Democratia: NoFantazio

This article reviews the entire Metaphor: ReFantazio game. It is therefore advisable to have completed the game before reading it.

To avoid confusion and distinguish him from the historical figure, I will use the spelling ‘More*’ (with an asterisk) to refer to the character in the game.

Introduction: a political fable?

Since its release, Metaphor: ReFantazio has been the subject of numerous analyses. The one proposed by Tetryl is undoubtedly the most comprehensive in French. Overall, I believe it is clear that these analyses are of high quality and fairly accurate in terms of both the game and the developers’ intentions.

These various comments all point in the same direction. They present Metaphor as a metaphor for potential political changes in a world driven by anxiety. Fiction plays a pivotal role in enabling the world to transition from a state of anxiety and its negative consequences to a fairer form of governance. Fiction is the driving force that makes it possible to transform reality and achieve what seemed impossible until then. This explains Tetryl’s astute observation that the world of Metaphor mirrors Tolkien’s world. While Middle-earth in Tolkien’s work is presented as the past of our world where magic has disappeared, the Kingdom of Euchronia in Atlus’ RPG is shown as the future of our world where widespread anxiety has given rise to magic (or Magla).

Tetryl’s remark is all the more interesting because it enables us to shift our gaze from what is shown to us to what is hidden from us – the past – if we make the effort. However, the past is not entirely concealed. It can be glimpsed in the form of the ruins of the Shinjuku district in a dungeon. This fuels the theory that all Atlus games take place in the same universe.

However, our interest lies elsewhere. Beyond the metaphor, the developers have chosen to incorporate a spatio-temporal anchor point into the game. Anxiety is not just consuming Euchronie; it is a product of our society. Our society is the epicentre of this epidemic. We play in a world that, according to the laws of the game universe, is the consequence of a pandemic of anxiety. Thus, the developers achieve two things: they place one of the central evils of our time at the heart of the game, and they reconnect with a philosophical tradition that is sometimes Montesquievian and sometimes Spinozist. In The Spirit of Law, Montesquieu questioned the principle of different forms of government, seeking the passions that set individuals in motion within them. He described virtue, honour and fear as the principles of democracy, monarchy and despotic rule respectively. Although we must not confuse anxiety with Montesquieu’s fear, anxiety still acts as the driving force behind Euchronia’s citizens as a whole. However, there is a second difference: rather than being characterised by the existence and experience of a certain type of regime, the history of the game is characterised by the collapse of the existing regime and a period of governmental vacuum that, for want of a better term, I would describe as ‘proto-democratic’. Although anxiety does not appear at this point, it seems to develop further. Whether during the period of the game or the preceding period (marked by the weakness of royal power), it is clear that the weakness of central power plays a crucial role in the development of anxiety. This is the popular response to the erosion of power.

At another level, anxiety can be seen as a paradigmatic political example of what Spinoza refers to as ‘the sad passions’. In Spinozist philosophy, everything that exists is characterised by its conatus, or perseverance in being. This implies adopting a philosophy of power. Power is defined as the capacity to persevere in one’s being; in other words, to act in accordance with one’s nature. Spinoza’s philosophy of passions then consists of distinguishing between those that increase our power to act and those that diminish it. The Tractatus Politicus is interesting because it is constructed very precisely on the basis of this theory of power and passions.

Clearly, the anxiety plaguing Euchronia diminishes the power of collective action, leaving its inhabitants increasingly vulnerable to the various evils that exploit widespread anxiety to gain ground. Most of these evils originate from within the kingdom itself, as there is no real power outside of it. Humans, conflicts and the vulnerability of citizens to passing charlatans who make them promises.

In short, Metaphor is rather interesting on this point. By portraying anxiety as the evil that is destroying Euchronia, he undoubtedly places the epicentre of the epidemic in our own time. At the same time, through the kind of giant election set up by the Moon King, it questions not anxiety in general, but its effects on democracies. This is precisely why Metaphor should be taken very seriously. The Washington Post is not mistaken in the headline of its article: ‘The year’s smartest game asks: Is civil democracy just a fantasy?’

