Final Fantasy VIII. A game that’s too strange—paradoxically too baroque and too modern at the same time, too haunting and too epic, too fantastical and too realistic. In short, a game that’s too human, torn as it is by concepts that are as contradictory as they are complementary—extremes that attract each other just as much as they repel one another. A game weighed down by far too much pressure on its shoulders as well—perhaps, surely—since it was tasked with continuing the breakthrough initiated by its predecessor, which, as a reminder, introduced an entire genre to the general public in the Western world. To meet this challenge, Squaresoft may have illustrated in the most beautiful way the philosophy that has underpinned the franchise with the twin letters since its inception: renewal. Constant renewal, again and again, at every level; renewal beyond expectations; renewal that makes a flame burn even brighter—a flame that was never meant to falter under the weight of the industry. The eighth and final installment of the fantasy saga would be a work of contrasts, ultimately paying little heed to the expectations and hopes placed upon it, preferring instead to focus on delivering a complete and absolute experience, woven without compromise or restraint. A work brimming with sincerity and passion that, to this day, gives it one of the most distinctive and unconventional identities in the entire history of the saga. These famous contrasts will serve as our gateway to the rest of this analysis, through which we will then explore the narrative roles of memory and identity, as well as something even more surprising: absence and emptiness as narrative drivers. Finally, after examining the framework of this adventure and how it resonates with our reality, we’ll conclude by highlighting one of the game’s deeply humanistic messages. Enjoy the read.
Of course, the following text will discuss plot elements of the game, so if you don’t want to spoil the surprises crafted by such a unique experience, feel free to play through this epic adventure before returning here.
Warning: This text discusses the plots of the following games >
The entire Final Fantasy VIII.
Final Fantasy VII (starting from the conclusion of the first disc—The City of the Ancients)
By extension, the Remake, Rebirth, and Revelation episodes.
Final Fantasy IX (starting from the conclusion of the first disc—Burmecia).
Clair / Obscur
As briefly mentioned a moment ago, Final Fantasy VIII is a game of contrasts, set on shattering the conventions established by the previous installment in the series. Before even delving into the game’s most striking differences, it’s worth taking a look at its iconic protagonist, who had the daunting task of succeeding the legendary Cloud Strife from Final Fantasy VII. Gone, then, is the hardened blond mercenary who originally worked alone, replaced by a brooding brunette—a simple student surrounded by a close-knit group of friends. Gone is the disproportionately large blade straight out of a dark, medieval universe; in its place is the Gunblade, an ingenious prototype firearm directly grafted onto a sword—the embodiment of the modernism embraced by this installment. Gone is Cloud’s blue-gray uniform, reminiscent of a misty sky evoking mystery (and his personality); in its place is a black-and-white suit, highlighting the complex dichotomy of this new protagonist. Farewell to the simplistic yet refined textures—Squall’s outfit features exuberant yet elegant fur, a true programming challenge at the time. Squall, incidentally, is an English term meaning “squall” or “gust of wind,” as if to illustrate this succession of a character who “blows away” another, who pushes back that cloudy sky (Cloud, “cloud” in English), and who takes the reins. And it marks the changing times, the passing of time. But this transition isn’t viewed negatively—far from it. It’s a controlled, deliberate, and respectful transition, almost natural, as the Squaresoft teams are well aware that without the Cloud, there would be no Squall. Perhaps that’s why Squall’s mother is named Raine (“rain”), like the rain that falls from the clouds before the wind blows them away. No matter how distinctive Final Fantasy VIII’s identity may be, it owes its very existence to the seventh installment and is thus part of a narrative tapestry far larger than just these two games. A tapestry that tells the story of a saga that is now immortal.
