Spoilers for Final Fantasy VII [1997], Remake, and Rebirth.
Despite a multitude of obstacles within the genre, the yearning started almost immediately after the original game hit the shelves and the first person witnessed Aerith’s tragic fate in Final Fantasy VII. The singular inquiry haunted AOL chat rooms, usenet forums, and video game magazine inboxes for years: Can we bring her back?
Video games have a rather unique relationship with the concept of death, so it’s understandable that players in 1997, deprived of narratives with true lasting consequences beyond the number of quarters they could insert or whether they truly wished to retrace their steps after dying—would react to Aerith’s permanent demise. It’s intricately woven into the narrative, with Cloud, despite his emotional trauma, grasping the enormity of the situation. “Aerith will not talk, not laugh, argue, or get angry….” Cloud grapples, at the moment she passes in his arms, with grief for the first time. And Sephiroth remains unfazed. Sephiroth exists beyond human emotions. He recognizes what Cloud is, and soars away with a flicker of amusement. Cloud is merely a pawn. To him, feelings for another are ultimately insignificant in the grand timeline of events, comparable to a child crying after accidentally stepping on a flower. However, this is the internal struggle that will shape Cloud’s journey in FF7. He must confront who he truly is and come to terms with what it genuinely means to be human, because merely imitating Zack Fair’s responses will only get him so far.
As a groundbreaking title, Final Fantasy VII’s ensemble of rebels concludes with proud, fulfilled hearts, accepting what must be done to save Gaia. Nevertheless, it doesn’t take long for fans and Square Enix to devise methods to circumvent death, from GameShark codes enabling players to include Aerith in the party after her demise, to Square Enix manipulating their own rules to bring Aerith back in Advent Children and Kingdom Hearts. In a medium where death is often an easily resolved issue—especially in a game series where resurrection is just a Phoenix Down away—Aerith’s death should be an ephemeral setback at best. She’s merely dead, right?
The most striking aspect, and the most profound energy of Final Fantasy VII: Rebirth, is that there is no relief from the impending fate within it. From the moment the game commences, Aerith’s days are numbered, with the inevitable moment when players must confront the weight of her sacrificial death hanging heavily over the entire experience. The dread posed by Shinra, Sephiroth, and the lifestream itself, all of which could end our characters’ journey, adds to the tension, compelling our team and every playable character to deal with their grief in their own ways. The only one who never falters is Aerith.
Aerith, from the very beginning of Remake, knows more than anyone about where her path leads with her friends. It is never explicitly stated, but the suggestion is frequently present that she is aware of her fate. It becomes clear how many forces plot against them, threatening to tear the band of heroes apart. Yet, in that moment, standing outside Midgar, all Aerith can do is gaze upon the possibilities of the lush, green world spread out before her, and find joy in the company she gets to share it with. There’s much to be said for just how much Rebirth is filled with sidequests, new mechanics that one might use only once, and whimsical escapades. And yet, unlike many open-world games, that tension between the significance of the main quest and the triviality of side activities isn’t merely a jarring disparity, but the essence of the experience.
As the game draws to a close, Aerith leads an unconscious Cloud through her memories of the Midgar Slums. Shinra is soaring towards the Temple of the Ancients, and Aerith wants you to take in something beautiful.
Sephiroth is waiting for his moment to annihilate everyone. Aerith wants you to admire jewels. The multiverse that comprises Final Fantasy VII is on the brink of collapse. All Aerith desires is for Cloud to look at her and hold her hand.
There was a Eurogamer article not long ago where Robert Aquire posed a rather challenging yet insightful question: “Why is it that in a role-playing game where the stakes are often ‘the end of the world’, the end of the world always has to wait while we complete our sprawling to-do list first?” An important question that looks at the situation from a different perspective. More often than not, the inquiry becomes: why does the end of the world often feel trivial? There’s a reason why 0% speedruns of Breath of the Wild, where players rush to confront Calamity Ganon as soon as they don a tunic, never feel out of place: that’s a game that holds the implications of saving the world dear, allowing for that precious immersion that developers hold dear. Nintendo is far from alone in this; this is how many open experiences are designed to empower players.
Final Fantasy VII was never crafted in a manner where the looming threat of Sephiroth, Meteor, Shinra, and others was meant to fade into the background. Once Sephiroth makes his fateful decision, the ambient overworld music disappears, replaced by one of the most foreboding tracks that Nobuo Uematsu would ever compose. You literally can’t step outside without
Recalling what must be executed, and the reason for its efficacy lies in our contemplation of the game designed to distance any beloved individual from the character, resulting in something that is both irretrievable and irreplaceable. It’s particularly fascinating that both gamers and Square have ventured to maintain the void left by Aerith’s absence without altering the entire narrative. Rebirth, on the other hand, is clear about its direction from the very beginning. Right from the outset, it implores players to reflect on what they possess, the realm they occupy, and the individuals who make their lives meaningful; the humanity that Sephiroth scorns and the friends who are unwaveringly devoted to preserving everything that makes them willing to confront the silver-haired, one-winged angel of death directly, demonstrating their resolve by stating, “yes, we are going to battle you for all of this.” By that stage, players are equipped with a profound, intellectual foundation of life experiences and love to uphold that conviction.
This leads us to the second moment. The second in which it almost seems as though Square might spare us the heartache of witnessing Aerith—now a character far more realistically portrayed, skillfully written, and beautifully acted than her 1997 predecessor—meet her end in Cloud’s grasp once more. Yet, no. Despite some skillful swordplay, Aerith is nonetheless stabbed. The materia tumbles down the stairs. The theme resonantly plays. And once again, many will shed tears. Because it appears that this is, to borrow from another multiverse’s vernacular, a canonical event. Even with how much Remake and Rebirth diverge from the well-known path, certain events are unavoidable. Aerith’s demise within the Temple of Ancients is a certainty.
However, there is something fundamentally different about Rebirth. Through Cloud’s temporary surrender to utter madness and nihilism, we witness how much of this universe is predestined. Yet, the beauty of it lies in this: you are encouraged to resist it regardless. Humanity—being a rational, emotional, and sensitive being—demands it. The primary distinction between Rebirth and the majority of experiences is that everything you have previously done shapes it.
This appears to be a recurring theme in Square’s work throughout the FF series in recent years, with XV and XVI both exploring the idea that while destruction is unavoidable, every small interaction weave together a vast tapestry of significance.