This is precisely the point that I personally find problematic about Metaphor. I will elaborate on this in three points. Firstly, it seems to me that the game makes poor use of the theme of utopia in Thomas More’s work, revealing a lack of understanding of its profound philosophical dimension. The next two points relate more specifically to the question of democracy in Metaphor. Firstly, the game appears to be part of what I would describe as a relatively limited democratic imagination. In this respect, it is symptomatic of a more general trend that goes far beyond the game itself. Finally, I believe that the metaphorical dimension of the game contributes to its failure to convey its message effectively. The metaphor it uses, i.e. the symbolic structure on which the game is based, tends to overshadow democracy as a political issue.

From Utopia to utopia

While some may say that I am being unfair, I nevertheless believe it is important to emphasise this first point. It could be argued that what I am describing is not unique to Metaphor, but rather a more general social phenomenon. Fair enough. That is precisely what I am trying to highlight here. Sadly, the game’s relationship to the utopian genre, the utopian object, and More’s Utopia in particular is poor.

Insisting on the omnipresence of this literary and philosophical giant throughout the game does not make it any more intelligent. Ironically, the content of the book is barely mentioned. While Thomas More’s book does not exist in the game’s fictional world, the content of More*’s one is barely detailed. It simply describes a world in which individuals elect their leaders and racism does not exist. It’s slightly insubstantial.

Book content or relation to fiction?

One might argue that the essence of the game lies not so much in the content of the book, but in the way it mediates our experience of reality through the imagination. Let us concede that point. However, I would like to highlight three points.

Firstly, the game never shows what the imagination does to individuals. While the hero is immediately convinced by what he reads, the other members of the group seem to be only vaguely convinced by his reading sessions and discussions. But weren’t they already convinced anyway? Essentially, remove the book and the game is exactly the same; the story remains unchanged. The game never shows how imagination shapes souls and then the world.

Then, what are we told in the passage with More* shortly before the end of the game? More* realises that his utopia was ultimately built on old ideas when he should have been looking to the future. In short, the problem raised is typically a problem with the content of the book in question.

Finally, we might sneer at the fact that More* himself ends up questioning the content of his book. As we have said, the content of his book is utterly abysmal. While democracy and the fight against racism are clearly not obvious to everyone, we should nevertheless be alarmed by those who are satisfied with such platitudes in politics. Talking about politics is better than simply reminding people that racism is morally reprehensible, however desperate the current situation may be.

More’s Utopia – a philosophical text

So should we be surprised at how Thomas More’s work is used? In truth, Metaphor is symptomatic. It is probably unnecessary to point out how overused and discredited the term ‘utopia’ has become. Its negative counterpart, dystopia, has ultimately absorbed the very term it is supposed to be the opposite of. The reasoning usually goes as follows: dystopia is the practical application of the theoretical construct that is utopia – or at the very least, it incorporates the latter.

It should be noted that, although the term ‘utopia’ is derived directly from More’s work, the historical father of the genre in the European tradition is in fact Plato. In the 5th century BCE, The Republic presented an ideal political system that conformed to the idea of justice. It is in this two-thousand-year-old tradition that the future Lord High Chancellor is writing. So why these digressions? To remind us that, before being a literary genre or a political fable, what we call ‘utopia’ is fundamentally a product of philosophical reflection. The consequences are no less significant. Essentially, utopia is not dogmatic; it emerges from a philosophical discourse that is primarily problematic and problematising.

This was evident in Plato, whose ideal political system was the result of philosophical enquiry into justice. The same is true of More. While we most often remember More’s description of Utopia and its institutions, we tend to overlook the first half of the book. What is it about? It contains extremely subtle and pertinent questions of political philosophy, relevant both to his time and to posterity. It is no coincidence that some consider More to be the forefather of socialism. Utopia directly questions the role of money in society. But that is not all. Inactive populations, the fate of criminals and their potential social usefulness, and inequality are at the heart of More’s work, as is the social problem raised by the clergy.

More than a theoretical construct, the English jurist’s work is a philosophical text that questions the social organisation of his time, reflecting on ways to guarantee a just society capable of maintaining civil peace.