In any case, in stark contrast to Final Fantasy VII, its younger sibling doesn’t open with a breathless sequence involving a dungeon crawl (the Mako Reactor), but in the most classic way possible for an RPG—and particularly a Japanese RPG: on a bed. Wounded and weakened (especially in his ego), Squall is introduced lying on a hospital bed, while the first mysteries are already emerging (an enigmatic young girl speaking to the protagonist from behind a glass window), as the world begins to unfold. Furthermore, the first playable character to join Squall is introduced via a cutscene—something that wasn’t the case in the previous installment—a device that clearly demonstrates the much more cinematic direction taken by this installment. The focus is thus casually placed on relationships and individuals, rather than on the world itself. Indeed, very soon after starting a new game in Final Fantasy VII—before even being able to move a single step—the player was presented with a bird’s-eye view of the setting for the beginning of the adventure: the megalopolis of Midgar. In Final Fantasy VIII, however, you have to wait a few minutes before you can see Balamb University. The polished opening, in fact, places the emphasis not on this new world, but on the actors and actresses of this story themselves: characters who are still anonymous but will soon become essential appear one after another, sometimes with theatrical flair, sometimes blending into the superimposed background (like Edea), and the landscapes are merely a stage, a tool at their disposal. The intention is clear: this new adventure will revolve around intimacy and stay as close as possible to its main couple. Squall and Linoa undoubtedly overshadow the other members of the team. At the same time, as if to reinforce this intimacy and this search for the human, the tangible, or the real, the harshness of the mercenary life in Final Fantasy VII gives way here to student life, punctuated by classes, exams, and dances. Cloud’s grand entrance—leaping from a train in an iconic cinematic sequence—fades into the background in favor of an introductory battle between Squall and Seifer, leaving the protagonist in a vulnerable position. The contrast is immediately apparent. Midgar’s eternal night gives way to open, sun-drenched cities (see the panoramic view around Balamb Garden University, the easily accessible world map, the colorful port city of Balamb, etc.), while the joy and excitement of the students replace the misery of the Slums. And even the mechanics of the combat system are quickly revitalized, as Squall is able to subdue a deity (Guardian Force) as soon as he leaves the school—an act that swiftly and fundamentally establishes the prominent presence of magic in this universe. In short, exhaustively listing all the elements that underscore the obvious contrast between the two games would serve little purpose, but the point is clear: more than just a sequel, this new entry in the saga presents itself as a radical departure, shattering players’—legitimate—expectations in the most intense way possible. The break was inevitable.
However, upon closer inspection, many elements from Final Fantasy VII are reworked, updated, and even explored in greater depth throughout this eighth installment. First, there are the narrative highlights, which the developers at the time liked to place at the end of the various discs that made up the games on the original PlayStation. These climactic moments highlighted drama and failure, and served, in a way, as cliffhangers. As a result, while the first major narrative shock in Final Fantasy VII is Aerith’s death, Final Fantasy VIII subverts this trope by having Squall “die” at the end of the first disc, struck down by one of Edea’s spells. Episode IX goes even further by depicting the defeat of the entire party, which crumbles under Beatrix’s assaults. These respective opening acts thus mark a break in the players’ progression and introduce trauma into the narratives (although these emotional shocks serve different purposes each time). Similarly, Cloud suffers from an identity crisis that serves as the basis for one of the game’s most intense plot twists and themes. However, in Final Fantasy VIII, this emotional scar affects nearly all members of the team, greatly amplifying the impact of this plot twist and further integrating a gameplay element—the Guardian Forces—into the storyline. In the same vein, certain sequences are stretched out or even emphasized: the simple space excursion that rounds out a character’s arc in *Final Fantasy VII* thus becomes a powerful moment in Squall and Rinoa’s adventure (specifically, the rocket launch and the spacewalk). A parade and a minigame in Final Fantasy VII are transformed into a massive narrative dungeon marking a plot climax in Final Fantasy VIII (Junon and Deling City, respectively). The imagery of a desert prison appears in both games, and so on*. Thus, despite their desire to make a sharp about-face, it’s clear that the developers have continually explored recurring themes that have proven effective. After this brief overview, it becomes evident that Final Fantasy stands as a ceaseless exploration of recurring motifs and patterns, aimed at being refined and perfected over the course of each installment. The result is a saga reminiscent of a phoenix, constantly rising from its ashes while retaining a deep and unchanging core—one synonymous with the qualities that are inseparable from the franchise.
* Final Fantasy IX will feature a new variation on the desert prison, with Kuja’s palace temporarily serving as a prison for the protagonists.
