God of War is presently marking its 20-year anniversary on March 22, 2025. Below, we explore how Kratos’ character development has evolved over the years to serve as a timely commentary on masculinity and transformation.
While many recall the violence and epic nature of God of War, both as a standalone title and as a franchise, it’s easy to overlook that the original God of War in 2005 does not actually begin with Kratos battling a hydra or tearing soldiers apart with his bare hands.
It opens with a suicide attempt. At the start of the game, the first words we hear from Kratos are his solemn statement: “the gods have abandoned me,” before he steps off a cliff into the Aegean Sea. This is a warlord who inadvertently killed his own wife and child and is then cursed by an oracle to bear his family’s ashes permanently fused to his skin, ensuring that there is no place in Greece where his crimes remain unrecognized. The only assistance he receives is being conscripted by the gods to kill Ares, who orchestrated his initial suffering, which isn’t truly beneficial in any way. The reward is the gods’ forgiveness, which does nothing to ease his unending nightmares about his actions. When blood doesn’t grant him solace, the gods grant him strength, allowing him to take Ares’ position as the Greek God of War, initiating a reign so terrible that the mighty Zeus himself must intervene to stop him. This is before discovering that Zeus is actually Kratos’ father, and that achieving revenge involves devastating his entire realm. And that’s exactly what Kratos does.
For a series that built much of its early reputation on violent release, it often felt like Sony was having its cake while also eating it, as Kratos’ journeys never genuinely offer him any real resolutions to his anguish. Even when he sacrifices himself for a nobler cause in God of War III, spilling blood does not resolve issues within this franchise–though it certainly feels empowering in the moment. Ultimately, it results in the destruction of Kratos’ homeland, the total annihilation of its pantheon, leaving him to wander the Earth with nothing but his tormented thoughts. If I had a nickel for every PlayStation franchise that ended up in that position.
All of this is a product of the era in which Kratos was created, not just as a character, but as a title from 2005, one that felt like a dark nu-metal interpretation of Greek mythology–two years before Zack Snyder would explore similar themes in film. Kratos’ angst embodies the spirit of that time, representing a man who has committed terrible, ruthless, and brutal mistakes, and his anger about that becomes a voice for many. Everything about Kratos’ character is a product of its environment, and if there is an enduring lesson from that period, it’s that hatred and violence can have their place and be impactful, but they alone do not offer solutions. There is never a happy ending driven by honest nihilism. By definition, it ends with emptiness. God of War III merely shows us the endpoint. Or at least, what we believed was the end, prior to 2018, when Kratos’ narrative evolved into one of the most extraordinary journeys ever brought to life digitally.
What tends to be overlooked throughout all these years is that the transformation for this character did not begin in 2018. It commenced in 2010, when we learn precisely why Zeus believed Kratos needed to perish, marking the first recognition that he had initiated a cycle of violence, raising the same situations under which his son, Kratos, could visit upon him what Zeus did to Kronos. But, yet again, Zeus still meets his end in God of War III. One of the persistent issues within AAA gaming is the inability of its narratives to communicate in a manner that transcends the language of blood, and there was no way to reconcile Kratos with the forces that led to his being except by ensuring Zeus could not inflict further suffering on others–not that there was anyone left on Olympus by the time Kratos was finished. The cycle could only be broken by removing Greece’s top aggressor from the equation.
What we rarely see portrayed–in real life or in video games–is what lies on the other side. Revenge is simple to enact, retribution is easy to imagine, but what we often fail to contemplate in our art is what rehabilitation might look like. What does it mean for someone who has done the things Kratos has done to move forward, if we allow him to continue to exist?
There is no clear guide for dealing with the actions Kratos has taken; the only straightforward fact is that he must bear the unyielding burden of it all. And he does bear it. The Kratos of 2018 is, too, a product of his time. He is heavy-hearted, taciturn, all too aware of the havoc his strength and anger can unleash, trapped in a life full of scars and regrets. This is the direction in which the masculinity he once embodied leads him. However, the singular issue with men recognizing that their actions have consequences, the intrinsic wrongness of it all, is that there is so little guidance on where to go next. This holds especially true for Kratos, as the only woman who might have steered him slightly toward a more righteous path has passed away by the time the new games begin.
The only light that pierces this darkness is the fact that Kratos has a son. And in his son, even though he lacks the literal and metaphorical vocabulary to express it, he has one true guiding principle that realigns his priorities for this kind of story: “Don’t feel regret. Improve yourself.”
How does Kratos seek redemption? Are the centuries he spends in solitude enough? Is it sufficient that he faces loss once more? The harsh reality is that there may never be enough. However, the footnote is that it is valuable and meaningful to…