Some players quickly became frustrated with the constant references to Sir Thomas More’s work. Yes, the hero reads a book that belongs to what we now call the utopian genre. Yes, the author of the book is named More*. And yes, the kingdom in which our adventure takes place is called Euchronia. And yes, the map of this kingdom is largely a copy of the one created by Ambrosius Holbein for the frontispiece of the third edition of the book. However, if there is a real reason for this weariness, it lies in the contrast between the repetitive references and their lack of substance. Metaphor makes little use of More’s work.

If the game fails so miserably to make use of one of its central materials, I believe it is because it suffers from an even greater affliction: the poverty of its political and democratic imagination.

The poverty of our democratic imagination

Before even beginning this section, I will quickly address the main objection that could be levelled at me. This objection is that most games with overt political content do not see their message discredited by the poverty of the democratic imagination they display. So why should this be the case for Metaphor?

The remark is entirely relevant, but it shows a blindness to what makes Hoshino Katsura’s teams’ games so unique. We can take an extremely classic example such as Final Fantasy VII. The game deals with highly political issues: environmental destruction, ecology, the stranglehold of private economic power over politics, and the ability of the latter to impose its decisions to the detriment of the majority. In this regard, we might recall the utterly puppet-like nature of the mayor of Midgar. It is also worth paying tribute to Kitase’s game, which even at the time featured characters that our ministers would not hesitate to describe as eco-terrorists.

But is Final Fantasy VII a game that showcases democratic ideals? Not really. The main political and military opposition force, Wutai, remains a monarchy. Overall, different forms of political organisation are barely mentioned. In the more recent Final Fantasy XV, the conquering Empire is pitted against the Kingdom of Lucis, which is far from democratic. The game contrasts Niflheim’s imperialism with Lucis’s righteous royalty in a chiaroscuro style. The good king is a central figure in many Japanese and Western RPGs, and Metaphor is no exception.

Are these games on the same level? Not exactly. What makes Metaphor unique is that the question of democracy and its foundations lie at the heart of the plot. Compared to a game like Final Fantasy VII, the political focus is different. Therefore, it is insufficient to describe Metaphor as merely political, politicised or even politicising. That would be saying nothing at all. Once again, some players and critics are often satisfied with little and do not take the time to examine the narrative and playful structures of the works they consume in more detail. Seeing some people brandish Metaphor as a political trophy simply because it deals with racism and politics, and use it to attack those who advocate the depoliticisation of video games, is superficial.

As this is at the core of the game, we will now take a closer look at how Metaphor addresses politics, and democracy in particular. To achieve this, I will focus on several key points. First, I will outline what I call the ‘political matrix’ of the game, based on the process of electing the new king. Next, I will examine the role of the people in the game using several examples. I will then address the issue of racism in the game, albeit superficially, before finally returning to the place of royalty and the role played by Metaphor in the game’s overall structure. This should enable me to draw some conclusions that I hope will be of interest beyond the game itself and the Atlus teams.

The King’s Election

The game’s story begins with the reigning king being murdered by Louis Guiabern. This is followed by the appearance of a moon in the sky reminiscent of the one in Majora’s Mask. It is a spell that the newly assassinated king had cast before his death. Aware of his own weaknesses and the dissension plaguing his kingdom, the king decides alone that his successor should be elected by the people. The election process consists of a period of several months, during which the kingdom will decide who they consider to be the most suitable ruler. That person will then become king. The Sanctist Church (the state religion) proposes holding a huge competition involving tests for the candidates. Therefore, the election must take place according to the Church’s requirements. However, the power of the spell cannot be limited by the whims of the Sanctifex. The story regularly plays on this discrepancy, with characters such as Louis and the heroes taking liberties with the Church’s tournament and preferring to stick to the rules imposed by the Moon King alone. This is undoubtedly one of the most valuable and interesting aspects of Atlus’s game. The emergence of particular groups within the democratic process, and the many ways in which this process is circumvented, are an integral part of life in our representative democracies.

However, if we pause for a moment, we will notice two things. The first and most obvious point has been noted by many commentators on the game and concerns the voting system used. This system turns the election into a popularity contest. However, we need to consider this further: the voting system acts as a machine for probing people’s hearts, where duplicity and strategy are impossible. Individuals can only vote according to their conscience. In fact, we can no longer talk about voting in the traditional sense. Firstly, the distance between inner feelings and actual political action has been abolished. Secondly, the current state of the election is constantly updated by means of statues and the moon, which represent the hierarchy between the highest-ranked candidates.