Constellations of Memories
Memory, as a concept, is a powerful and flexible narrative tool, so much so that it has long been overused to the point of becoming one of the most hackneyed clichés in video games—and indeed in storytelling in general. It is both a simple device that audiences can easily grasp—since it’s straightforward to identify what a memory represents—and something deeper, as it is intimately linked to the concept of identity. Memory is the cornerstone of a character, who is defined by their actions, experiences, and past. In Final Fantasy VIII, however, memory comes at a cost. A cost to be paid in exchange for powers aimed at subjugating the Guardian Forces (GFs)—divine entities and symbols of the series—which play a crucial role in both the storyline and gameplay. Indeed, rather than being mere Materia to collect, GFs can be obtained in two different ways: through side quests (or even main quests, such as Ifrit early in the game, which serves as an introduction to the concept) or by stealing them directly from opponents. Traversing the ruins to defeat Odin, navigating a labyrinth in search of the bull brothers, and facing Cerberus—who taunts the player while proudly perched in the center of a room deep within a complex and intense dungeon—are all ways to collect these incredibly powerful entities. Furthermore, the gameplay aspect associated with GFs goes beyond simply acquiring them, as each one subsequently offers new gameplay possibilities and actions—including some of the strangest ones, such as transforming playing cards into items. This example also illustrates—even if it is not the focus of this text—the interconnection of the various layers and systems that intertwine to form a coherent and profound whole. In short, returning to the concept of memory, the use of these GFs comes at a cost, gradually eroding their users’ memories. The past is a central element of Final Fantasy VIII’s narrative, as the game unfolds across two time periods, but this other era remains sealed off from the characters and, by extension, from the players. The world itself has a history, as told through the various storylines and environmental storytelling (notably via the visible evolution of technology, the geopolitical situation, or the still-prominent presence of architecture from a bygone era), but this bygone era is, for the most part, nothing more than a hazy veil. These temporal fragments will gradually weave their way into the narrative—first through the disjointed, and later increasingly lucid, interruptions of Laguna and his companions, and then through the emergence of buried memories, particularly thanks to the character of Ellone. Finally, memories and visions of the future will intertwine during the narrative climax: the compression of time. Memory and time thus remain, quite logically, intrinsically linked.
As a result, in the world of Final Fantasy VIII, power consumes identity by devouring the very essence of existence: memory. Thus, the most impactful plot twist remains the one involving the orphanage: Squall and his allies (at least the majority of them) were orphans and lived under Edea’s rule. This concept of sacrificing identity for the sake of power is, of course, both effective and elegant, but it clearly goes beyond the story’s surface level. The individuals who wield the GFs are not ordinary students; they are soldiers, members of a substantial military force. As a result, for much of the adventure, the protagonists follow the orders assigned to them without asking further questions about the nature of their actions. How can one fail to see a barely concealed resemblance to the “puppet” status applied to certain antagonists (such as the witches, of course—through Edea’s or Linoa’s possessions—but also President Deling)? How can we fail to see in this, as well, a dehumanization of these young people—deprived of a future, a past, and free will, transformed into weapons of war? They are shells with eroded identities, without family ties, with no other horizon than that of service. Tools. Weapons. Despite the shimmering colors of Balamb Garden University (or BGU), despite the enthusiasm evident in its bright, baroque hallways, despite the comfort provided by the building’s various wings, despite the building itself—whose architecture banishes any hint of straight lines or structural order—despite appearances, then, the BGU is a system of control. It’s diabolically well done, because behind the extravagant facade of this magnificent structure, behind the dazzling display, lies a darker, more concrete, and more realistic agenda. It is therefore no coincidence that the true leaders of BGU lurk in a secret wing, beneath the building itself. Returning to the concept of memory as the cost of power, this is an element that once again transcends its narrative function to become rooted in the reality of gameplay. Admittedly, it would not have been easy to make GF quantifiable, as is the case with spells, but the game designers circumvented this issue by radically transforming the use of magic in the game. In fact, in Final Fantasy VIII, spells function like items in other franchises. Elemental attacks and other esoteric remedies are tracked and consumed just like any potion. By linking these various spells to stats (which is made possible by the powers of the GFs—once again, everything comes together), characters can become more powerful. However, using magic in battle—and thus expending a resource—reduces the benefit conferred by those stats. So, in short, the use of magic changes WHO the characters intrinsically ARE (by altering their strength, speed, and other stats), but it also functions as a form of resource consumption. And in light of this reflection, how can we not draw a parallel with war, where magic becomes ammunition, weapons, and equipment to be used against the enemy—even if it means sacrificing who we are? This impact is brilliant because it isn’t shoved in the player’s face; instead, the player gradually comes to understand, at their own pace, the reality of this world and this system.
