rag on Persona 4 constantly when, in reality, the core issues of both of their stories are near-identical. They both have very formulaic story structures that wear out their welcome by the time they do start shaking things up, they have fairly weak casts that are severely underwritten past their initial arcs, and they're both very non-committal or even contradictory with presenting their main themes. If this is the case, then why do I view Persona 4 in a somewhat more positive light while Persona 5 gets worse for me as time goes on, despite the fact that the lowest lows of 4 are far worse than 5’s? Well, not only does Persona 4 have its own unique strengths that 5 fails to capture, but these direct parallels in shortcomings give me the impression that Atlus learned practically nothing from the shortcomings of 4 after a near-decade, aside from slightly getting the memo that homophobia might not actually be that funny. (Emphasis on slightly)

The main cast is probably the worst out of any modern Persona cast. Not to say that they’re all irredeemably terrible, but they just become incredibly flat once their specific arc is concluded, which makes it even more damning when characters like Haru don’t even have that to their name with how poorly implemented Morgana’s arc is. It doesn’t really take long for them to neatly slot into their respective archetypes without branching out much beyond them. Ann probably gets this the worst, she doesn’t really get to go beyond being “the girl” of the group when she had so much going on during Kamoshida’s arc. I think a better approach would’ve been to limit the cast just to the initial trio. Their dynamic in the early game is very strong and could totally carry a whole game on its own. Yusuke felt pretty out of place once he fully joined the Phantom Thieves, and the sidelining of growth for each party member becomes very apparent once Makoto joins. I don’t think it’s that much of a stretch to say it would work, with how often the series tries to push a “main trio” of their parties. Even Persona 4 directly did it, when it arguably started off with more of a quartet than a trio. I don’t know how it would affect the rest of the game, but what I do know is that the characters do need a lot more than they get, especially in a series that prides itself on interpersonal relationships like Persona does.

I don’t see myself as someone that’s too harsh regarding the “Show don’t tell” critique. I like a good chunk of media that are very in your face about their messages and themes. The point where I do feel it’s right to make that critique is when it feels like a piece of media is talking down to me, which is absolutely the case with Persona 5. It never trusts the player to come to their own conclusions about what they’re being presented, so it feels the need to spell the meaning behind every interaction out in meticulous detail so that a 3 year old can keep up with it. For example, there’s a reoccurring puzzle throughout the Pyramid of Wrath, (Which is my least favorite stretch of the whole game for a myriad of reasons that I don’t intend to go into) where you put together hieroglyphs that depict parts of the palace ruler’s past, and their relationship with a close family member. I thought it was a cool way to let the player piece together the trauma that they endured, especially with how that comes together with the palace’s boss, but every single time you clear one, the characters explain exactly what it means and tell you exactly how to feel. It’s really frustrating when it feels like it has to spell out every single interaction in the entire game. I feel like you could shave off 10 hours from the game just by giving it a tighter script, it’s unnecessary bloat that does nothing but dampen the storytelling. It’s even more baffling that it has this approach when ultimately, it doesn’t really have anything to say until the Royal arc hits. It’s trying to tackle much more grandiose themes of society and rebellion, but it always feels like it’s only putting a single toe into an incredibly deep pool. Let me be clear, I don’t need the PTs to start picking apart every aspect of each corrupt system in the nation. I feel like too many critiques go down that route, especially since it does place more of an emphasis on personal conflict. But even so, it could do a lot better with acknowledging it than the “All’s well that ends well, right?” approach we’re given. That’s honestly my biggest problem with the modern series. It’s so non-commital with presenting these potentially interesting ideas that the stick it’s hitting the issues it tackles seems to be more like a damp pool noodle.