Thus, the act of voting disappears, as does its timing. It takes the form of a permanent popularity poll rather than a political election.

This is where we will delve into an idea that, as far as I know, has not yet been proposed by anyone. If we take what we have just said seriously, we can make an even more fundamental statement about the electoral processes at work in the game. In Metaphor: ReFantazio, the voting system becomes a law of nature, like gravity, for example. Here, I am not talking about natural law or rights, i.e. rights or obligations inherent in the nature of things, which, like positive laws, can be broken. Laws of nature, on the other hand, are imposed on us absolutely, both externally and internally. They cannot be broken. We cannot pretend that gravity does not exist. At best, we can work with them, as modern science and technology do, using the laws discovered for the benefit of humanity. Similarly, the Sanctist Church itself must adapt to this new law of nature. In short, the political process has become a law of nature.

Constitutional and established power

However, this has two significant consequences. Firstly, the game completely ignores the fact that the determination of the rules of the political game is itself an eminently political matter. More specifically, it relegates what political philosophy usually refers to as constituent power, as opposed to constituted power, to the realm of metaphysics or even magic.

For example, a constituent assembly is independent and free from any existing political power; its task is to draft a new constitution. It falls under the power of the instituting power. Conversely, the National Assembly of the Fifth Republic possesses powers that are also limited by the existing constitution. However, neither a constitution nor the way political life is organised generally fall from the sky: both are the result of choices, traditions, discussions and objective power relations.

Treating electoral law as a law of nature means it cannot be broken. However, the ability of individuals to participate in and renegotiate the rules of the political system is a key factor in the balance of political power. Conversely, the ruling classes generally prioritise locking down or privatising the institution-building process to their advantage when the rules of the game are unfavourable to them. This is particularly evident in a democracy. Metaphor: ReFantazio depicts a world in which the power to establish rules is metaphysically removed from men, leaving them with no choice but to select candidates according to rules they did not choose. To those who would argue that we do not choose the rules of the game in our societies either, and that this therefore provides a good representation, we would counter that our political constitutions are not laws of nature, and that it is always possible to break, discuss or challenge them legally (which has happened more or less regularly throughout history). We could also argue that our respect for these rules constitutes consent, although we would then need to determine the precise meaning of this term. This brings us back to the old political question raised by La Boétie and revisited repeatedly over the centuries, but that is not our subject here. In summary, Metaphor offers us an extremely limited version of democracy — a version that is even more limited than representative democracy, which is already rather bland.

The problem of populism

The naturalisation of the political process in Metaphor has a second significant consequence: it leads to a populist conception of politics. By populism, I mean the idea that the highest form of politics is achieved when there is perfect alignment between the people and their representatives. The representatives, or the leader, then become the voice and arm of the people. This presupposes firstly that politics cannot function or even exist without representation, and secondly that the people find in their leaders the perfect reflection of their will. Metaphor takes this idea to its logical conclusion: there is no longer any real electoral process, as the hearts of individuals are polled directly and without hindrance. In a sense, this is the fantasy of perfectly transparent populism, making the connection between the represented and the representatives immediate and imperceptible. Ultimately, the delegation of power, and by extension the power relationship inherent in all representation, disappears. However, it is impossible to think about politics, especially democracy, without reflecting on processes such as delegation and representation. This is precisely what we find at the heart of anarchist thought: a constant reflection on the possibilities of organising and sometimes delegating power without it turning into permanent domination. Populism is pure fantasy and turns into a relationship of domination, which is precisely why politics is necessary.

Furthermore, it inherently negates the separation of powers. What use is this if the people are already perfectly represented by their leader? Any separation of powers would then only serve as an artificial obstacle to the immediate expression of the people’s will. Ironically, all the terms of the proposition raise serious philosophical problems: the immediacy of representation, the concept of the will of the people and the notion of the people themselves. Populism misunderstands politics and the richness of the institutional structures that enable and govern communal life. Aristotle (long before Montesquieu, and in contrast to him) observed that depending on how they are assembled, the people do not think, speak or vote in the same way. The existence of various institutions that limit each other to varying degrees gives the people the opportunity to take a step back and reflect on themselves both subjectively and objectively. The existence of diverse institutions and the temporality this engenders are essential to the city, preventing it from succumbing to the illusions of immediacy, naturalness, and spontaneity in politics.