The amnesia that arises from the children’s journey in the game is also interesting in terms of what it reveals about human nature and our tendency to form relationships. This ultimately ties in—thanks to writing that remains as subtle and finely crafted as ever—with one of the game’s central themes: the importance of bonds (as mentioned earlier, Final Fantasy VIII is far more intimate than its predecessor, with the game highlighting not only complexity and horror but also human beauty). Thus, the children, after being “trained” in this orphanage to become soldiers, lose touch with one another. Then they forget each other, even as their mastery of combat and tactical skills grows. Yet, after a few years, they find each other again. Better still, they love one another once more, despite their fractured lives and the lies they cloak themselves in. It doesn’t matter then that their memories have faded; their consciences reconnect, recognize one another, and comfort each other. Some see this as a literary convenience—these young people meeting as if by magic—but we must not forget that their lives are controlled and that they all live in the same environment.It then becomes more believable that fate will eventually bring them together again, but whether this belated reunion is credible is, of course, up to each individual to decide. This amnesia thus strips the bodies of their minds; the characters are no longer shaped by past experiences capable of influencing their actions and plans. It is therefore no coincidence that Squall’s first companion is Quistis, a teacher. Her role—her very identity—is to shape the minds of her students. From the very beginning of the game, from the very first minutes, Squall’s character is being shaped, without anyone even noticing. Amnesia will, moreover, shape Squall’s character: his forgetfulness of his childhood friends will create a poignant loneliness, a mental confinement that his allies will gradually try to understand, then accept, before breaking through it. The existence of these lost memories thus weaves another essential theme of the game: absence.
In Search of Emptiness
Final Fantasy VIII thus tells a deeply human story, examining relationships with others through various lenses that shape the course of the adventure. But these relationships only make sense through the exact opposite of the bonds that are formed: absence. Everything—absolutely everything—in this work revolves around absence. The absence of memories, of course, as the foundation of an identity in the process of being rebuilt. The absence of a family, as represented by the orphans who make up the main team. The absence of bonds, as evidenced by the storyline of Laguna and Julia, who are destined to lose each other, but also the absence that affects the team members, and so on. The plot unfolds through what is not there, leaving the characters no choice but to cling to the only elements available to them. First, the lies of their military life. Their missions. Then their friends. The truth. The end of the world. Love. It’s fascinating to observe the growing scope of the themes—increasingly epic in scale—as they blend with reality, only to ultimately focus on the most personal and indescribable emotion that human beings are capable of expressing and feeling. By developing one of the most unconventional worlds and systems in the entire series, Final Fantasy VIII ultimately—and paradoxically—touches upon a universality that many works of fiction strive to capture. The emptiness Squall feels at the beginning of the game isn’t filled by the tangible boundaries and operations of the BGU. Orders, for example, won’t make up for the absence of a family. Thus, for much of the adventure, Squall doesn’t know who he is. His journey gradually becomes dominated by the search for a woman, Ellone—the only person who seems close enough to him, as she appears to know him better than anyone else. And alongside this loneliness that gnaws at him, he finds himself contemplating the bonds and families of others. There’s Seifer, of course, always accompanied by his companions Raijin and Fujin—echoes of a family that has vanished—who finds a surrogate mother in Edea, his governess and nurse. There’s Cid, her husband, consumed by the absence of his wife, who finds his identity defined solely through his work. Quistis is confronted with the fact that Squall does not reciprocate her feelings. Sephie endures the destruction of her homeland, Trabia, which simultaneously signifies the loss of what shaped part of her identity. Ward loses the ability to speak—a seemingly trivial act sacrificed on the altar of indescribable trauma (thus losing the ability to form bonds). At the same time, the player is introduced to a few glimpses of family life: Zell’s mother in Balamb and Linoa’s father in Deling City. In fact, through their backstories and their absence, Squall and Linoa’s parents are essential cogs in the plot that drives Final Fantasy VIII.