As I’m writing this, I’m noticing a major pattern between each of this game’s aspects. I really like everything about it on paper. The general theme of rebellion that has sparks throughout the whole game, that’s cool! Too bad the ways it explores that theme are pretty paper-thin, even with the social links that usually thrive with conveying themes just as well as if not better than the main plot. Having social links teach you more specific abilities to use throughout the game for a sense of growth, that’s cool! Too bad that the way they’re balanced makes them range from practically meaningless to game-breakingly powerful. Every single addition to the game’s combat, the baton passes, the guns, all of that is cool! Too bad none of the game is balanced around it and it makes even a normal playthrough one where you’re stupidly overpowered. I think this is why Persona 5 fails for me in ways that the other games in the series don’t quite as much. As much as 3 and 4 had their low points and downsides, both of those did have consistent strengths that they were able to bring out exceptionally well. For every great and fresh idea that P5 has that isn’t strictly related to its presentation, there’s something else that ends up completely undercutting it.

In a way, that’s why despite how fun it can be to dunk on Atlus and this game, I don’t like the distaste that I have for it. It does have some genuinely fascinating ideas, I can see a spark of something truly spectacular trapped inside of this. The Royal arc proves this, it’s a fantastic piece of work that’s only weaknesses are the foundation that it’s built upon. If Atlus really is capable of being a tour de force in video game storytelling and can capitalize on the strengths of Royal’s writing, then Persona 6 could be the first game in the series that I really like without any caveats. All I need is proof that modern Atlus has that bite in its narratives, which it’s mostly consistently proven to not have over this decade. I want to believe that Atlus can pull through, and bring us one last surprise…

(Also maybe don’t have a prominent party member that plays into every single autism stereotype in the book at maximum capacity with the core point being “ooh she’s such a quirky gamer girl!” Cool? Cool.)

I hate that I don't like this game. I wish I did. For the first thirty or so hours, I did. But then I finished it, and I thought about it, and I realized that I don't like Persona 5. Some things here are excellent, and some things here are atrocious, and they all blend together into something that's only ever able to peak at the heights of "okay".

The writing is my biggest problem, with the way the game handles its characters being the strongest flaw. The trauma these people face is treated as a punchline at their expense far too often. It's not an uncommon opinion that Ann gets it the worst of the lot; she's a survivor of sexual assault at the hands of a powerful teacher, and the game constantly takes time out to make her own party members leer at her and make her uncomfortable. Yusuke's "nude model" scene is talked about a lot, but it really isn't that bad, especially compared to later instances — one scene forces her and every other woman in the party into swimsuits to seduce a keycard out of some old rich lecher, and it's played as a joke until the guy grabs Ann, threatens her, and then turns into a big shadow monster who you kill and take the keycard from regardless, making the whole seduction plan pointless. Ryuji and Joker will try to stare up her skirt when she lays down on a couch, gawk at her thighs when she gets caught in the rain, and peer down her top when she's fanning herself in the desert. Ryuji may just be a dumbass who Ann can easily rebuke, but Joker is the leader of the group, and unquestionably holds power over her and the other Phantom Thieves. He doesn't treat any of the other characters this way, and he keeps doing it in cutscenes that you have no control over. Regardless of how the player treats Ann, your character won't stop creeping on her as soon as you give up control. It's weird. It's really fucking weird. Speaking of Ryuji, it's just as tasteless to have a character who was physically abused by that same teacher to the point of broken bones and ostracization be the butt of so many jokes where the punchline is him getting the shit kicked out of him. He's rewarded for both getting the track team back together in his confidant route and for saving every single member of the Phantom Thieves from a sinking ship with the exact same thing: the people he's going out of his way to protect punching him senseless until he's left in a crumpled, bruised, moaning heap on the ground. Ha ha. It's also implied in a scene that comes completely out of nowhere that he gets molested by two gay men in Shinjuku. All of this is played for laughs. It should be obvious to anyone reading this or playing the game for themselves that none of this is funny. It's fucking horrific. It's made worse that someone (or several someones) on the ATLUS writing team think that any of this is funny. I've heard that the localization team begged to be allowed to make script changes to address these issues, and were refused; whether or not this is true, the script that's here is the one that we've got, and the few changes made don't fix these core problems with the writing.