This clarifies the political matrix of Metaphor and the problems it raises with regard to its desire to discuss democracy. The idea of democracy based on the populist model of the complete disappearance of power due to perfect synchronisation between the people and their leader is, at best, naïve and, at worst, dangerous. This is all the more concerning, I believe, because this fantasy has gained significance today, whether feigned or real. Populism is everywhere, from the far right to the left. Real democracy can only be achieved by taking back control of institutional power in order to put it to new uses, rather than by allowing it to disappear and become diluted in the will of the leader.

What about the people ?

The rest of this work will focus on examining the local consequences of this matrix on the game world. I will refer to this matrix as a populist simplification from now on, although it also encompasses the concealment of institutional power and its implications. It manifests itself first and foremost in the treatment of people.

While anyone is welcome to take part in the grand competition organised by the Moon King, once the candidates have been announced, a spectacular show begins, with clearly defined roles. On one side are the candidates, who exaggerate their virtues or vices, and on the other are passive spectators of this gigantic show. In short, the people of Euchronia are mere television spectators. They have no initiative and merely react to what they are shown. They conform perfectly to the image that advertising agencies, Cambridge Analytica, public relations representatives, and television commentators have of them. While it is clear that treating individuals in this way produces subjection and the subjectivisation of subjects, we cannot concede that these methods are absolutely effective. Of course, we are constantly shown individuals in this way and constantly ensure they conform to this image. Yet reality cannot be reduced to these open-air laboratory theories.

However, Metaphor embraces these representations wholeheartedly. He never distances himself from them, which is greatly facilitated by the game’s populist matrix – and in turn reinforces it. People only follow exceptional individuals, so it’s important to get them to follow those who are exceptionally good rather than others. Our group of heroes thus appears as a band of popular benefactors. Strohl’s entire quest illustrates this perfectly. At first, we may be moved to see the seeds of revolutionary fervour stirring in response to the excessive appropriation of land and property for the purpose of exploitation, but ultimately, what does it boil down to? The restoration of the good lord who protects his people and offers them shelter and protection in the face of the evil lord or bourgeois. Moreover, the game’s underlying political imagination is, in many ways, pre-modern in that it makes the conduct of affairs depend more on the virtues of leaders than on institutions. This mindset is widespread in popular culture, providing fertile ground for both right-wing and left-wing populism.

The story of Bardon and the city of Martira is another telling example of this. The discovery of the crimes committed by Saint Joanna, the nun who led the fortified city, leaves the position vacant. Following these events, the community members decide to take matters into their own hands. Based on the inhabitants’ comments, one might imagine that they opted for self-management. However, this was not the case. Although they did free themselves from the tutelage of the Sanctist Church and, more broadly, from a state of heteronomy where the leader was appointed by external forces, that was as far as it went. An internal conflict certainly looms, but this is the result of an entirely artificial rivalry which will ultimately be resolved when Bardon questions his somewhat authoritarian temperament upon taking office. This should not distract us from what was really happening in Martira: the ‘autonomous’ takeover of the city’s affairs was embodied, above all, in the choice of a new leader. This was far from any kind of democratic self-management. Furthermore, while such an event could be perceived as a declaration of war within the kingdom and cause unrest and a reaction from the central government or the Church, this is not the case. Martira is strikingly similar to the cities of northern Italy, which gradually gained autonomy from the Holy Roman Empire during the late Middle Ages. However, this is precisely because of the balance of power, which determines the form of government that develops there, at least in part. While some may argue that the Crown or the Church cannot be held responsible for the current internal crisis in the Kingdom of Euchroni, I would contend that this very weakness could have been exploited to create a favourable balance of power for the city. For example, we could have seen the inhabitants appoint Bardon as strategist to defend the fortified city against the Crown’s or the Church’s armies. This will not be the case.