Laguna Loire’s introduction and the storyline dedicated to him unfold in a very strange way: during a train ride, the team members fall asleep and share the same dream. A dreamlike escapade that draws on reality, particularly through uniforms, locations, and even the combat system. The mystery isn’t kept for long; these are less dreams than… memories. Again. This parallel story sets out to chronicle the life of the famous Laguna, a character who is the polar opposite of Squall. Insecure, especially when the woman he loves and admires is in the same room as him, Laguna is more open and natural than Leonhart. He is clumsy but sincere, hesitant but courageous. He is marred by flaws that make him far more human than the main protagonist of this adventure appears to be during the first few hours of gameplay. As we journey through these memories, the game tells the story of the impossible love between Laguna and Julia Heartilly, a pianist and singer whose mere presence unsettles this soldier—even though he has endured far harsher trials. Yet this mutual love will never blossom—not because it’s cut short by some novel-worthy tragedy, but simply because it’s trampled by life and its twists and turns. It is not through rage, tears, or blood that this union fades away, but through the vagaries, the absurdity of existence, and the banality of fate. As news of a new mission reached Laguna, Kiros, and Ward, the Galbadian soldier made a promise to the young artist: once his mission was complete, he would return for her. That promise would never be kept—at least not in this lifetime. Wounded during this new mission, many months passed—a period marked by enormous changes both geopolitically (the War of the Witches) and in the characters’ lives (Julia, having heard nothing from Laguna, married a soldier named Fury Caraway). Julia gave birth to Linoa and died in a tragic car accident: here again, there is no romanticized or glorified death in the narrative, only the absurdity, the suddenness, and the crash of death descending upon life—just as the game has portrayed war throughout the story from the very beginning. Raine, for her part, will give birth to Squall, without Laguna—who has left for Esthar—knowing it. And it is in part through this generational echo carried by Squall and Linoa that Final Fantasy VIII, in my opinion, reaches the sublime. The protagonists and future lovers of this epic are shaped solely by what could not have existed before them. They act in response to this absence, functioning as echoes of lives cut short from what should have been. First, of course, there is the fact that the children of two people who loved each other eventually meet and fall in love themselves—this is the most obvious element and one of the most poetic ever told in the saga. But beyond this, there are the elements shaped by Laguna and Julia’s failed encounter, which will also trickle down to their children. First, there’s the song. Julia confided in Laguna that she dreamed of singing, but that something was missing—lyrics to put to music, emotions to express, a spark to ignite. She would find that spark through her encounter with (the bonds to) and then Laguna’s departure (his absence), and would compose “Eyes on Me” (a track that is both intra- and extradiegetic, as if these words—vessels of that impossible love—were shattering the game’s boundaries to spread their universality—much like a Time Compression, in a way?). Ellone, Raine’s daughter, emerges as the oracle who then guides Squall in his father’s footsteps, attempting to change the past (we’ll come back to this). Laguna takes part in the War of the Witches, and the next generation defeats not only Adel but also Ultimecia. Ward and Kiros travel across the world, just as Squall and his allies will later do (for example, Ward was a guard at the desert prison, serving as a mirror to what the game later presents when it comes to escaping from it). Through these constant connections, the world of Final Fantasy VIII expands again and again, pushing back both spatial and temporal boundaries while simultaneously defining them—but above all, casting aside any notion of Manichaeism. No, what defines a human being’s actions and feelings is not as simple as the trite opposition between black and white—as misleadingly illustrated not only by Squall and Seifer’s uniforms at the start of the adventure, but also by Squall’s own attire.
