Final Fantasy VII Remake: There Are No Limits

Dear Jessica Howard (age 7),

A lot is going to change over the course of the next twenty years. Everything, really.

I wish I could make this all a bit easier on you–tell you the things you need to hear, which moments to savor, and which people to avoid. I wish there were some way I could drain all the poison from the world and keep you safe. That there was some all encompassing piece of advice I could give you to ensure you made it from point “A” to point “whatever-the-hell-this-is” in one, high-functioning piece. But there’s not.

However, luckily for us, you don’t need it. I don’t know if anyone’s told you this but you’re absolutely fearless, kid. And it’s something I love about you. 

I think part of what makes you that way are the stories you love–the kinds with knights and dragons, and Jedi and Sith Lords. And you know what’s incredible? Despite how much everything has changed, that love? It never goes away. You will spend your whole life enamored by stories–thinking about them, writing about them, and creating your own. Your strongest bonds with others will be bolstered by these tales, and the bits of yourself you like best–your creativity, passion, cleverness, and enduring spirit–they come from your desire to be just like the heroes you cherish. The heroes who serve others, do the right thing even when it’s challenging, and endure, ceaselessly. And you and I, we love a lot of great stories, but another thing that has not changed is we love Final Fantasy VII the most. Don’t believe me? Kid, I’m still dressing up as Tifa. Only difference is you have those wrist guards and I have boobs. Oh and yes, they are as awesome as they seem.

Anyways, prior to playing Final Fantasy VII, we both believed games had limits, but it took hardly any time at all for us to realize Final Fantasy VII thought quite differently. As we watched Aerith take her first steps down that dark alley, we knew something special had just begun. What we didn’t know is that that magic would never dull–only intensify. And that’s why when I started Final Fantasy 7 Remake earlier this year, little Jess, I was furious.

You see, in a few years, you’re going to play a game by the name of Kingdom Hearts, and you’re going to absolutely adore it. You’re going to see what Cloud Strife looks like with a goddamn face, and from that point on, you are going to fantasize about Square remaking VII with updated graphics. In 2015, you are going to openly weep when it’s announced that your dream is coming true. Openly. Weep. And the first thing you’re going to imagine is that scene–quickly followed by Vincent Valentine because yes, we are still very much into him.

But when you start Remake all the way here in 2020, you’ll find it doesn’t begin quite like that. And when I sat there, watching those slight differences unfold, all I could think about was what you would say if you were sitting next to me. All I could think about was that twenty year journey from where you’re standing to where I sat, and how hard you’re going to clutch that game–that story–every step of the way. 

After forcing myself to play Remake for a few hours, I took a shower and cried for what was perhaps an equal amount of time. I knew I didn’t own this game. I knew I wasn’t entitled to anything. I kept telling myself that, over and over. I was owed nothing. But I couldn’t shake this feeling that this part of my identity was gone. Friends texted me (you’ll learn what ‘texting’ is soon) and told me how happy they were to finally be playing my game–how happy they were to finally understand my devotion to the series and these characters. And I remember looking down at these messages, eyes bloodshot and puffy, and thinking, “but this isn’t my game.”

So, long story short, I was pretty depressed for a few days (you’ll also learn what that is soon, sorry kiddo). Eventually, I gave up on playing it because honestly? It just hurt too bad. Once I reached that point, I decided I’d read the synopsis to at least gain some sense of closure, and kid Jessica, as I skimmed over that last lengthy paragraph, I once again was furious. But this time, it dispersed. This time, that anger strangely gave way to that the same sense of wonder I felt back when I was you. You see, just as Final Fantasy VII refused to believe there were limits to what games could be, Remake refused to believe there was any possible way to replace Final Fantasy VII–and that’s what I needed to hear.

Once I put my guard down and embraced the fact that Square was, quite plainly, not threatening any part of my existence and just might know what they’re doing with their beloved property (even if there are still plenty of things I’m not 100% sold on), I was able to fall deeper in love with the people and places that have felt like pieces of me since I was, well, your age. I got the chance to remember just how feral and fun Reno is, how tender the relationship between Tifa and Cloud can be, and how the only thing bigger than Barrett’s body is his heart. We meet Jesse’s parents, kid Jess. We see character’s faces with the same clarity we see our own and watch Cloud and Tifa embrace as they recall all they’ve lost and have been through together. I got the chance to experience the game that made me me, and made you you, but on a larger scale. Honestly, once I reached Final Fantasy 7 Remake’s ending, the thing I was most upset by was not the new rendition of the Turks theme, but my own fear of embracing change, and my failure to realize “remake” simply doesn’t mean “replace.”

At the end of Remake, the game reinforces the idea that it’s existence is not meant to occupy the same space as Final Fantasy VII , but rather exists parallel to it, just as I, in a strange way, feel I exist parallel to you. The person I am now does not replace you, but has grown from you–and it’s embarrassing to think that perhaps there is some wisdom I neglected to take with me as I did. While I believed I was considering your feelings as I processed the pain of “losing” my Final Fantasy VII, I was forgetting something very important–I was forgetting that you’re goddamn fearless. You’re not the type to anticipate the worst, shut down creativity, and look for flaws, and just because you’re going to carry this game for twenty years doesn’t mean you have to lose those qualities on the way. So please, hang on to them and the stories that gave them to us. They mean everything.

Love,

Jessica Howard (age 27)