Similarly, the relationship between the kingdom and Virga Island is only touched upon briefly. The inhabitants of the southern archipelago clearly occupy a special place due to their geographical location and the ancient relics housed in their temples. Nevertheless, the islands are very much part of the kingdom. Apart from the racism that plagues the Mustari tribe — as well as other peoples, for that matter — little is revealed about the undoubtedly tense and violent relations between the central power and the island periphery. In fact, the game resorts to the hackneyed exoticism that has long been a staple of pop culture, especially video games, to show us how these people live (although we can still appreciate a few nice visual ideas). Apart from the presence of a chief and a priestess, and the fact that they have long misunderstood ancient texts and are being manipulated by a human, we learn nothing about the inhabitants of the islands. We know nothing about how life is organised there or about the relationships between the different islands. If we are going to delve into literature and constantly refer to More’s Utopia — which, it should be noted, is rooted in the Age of Discovery — then the changes in political and cultural reference points should be played out within the game world itself. What a pity not to explore, even superficially, the ethnology and anthropology of the 20th and 21st centuries.

I will set the question of racism in the game aside here, at least in terms of a direct treatment of the subject, as that is not my point. However, I would like to say a few words about it. The game clearly places it at the heart of its story: the kingdom is divided into various tribes that are distrustful, if not openly hostile, towards each other. Furthermore, it is explicitly stated that the Clemars, the tribe from which the royal family originates, dominate the kingdom politically.

However, can we not demand a more nuanced approach to the issue today than the constant repetition of the fact that racism is morally reprehensible? This is all sprinkled with an endgame revelation that teaches us that all the races of Euchronia are derived from humanity of times past. This is intended to make us understand that, in addition to being morally reprehensible, racism has no biological basis. While this may bring superficial relief to a few in search of easy leftism, we must remember that it has no political effect. Our era demonstrates this to us daily at little cost. The fight against racism requires collective political strategies and actions to transform society and public and private institutions. This also means the existence of social and geographical margins that are active and engaged in direct or indirect power relations. Ultimately, these marginalised places (both geographical and social) are synonymous with the ongoing and permanent process of ethnic and cultural mixing. Although the game world of Metaphor is cleverly proposed as a realm where population migration seems commonplace, it nonetheless remains bound by the trope of the geographical compartmentalisation of cultural spaces. This trope is relatively ubiquitous in popular culture and sometimes aligns with the views of thinkers such as Oswald Spengler and, more recently, Samuel Huntington. Consequently, Metaphor never truly addresses racism, as it is not concerned with the social and political structures that create, reinforce and organise it, nor with the resistance and struggles that attempt to mitigate its impact or transform objective social relations. Consequently, it is incapable of conceiving the political relationships between the diverse individuals and peoples who inhabit its world. The passivity of Euchronia’s population in general is matched by that of its marginalised tribes.

I am not trying to list what I think the game could or should have been. Rather, I am trying to highlight the political imagination that structures and permeates the game. This sometimes involves contrasting it with possibilities that the developers did not choose.

The Return of the King

We have not yet discussed the royal figure in Metaphor. From the outset, it has loomed large over the discussion. However, the issue is indeed the choice or election of the king. Of course, those present will select the candidate they believe to be the most suitable to govern, but what happens after that?

There are no elections in sight and there is no countervailing power either. On this last point, we should note the emergence of a shadow council during the game, apparently comprising the Sanctifex and certain dignitaries of the kingdom. Once again, Metaphor does nothing with this information. Instead, he dutifully repeats the trope of the shadow conspiracy that acts in its own interests rather than in the interests of the prince and the common good. However, historically, the lords were not mere troublemakers; they often played a long-standing role as a countervailing power to the king. The Protestant Reformation and the subsequent wars of religion became the site of active theorisation contesting the hitherto accepted foundations of royal power. Let us not be more royalist than the king; these protests were not democratic. Nevertheless, in a fantasy universe, they can provide material to enrich and fertilise a democratic imagination that is struggling to flourish. This is all the more pertinent given that the Sanctist Church is not without depth in the narrative. It is reminiscent of the ‘Grand Inquisitor’ in The Brothers Karamazov, occupying a politically and morally ambiguous position.