To conclude on the themes of both memories and absence, it is interesting to note that these two concepts converge even in the way the characters are constructed in terms of gameplay. In addition to the fact that these themes stem from the saga’s origins (amnesia in Final Fantasy, the status of orphans in episodes II and III), it’s worth noting that each of the six main characters embodies a specific job class. Squall is a Warrior, Quistis a Blue Mage (and Power Thief), Zell a Monk, Rinoa and Selphie a Black Mage and a White Mage, respectively, and Irvine a Red Mage. However, as “empty vessels”—due to their status and roles—these characters can be shaped however the players wish. Squall can set aside the art of the Gunblade to strengthen his offensive magic and become a Black Mage, while Quistis can focus on speed, lower her HP, and unleash her various Limit Breaks. The system’s flexibility reflects—much like the Materia system of its time—a freedom of progression left to each player’s discretion. Indeed, taking a step back, it’s easy to draw parallels between the magic management system in Final Fantasy VIII and the famous Materia system from its predecessor. In both cases, magic becomes concrete, tangible, and physically embodied. It has its own existence and can even gain experience in the seventh installment, while it is treated as an item in the eighth (and in both cases, it originates directly from the planet). Squaresoft thus took character customization a step further through the management of this magic, which allowed for the development of genuine strategies capable of “breaking” the game in Final Fantasy VIII (a problem the studio attempted to correct by adjusting enemy levels, though the solution isn’t perfect). In any case, this approach to using magic to shape your character helps define the contours of each role throughout the adventure: the characters become distinct individuals and specialize, moving away from the blank slate their minds were at the start of the story. Since we’re on the subject of magical sources, it’s important to note that the placement of the various extraction points is, for the most part, not arbitrary. For example, it’s possible to discover an Aura source when Squall names his pendant during the game. Aura, the spell that both increases the frequency of Limit Breaks, wards off the Curse status (associated with the Witches—since it’s cast by Edea and Ultimecia via the Maelstrom spell), and carries a strong religious connotation. As a reminder, Squall’s pendant, Griever (associated with the concept of mourning but also with the figure of courage, the lion), will take the form of one of the final bosses: Squall will battle his own sadness and what he has lost, an obstacle that turns out to be built upon his own disillusionments and traumas. He then names this weakness alongside a source of courage, the Aura, which already represents the strength harbored within his mind: the hero already possesses all the tools necessary for victory—the lion, in other words*—against evil and against his own demons, within himself. Griever, in addition to the symbolism embodied by the fact that the player names this entity (and thus, indirectly, names the final boss—yes, the final battle also represents the player’s struggle against their own doubts, but we’ll avoid digressing), is also present on other items. First, on the Gunblade’s case, as if to indicate that this grief and the absence that causes it fuel Squall’s attacks, but also on the protagonist’s signet ring, which—in an obvious symbol of love—will eventually end up in Linoa’s hands. Final Fantasy VIII is full of examples like this, despite the regrettable cuts to the storyline.
This is also reflected “within” the character, through his last name, “Leonhart,” a variation of “Lionheart.” Squall possesses this inner strength. “Lionheart” is, in fact, another legacy of the series, as evidenced by the existence of Leonhart in Final Fantasy II, or Cor Leonis in Final Fantasy XV (“the heart of the lion” in Latin).
Painting a Modern Fantasy
Long before the series explored “reality-based fantasy” with Final Fantasy XV, the eighth installment had already embarked on this reimagining of the aesthetic conventions and themes associated with that famous reality. This bold, far more cinematic direction reflects technological advancements, of course, but also the studio’s narrative ambitions, as it sought to create games rooted in reality to make them more palpable and tangible (while its sequel would take the opposite approach—as always, the series is constantly reinventing itself). It all begins with the character design. After the era of 2D sprites that dominated the series up through the sixth installment, Squaresoft finally embraced 3D with Final Fantasy VII, and its characters adopted a now-familiar style: SD, short for Super Deformed. This style relied heavily on grotesque and exaggerated forms that functioned as caricatures—stylistic exaggerations. During exploration, Cloud and his companions embraced this style without ever looking out of place in the environment. This simplification of features carried on the sprite-based approach, with players interpreting human emotions from largely expressionless faces, while animations and dialogue filled in the rest. Final Fantasy VII paved the way, however, as the battles themselves featured far more realistic and human-like models. This choice allowed the various battles to have a certain scope, while also establishing a sense of consistency among the team members. Of course, it all reached its climax through the cutscenes, which showcased Cloud and his friends in the most elegant way possible, in a refined blend of realism and stylization typical of Japanese animation. Final Fantasy VIII, on the other hand, maintained a unique visual style for its characters throughout the various types of sequences that punctuated the adventure, thereby providing a welcome sense of consistency for its protagonists. This is where a significant effort to maintain scale in the environments came into play, along with a commitment to harmonizing the various visual elements so as never to confuse the audience—particularly through framing and color grading. It was no longer a matter of “simulating” but rather of “representing.” Many wide or distant shots of Squall are thus used, particularly to highlight the locations but also to aid navigation, while more narrative sequences tinged with emotion or comedic moments benefit from tighter framing. For example, the wanderings through the BGU are filmed from an elevated viewpoint, which helps viewers navigate the building’s various wings: here, the setting functions as a map and is designed with practicality in mind. On the contrary, when Squall is in his dormitory, there is no wide-angle shot showing, for example, the surrounding hallway, an overview of the amenities, or neighboring rooms: the shot is limited, almost completely symmetrical, and at eye level. This image reinforces Squall’s humanity and intimacy, while highlighting his discipline (the composition), his inner emptiness (the lack of frills and decorations), and his grief and courage, symbolized by Griever (the Gunblade sheath). All of this without forgetting the suggestion of a bright, hopeful future, conveyed through the window bathed in white light at the center of the screen. Unlike utilitarian wide shots, this shot is almost symbolic and reveals something about the protagonist, although most of the time each scene optimizes both spatial representation and narrative metaphor. These choices in framing and staging were central to the artistic approach that defined Final Fantasy VIII.
