Dragon Quest XI: When Home No Longer Exists
By: Tow M.Y
Tags: Features, Gaming, Self, Psychology, Art

Dragon Quest XI: When Home No Longer Exists

What does it mean to lose your safe haven?

There is palpable tension as the hero crosses the grassy, sun-baked fields. A multitude of colourful flowers dot the landscape, and there is not a cloud to be seen overhead. Apart from escaping their dogged pursuers, it is a perfectly beautiful day.

The hero’s mind is whirling. He was the chosen one. The Luminary, the world’s sole hope against the Darkness. Reason dictated the kingdom he was born and raised in would welcome with open arms. Instead, his King had declared him the spawn of Darkness, and even worse — soldiers were sent marching to his hometown, Cobblestone.

Cobblestone. Source: Dragon Quest Wiki.

Hurry. Flowers and grass are tromped on underfoot as the hero and his new party member traverse the expansive terrain that seems to stretch on forever.

Hurry. There is a limit to how fast they can go without a steed. Travel is slow despite the burning urge to get there already.

Then finally, he spots the familiar well-worn path leading to his home. Cobblestone awaits. He braces himself as he emerges on the other side of the dark and long tunnel. Like air rushing into throat once strangled by rope, the hero is relieved of the tension that has built up during his arduous journey home.

His town is peaceful. Children frolic in patches of grass and sunshine while adults mill about, trading words over some matter or the other. The hero nods to himself and goes up to speak to a familiar face. Standing nearby is a portly man sporting a bald, who greets him cheerfully.

“Welcome to Cobblestone! Not a lot goes on here, but I hope you enjoy your visit.”

Fast forward a number of discoveries later, and the hero comes to a realization. What he’s experiencing is a memory of the past, a far flung moment of passed time.

His vision goes fuzzy. The next time he sweeps his gaze across his town, he is met with smoking ruins devoid of any semblance of life. Wrecked houses, smouldering and crumbled stone bridges, bare stumps where stood magnificent old trees.

The wind rushes past, sweeping through a town deadened of its characteristic cheer and laughter. There is not a single person to welcome him.

Framed by the sun, the hero stands, alone.

It has been a long while since I’ve played a traditional JRPG, but after so many years, I’d like to think I’m familiar with the story beats their scripts tend to follow. When I watched the opening cutscenes of Dragon Quest: XI, I had a pretty strong inkling that the destruction of the hero’s precious home was in the cards. After all, the main character wouldn’t be a hero if he didn’t save the world despite his own suffering.

In essence, there shouldn’t be anything that surprised me. But somehow, when I stood on the hill overlooking the ruined village, the sheer desolation that sight inspired in me was shocking.

My theory for why it managed to provoke such a strong, emotional reaction is that because I’d been shown a vision of the past, of better times, it made the truth hit harder. I’ve seen this tactic mirrored in other games or just media in general; giving a person false hope is a one way ticket to completely decimate their will.

Even if I’m wrong, which I probably am, I’m still in awe of how the game managed to reel me in. At that point, I was only four hours into the game. Considering how long it takes to follow a JRPG plot to completion, I shouldn’t have been so invested to the point where I felt as if it was me who had lost the only place I belonged.

In that moment, I wasn’t a third party leering at a character on a screen. During those few seconds, the revelation that the place I grew up in no longer existed sent my heart plummeting.