Shadow Of The Colossus Is A Powerful Fairy Tale Because It Resists Condemning The Player

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Today, October 18, 2025, marks the 20th anniversary of *Shadow of the Colossus*. We’ll be taking a look at the game’s challenging moral questions, and how they’re explored through the actions of its wordless main character.

Many video games feature silent or masked heroes, leading players to wonder if these characters are meant to be self-insertions. Characters like Gordon Freeman and Link never speak, communicating only through actions or brief shouts. Even Master Chief, though voiced, keeps his face hidden, making him a blank slate for the player to imagine themselves as.

Although it might seem logical, silence can actually make things feel distant and isolating. This is particularly true in the games created by Fumido Ueda. The main characters in titles like Shadow of the Colossus, Ico, and The Last Guardian rarely speak, often communicating through fantastical languages that are either subtitled or hard to understand. When they *do* speak or act independently of the player, it’s a powerful and unusual moment.

I’ve always felt that the main characters in Ueda’s games aren’t meant to be *you*, exactly. They’re more like symbols, stand-ins for a player. But what’s really brilliant is that he deliberately keeps a bit of distance between us and them. It’s strange, but that distance is actually what makes Shadow of the Colossus so powerful. Over the years, I’ve realized it’s because of this separation that the game works so well as a story about morality – it forces you to think about what *you* would do, rather than just *being* the hero.

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Shadow of the Colossus isn‘t dismissive of typical video game elements. The story follows Wander, who is on a quest to save a loved one from death. To do this, he must defeat sixteen gigantic creatures – the colossi – that roam a desolate land. He’s guided by Dormin, a mysterious and powerful voice. Wander carries a special sword, linked to the sun, which helps him on his journey. On the surface, Wander embodies the classic hero: he has a virtuous goal, a sacred weapon, and terrifying enemies to overcome.

Despite being the one who initiates the battles, Wander is the attacker. He often has to shoot an arrow at the colossi just to get their notice. They only become aggressive after he invades their territory, and usually not until he actually attacks them. When Wander stabs them, the colossi bleed a dark, black liquid. They express their pain through moans, struggles, tears, and screams as he climbs all over them. Each colossus embodies a noble animal spirit, which Wander destroys. These details aren’t just incidental; they fundamentally reshape the typical heroic fantasy into something disturbing and frightening.

However, Wander isn’t just a blank slate for the player. Many games with silent characters begin with a fairly ordinary setup – like Gordon Freeman’s commute in Half-Life or Link’s peaceful childhood in Ocarina of Time. Shadow of the Colossus is different. We meet Wander already in the midst of his quest, traveling across the land. When he arrives at the altar with his beloved, Mono, we only learn a few key details: he carries an ancient sword, he’s trying to save Mono from death and a mysterious curse, and his horse, Agro, is a steadfast companion. It hints that Wander has a life and history beyond what we immediately experience in the game – things that matter but remain unseen and unknown.

Wander’s reasons for his actions remain unclear, and his connection to Mono isn’t directly shown – we only see him when they’re apart. His quest to defeat the colossi is incredibly difficult and risky, but he perseveres with unwavering determination. The player can guide Wander to stand over Mono’s body, and the game focuses on this moment with a rare intimacy. While Wander’s love appears deep and potentially self-serving, considering the destruction he’s willing to cause to save her, it’s never explicitly shown, making it hard to fully connect with. Instead, *Shadow of the Colossus* builds our understanding through subtle actions and gestures that gradually create a powerful meaning.

These actions give the game a dramatic, almost stage-like feel. Playing as Wander is like taking on a role – you experience the story through his actions. While you can make some decisions, like how often to visit Mono after defeating each colossus, or how Wander develops – becoming a skilled fighter or a determined but unrefined hero – the overall story is already set. You don’t *create* Wander’s journey, you simply experience it through his perspective.

Many games focus on whether the player character is good or evil, often treating them as simply an extension of the player. However, games like BioShock and Spec Ops: The Line take a different approach. BioShock reveals that the player has very little control over the story, making the hero a pawn in a larger scheme. Spec Ops: The Line blurs the line between the player’s desire to complete the game and the protagonist Walker’s unwavering commitment to his mission – and shows how that determination ultimately leads to disaster for both of them. The game even directly warns players to stop playing through loading screens and character dialogue.

I’ve been thinking about the morality in BioShock and Spec Ops: The Line, and honestly, both feel a little…off. They try to make you question things, but it feels surface level. In BioShock, the big twist felt more like a shock *to* me than something I actually *felt*. My character just felt like a way to experience the story, not a person. It relied on me not really being *anyone* to make the twist work. Spec Ops: The Line does a bit better – Walker actually feels like a character with some depth. But then the game keeps hammering home how *I’m* responsible for his actions, and it doesn’t quite land. It tries to make you feel guilty, but it doesn’t really stick because, ultimately, he’s the one making the choices, right? It feels like they can’t fully connect my actions to real moral consequences.

I think what’s so brilliant about Shadow of the Colossus isn’t about *my* choices as a player, but about understanding Wander and what drives him. Games like BioShock and Spec Ops really hit you over the head with their messages – the villains practically *tell* you what everything means. Shadow of the Colossus is the opposite. It’s a quiet game, filled with vast, empty spaces that make you really *feel* things. It’s not about being told what’s going on, but slowly figuring out Wander’s story through playing. It’s a really strange, almost dreamlike experience – you don’t just *understand* what he’s doing, you almost *feel* it. And the game doesn’t treat you like you need to be spoon-fed the story. The fact that Wander is doing something wrong isn’t a surprise twist; it’s just *there*, and it lets you really sit with that feeling, even experience it alongside him.

It’s easy to criticize, but true understanding takes effort. While the character Walker has more dialogue and backstory, Wander feels more authentic because he isn’t directly controlled by the player. We experience a connection with him – we empathize with his struggles and grieve his fate. This relationship challenges our own sense of right and wrong in a more meaningful way than simply judging his actions. The game doesn’t tell us whether *we* are to blame; it leaves us to grapple with that question ourselves.

Once Wander is defeated and sealed away by those who opposed him, he transforms into a child. Mono, who has been brought back to life, appears to want to care for him. Wander has lost all his power and abilities, leaving him completely helpless and unable to even use a game controller.

The somewhat unclear ending is a key reason why Shadow of the Colossus remains so memorable. We journeyed alongside Wander, but ultimately, his destiny belongs to him, just as ours do.

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2025-10-18 15:11