The second major theme of this fantasy-tinged reality turns out to be the deliberately grotesque fusion of contemporary technology and the strangest kinds of magic, all sprinkled with mystical science fiction—a far cry from hard sci-fi explorations. After all, Final Fantasy VIII is a game that features witches on television, presidents who are as subservient as puppets, and real-world buildings that come to life (the Arc de Triomphe in Deling City). These are industrial cities teeming with media outlets that coexist alongside ancient, labyrinthine ruins housing a summon. The adventure begins at a postmodern university and concludes at an evil castle. Etc., etc. The developers have revealed that they built the game’s world around simple yet striking concepts: the imagery is drawn from various Western and Eastern mythologies, as well as from a fantasized, idealized Europe. While these visual explorations helped evoke a certain sense of exoticism through the diverse settings and inspirations depicted, they also helped give this universe a tangible sense of weight. A reflection of our reality. It’s exactly the same principle that will underpin a city like Insomnia in Final Fantasy XV, which obviously resembles a glorified modern megacity. Yusuke Naora led the teams responsible for the environments in Final Fantasy VIII; he had previously worked on games such as the sixth and seventh installments and Chrono Trigger (Squaresoft, 1995), and would later oversee Final Fantasy X, another game marked by realism (though this time with an Eastern and traditional flair). The teams were then assigned to different environments, yet united by the guiding principles established by Naora. These settings exude a latent dreamlike quality—a timeless atmosphere sprinkled with elements drawn from everyday life and the contemporary world—as if the environments were fragments of dreams, at once impossible to identify and yet terribly familiar. Dollet, for example, clearly depicts this idealized Europe mentioned earlier, with its pubs, cobblestone streets, wooden signs, and classically inspired fountain—not to mention its distinctive bridge (the old one) and its antenna (the modern one). Furthermore, as is often the case in the game (Deling, Esthar, the Galbadia University campus, etc.), these urban centers and living spaces are transformed in the blink of an eye into veritable dungeons: the settings of everyday life become the stages for video game challenges. Once again, the game transforms reality into fantasy. To conclude on Dollet—and although there is still a great deal to dissect and examine—it’s worth noting the way in which the artists and developers connect this sequence to the rest of the game, in an indescribable, imperceptible manner: it is no coincidence, then, that one of the screens on the main avenue points directly toward a huge, mocking moon, whose role will not be revealed until many hours later.
Taking it a step further, it’s even possible to uncover a chronology of human history within the worlds of Final Fantasy VIII. As a reminder, at the start of the adventure, Squall and Quistis head straight to a cave with the goal of mastering… fire (through Ifrit). Later, the team travels via one of the first modes of transportation invented by humankind—the boat—and then, a few hours later, by train. They head to Timber, a reflection of industrialization (the press, the railroad), before arriving in Deling City, a modern and eclectic metropolis with striking and intimidating architecture. Certain more modern elements, such as the transmission tower, the television studio, or the missile launch site, evoke an endearing retrofuturism, so that the world of this adventure seems projected into an uncertain future, built upon the ashes of the previous century, during which everything still seemed possible. Much further ahead, finally, lies advanced science and Esthar—the future, in short—and then space exploration! It covers it all, but the most amusing part lies in the game’s conclusion: the Compression that brings it all together, followed by a return to its roots through the final dungeon—a dark, imaginary castle. All of this is brought to life through an artistic vision that leverages the console’s technical limitations—limitations that the wizards at Square were still learning to master (until the impressive release of Final Fantasy IX). Just as the early Silent Hill games (Konami) took advantage of the display limitations of the PlayStation 1 and 2 to imbue their environments with a mist that has since become inseparable from the series, Final Fantasy VIII features diffused lighting, details that are sometimes slightly blurred, evanescent outlines, and above all, several desaturated scenes—all of which mimic a striking impressionist style, lending the game a new layer of dreamlike quality while also evoking the visual arts. It’s as if a fusion of human artistic creation were coming to life within the game’s landscapes. Finally, it’s striking to note that while the game opens with a clearly unreal and exaggerated, postmodern setting (the BGU)—a sort of promise of a journey into the imagination—once the city of Balamb is left behind, the settings sink into that famous pursuit of realism that seeks to anchor the epic in this chimerical reality, before allowing itself sublime and regular aesthetic deviations.