In short, the story offers only a slightly different version of the familiar tale of the lost or forgotten king returning. Two-thirds of the way through the game, the player discovers that they have actually been playing as the will (by the way, the English default name of the main caracter is Will) or an idealised version of the prince, who has been asleep until this point and whom the kingdom believed to be dead. Ultimately, it is not his virtues that put him on the throne, but his ancestry. He will, of course, have to defeat the rival military leader and rebel, who ultimately takes on the features of monstrous evil, but it is his royal legitimacy that wins over popular opinion. The greatest virtue of our hero is that he was born a prince. If Louis is discredited by the ideas he espouses, he is at least as much discredited by the de facto illegitimacy of his candidacy in the face of the power of tradition.

The entire election was a mere charade, and everything has reverted to how it should have been from the outset had the prince not fallen victim to a tragic assassination attempt. Nothing has really changed, and none of what has happened should have taken place. Once Louis had been defeated, the hero regained his throne and now rules as king, ensuring that all his friends are placed at the top of his administration. They are generally happy to carry out their duties at the highest level of state. What sets him apart from his father and other potential candidates? He governs well in the common interest, with the strength of will to withstand obstacles (unlike his desperate father). Ultimately, it was all a question of kindness and strength of will.

But by saying that, have I missed the point of the game? Have I forgotten that, as its title suggests, it is a metaphor? In that case, we would need to understand what the hero’s journey symbolises and represents. The hero undoubtedly embodies virtue. Indeed, the game encourages us to cultivate royal virtues throughout our adventure. The important thing is not the man, but that virtue reigns supreme! However, this is precisely where problems arise. Democracy, and real and direct democracy in particular, is based on the observation that such a state of affairs is impossible. It is men who sit on thrones, not virtue. Virtue is powerless; men always act. As he is himself a metaphor, the hero of Metaphor is never anything other than the counterfeiter of that which he represents. The metaphorical representative crushes the represented: the king crushes democracy. The first conclusion that emerges here is that in Metaphor: ReFantazio‘s discourse on democracy is ultimately obscured by the very structure of the metaphor. Secondly, the metaphor of democracy crushes democracy in its representatives and negates it as such. Consequently, in this obscuring, democracy manifests its resistance to both metaphorisation and the opposition between representatives and the represented.

For an analysis of our democratic imaginaries

Now, let us return to the ambition behind Metaphor: putting the imagination back at the heart of political transformation. When we apply what makes the game the matrix to the game itself, we realise that the imagination deployed is extremely disappointing. While it is clear that fiction plays a social and political role, we would expect it to offer something beyond what we already see.

Returning to the beginning of the article, we saw that the Atlus teams were overturning the basic premise of Tolkien’s world. However, they also wanted to return to the roots of fantasy, as they admitted. It should be noted, however, that this reversal ultimately has little effect, with the game being overwhelmed by the very foundations it sought to return to. While some returns to origins demonstrate originality by enriching them in new ways, this is clearly not the case here. The game ends up embracing everything that is conservative about the fantasy genre: the return of the status quo thanks to a royal figure who derives his legitimacy from tradition and his virtues — the two of which tend to be fallaciously intertwined. One might ultimately wonder whether the playful structure of the game contributes to this embrace. Do the positive feelings that players develop towards the heroes over the course of the hundred-or-so-hour title make us more tolerant of the politically questionable spectacle that unfolds at the end?

Overall, I enjoyed playing Metaphor: ReFantazio, but I had been holding myself back for several months. Yes, the story dragged on a bit too long, some of the mechanics didn’t always work well and the game was somewhat unbalanced, but that wasn’t the reason. It took me a while to express all of this in writing. I am not saying that it is a bad game, nor that it should be condemned because of its universe and ludo-narrative structure. However, as it aimed to place the question of democracy at the heart of its message, it deserves to be examined for what it seeks to achieve and communicate on the subject. On this point, however, Metaphor reveals a rather poor democratic imagination. It is not alone in this, and this text is not a crusade against it. On the contrary, its particular focus makes it the ideal subject for in-depth examination, but this observation must be greatly expanded. My few general remarks are intended as a call for a more in-depth analysis of democratic imaginations and their various forms of expression in contemporary culture. In this respect, Metaphor is just one symptom among many that has exhibited itself as such.