I'm still kind of confused to see all of the "I hate JRPGs!" crowd (your Dunkeys, your Yahtzee Croshaws) circle the wagons around this game and talk about how Persona 5 broke the mold. Mechanically, it's Pokemon. There's nothing wrong with Pokemon. Pokemon can be fun. But the core combat loop is "fish for the enemy's weakness, use the element that they're weak to, win the encounter". It's every single-player Pokemon game. Sometimes, if the fight goes long enough, you can cast a debuff, or maybe even a party-wide buff if you're really feeling brave. Bosses and mini-bosses are completely immune to status effects like shock or sleep, so any foe that you can't kill on the first turn of combat boils down to a DPS race where you either have enough damage and healing to outlast them, or you don't. This is in stark contrast to other entries in the Shin Megami Tensei series where bosses can have mechanically interesting gimmicks or one-off skillsets with unholy good synergies, rather than just being walls of health and damage; the closest thing you get to a boss that challenges your conception of the mechanics in Persona 5 are Okumura and his waves of robots that need to be killed within one turn of each other, which are in a fight so ridiculously easy to brute force by just having enough AOE damage that it barely even qualifies as a challenge. Futaba's later support skills make the game completely trivial, with her Ultimate Support constantly being cast to full heal, buff, and revive every member of the party. I tried to kill myself on a boss by enabling rush mode and walking away, and it still took six and a half minutes before Joker actually went down and I got kicked to the death screen. The guns — while certainly a unique addition — are borderline useless in most encounters, serving only as a middling damage dump (or as a status applier, which only works on trash enemies that are more easily killed by hitting their weak element anyway) and are utterly outclassed by Persona elemental skills. Many Personas can even deal Gun-type damage, giving you almost no reason to ever use the actual guns.

I've seen it said that this game hates women. My gut instinct thinks that's an exaggeration, but it's unquestionable that the writing handles them like shit. Every female confidant in this game leads as smoothly as a car crash into a sexual relationship, with four (!!!) of them being adults pursuing our underage protagonist. There's not a single woman in this game that you can just be friends with without needing to turn down their advances or dodge making your own, first. The men, conversely, do not have this problem, as the only gay men in this game are the sexual predators who assault Ryuji. Lala Escargot, the owner of the Crossroads bar, is the only character who is both a) not a walking punchline and b) queer. The game never actually confirms if she's a drag queen or if she's transgender, but she's at the very least gender non-conforming. That's it. Nobody else. I realize that this may come off as me pounding my fists on the table and demanding token representation, but the way that the female confidants are treated is already token. Every single woman in Joker's life desires him sexually, because this is a shounen harem game masquerading as a serious adult thriller that explores serious adult themes. It's juvenile. The game likes to talk big about rebellion and putting down the system, man, but it's remarkably intolerant of anyone whose inclusion in any mainstream anime would attract death threats for being "too woke". The writing in Persona 5 doesn't put down the system, it is the system. It should not come as a surprise that a series that's based the past three games around the trappings of Jungian psychology is this achingly stupid when it comes to how it handles social issues.

It is endlessly frustrating that ATLUS has accrued as much money and prestige as they have — Joker got into fucking Smash Bros. — and this is still the best that they can do with all of it. Outright bad writing and middling RPG mechanics that feel like they've hardly evolved since 2006. What's left? The UI and the music? Both are great, but there's not a chance they can carry a game that insists on being this long. What missed potential. It's a shame I waited this long to get a chance to play it. I wish I hadn't bothered.

Persona 3 Reload is a faithful remake to the original and absolutely succeeds in matching and surpassing the original in quality. The story and characters are the most emotionally driven that they've ever been and with the updated visuals and combat it works to make a very enjoyable and worthwhile game. Due to it being a remake, there are certain parts of the game that don't age particularly well, specifically Tartarus is an absolute slog that feels terrible to play through and ends up being generally unrewarding. A stellar game, held back slightly by some outdated aspects.