Acceptance, or the Scars of Time
While absence, as we’ve seen, remains a central narrative driver of the game’s progression, the story ultimately concludes in a way that defies the audience’s expectations. After traversing the world (a world that mirrors reality) in search of a void to fill, memories to recover, and a future to explore, the characters conclude their journey through the corridors of a temporal labyrinth. Beyond the narrative climax that this represents—through a reinterpretation of the classic “end-of-the-world” tropes that weigh heavily on J-RPG narratives (here, the destruction of a planet gives way to an intertwining of storylines—temporal annihilation succeeds spatial annihilation)—“Compression” also represents a psychological culmination of the characters’ journeys. By embracing the different timelines, a fictionalized form of acceptance takes shape—the acceptance of a whole, of a reality, with its joys and sorrows, its moments of brilliance and its wanderings. Throughout the adventure, Ellone sends the protagonists into the past, directly into the bodies of Laguna and his friends. These sequences aren’t cutscenes, but actual gameplay phases; players can move and react as they see fit. However, despite the micro-choices made during these interludes, events unfold in a scripted manner and follow the fate programmed by the developers. Thus, it is not possible to change the course of events. Squall and his companions will journey through these eras and experience them, but they will never be able to stray from the path of destiny. If Ellone went to such great lengths to transfer Squall’s consciousness, it was for one single purpose—an obsession that brings the story’s development up to this point full circle: to end the absence. Ellone’s dream was not a pipe dream dictated by excessive and unrealistic ambitions—the kind that could embrace the most outlandish excesses of Japanese role-playing games. No, Ellone dreamed only of a family. To prevent Laguna from leaving Winhill. No quest for immortality. No dreams of grandeur or domination. No extravagance. Only a simple, intimate, or, quite simply, resolutely human quest. This plan, however, fails. Time is immutable, unyielding, eternal. What has been is and will be. Faced with the failure of Ellone’s plan, faced with the parentless youth of the BGU’s recruits, faced with the emptiness that haunts the hearts of our protagonists, a truth emerges: acceptance. The conclusion of the quest undertaken by these children—whom the player spends hours alongside—culminates in this affirmation. Accept the past. Accept mistakes. Accept the absences that have shaped who these characters have become. Final Fantasy VIII, through its epic tale steeped in humanistic values, embraces reality in all its absurdity—but also in all its preciousness. It highlights the essence of existence—the fragments of beauty capable of captivating us—through the universal, culturally rich aesthetic that the game unfolds throughout, as well as the fragility of the connections that, through their infinite nature, shape and guide us. These unfulfilled loves give rise to a new generation that finds itself and seems to have been waiting for eons. But that’s not all. Among all the examples cited by the game is the film Laguna is shooting in one of the memories—a film that will become Seifer’s driving force a few years later. A work of fiction, an artistic creation, that dictates human behavior—how can we not see this as a love letter to these games (and other stories) that comfort us every day?
Final Fantasy VIII captured the sublime, not through the grandiloquence of unspeakable tragedies, but through those moments that transcend existence and, in the form of tiny impulses and connections, allow us to move forward. Mistakes and doubts will be part of the journey—a journey brimming with imperfections. But above all, the game understood that these imperfections, however overwhelming they may be, weave together a tapestry of events capable of changing us. The little things conceal the great achievements. Wanderings are merely the prelude to triumphs. There are great and beautiful things to see along the way, and if that means making mistakes, so be it. Doing your best and having no regrets—that is perhaps, in essence, one of the most beautiful messages this unloved installment of the saga could deliver. Unloved, yet intensely more dazzling.