In The Name of The Father
On The Last of Us, the paternal need to protect, and the changing face of fatherhood
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This essay vaguely nods towards a mild spoiler for the opening 30 minutes of a ten-year-old video game and a two-month-old show, as well as spoiling a single line from the new Avatar movie. It’s worth it.
I saw Avatar: The Way of Water last month. It’s not a movie that had me dashing towards the cinema, but I knew if was ever going to see it it would have to be in 3D, 4K, HFR, and a bunch of other acronyms which meant I could lose myself in a gorgeous underwater world for a few hours. I did, to an extent. But every time a character opened their perfectly rendered CG mouth it dragged me back out. That story. What a pile of horseshit. James Cameron could have, theoretically, robbed The Daniels of their worthy celebrations last Sunday night and their triumphant exploration of intergenerational trauma and emotionally devastating rock-based storytelling. The core theme Cameron insisted on bludgeoning us with throughout the movie was the role a father plays in protecting his family. It’s not his job alone, as we all know. But Avatar made it seem so, reminding us of Sully’s devotion to his family every thirty minutes: “A father protects. That's what gives him meaning.”
You know me, I’m always looking for the fatherhood angle in anything. I can spin a good yarn out of sorting toys into plastic boxes, so I see it all, Matrix code-style, as part of a wider parenting meta-narrative. But this felt a little too on the nose.
Thank heavens for The Last of Us, HBO’s latest powerhouse, which continues its back-to-back run of hits after House of the Dragon and The White Lotus, and briefly carries the baton until Logan Roy and his band of psychologically-damaged billionaire children return to our screens. The Last of Us isn’t the easiest show to sell in as a joint watch, a way to wind down after a long day dealing with uncontrollable terrors in your own home: “It’s from the creator of Chernobyl, that thing we tried watching a few months into the pandemic, realised how bleak it was after the first five minutes, and quickly changed our minds.” Perhaps an alternative approach might work: “it’s a new show, based on a videogame, all about a global pandemic that brought on a zombie apocalypse.”
I quickly realised it was going on the “solo watch” list. I’d been cautiously excited through its development, following casting announcements closely, seeing reports that a man who’d been playing an iconic masked bounty hunter would partner with the young female head of a Stark-supporting house. This was a game I adored—one I’d played through three times, twice before having kids, and once after; the tragic opening hitting even harder after becoming a father myself. It was the first game that felt written by adults, for adults. Not the Scorsese pastiche of Grand Theft Auto or its many terrible imitators. Not Night Trap, an interactive movie from Sega that led to a US Senate hearing on violence in video games in 1993. Or Heavy Rain, the 2010 game that opened with the nightmare scenario of a father losing his son in a busy mall, which then launched a thousand memes with a prompt of “Press X to Jason,” a crass button push intending to convey the intense drama of searching for a lost child through mashing a Playstation controller.
The Last of Us was different, from the get-go. Here we had an honest-to-god masterpiece, a creative triumph that used the medium to put you right there; with advances in motion capture and voice acting meaning you could feel, through the riveting performances of Troy Baker and Ashley Johnson, how it felt to have a child under your protection. It was a game that would temporarily activate a neurological circuit that would awake in full after the birth of my own children—a change in perspective after having made, as Elizabeth Stone once said, the momentous decision to “decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” This was a game that grappled with what it meant to be a dad. How it might feel to grieve the loss of a child. To feel a duty of defence towards a virtual character, one outside of your control—a world apart from dozens of frustrating “protect the girl” missions gamers had been subjected to, where one stray bullet would mean an instant reset to the last checkpoint. Outside of Ico, such examples were few and far between in those three decades I’d spent with a controller resting ergonomically in my palms.
My obsession with gaming started early, influenced by my uncle’s regular weekend trips to Manchester, the newest imported Japanese console regularly packed into his duffel bag. Every Christmas I’d look forward to finding a familiar rectangle under the tree, and every few years I’d hope for a larger, irregular one if Santa decided I’d been good that year. Games were a perfect childhood escape; hundreds of universes to visit, explore and conquer. Then we grew up. People who had been playing games started making them, and they were gifted new brushes for painting their stories—more horsepower, higher polygon counts, and increased storage capabilities to deliver cinema-level dialogue and soundtracks. This purple patch unearthed fresh narratives, created by a faction of increasingly capable and ambitious developers—led by Konami’s Hideo Kojima, the initial evangelizer for the unique opportunities inherent in the medium. These developers then became parents—primarily dads, as men still make up 61% of the gaming industry—so it was obvious themes around fatherhood would start bleeding into these virtual worlds too.
Neil Druckmann, the writer and creative director behind The Last of Us, became a dad during the development of the original game. He has cited this experience as having a formative impact on the tale they told. And where he went, others followed: God of War rebooted in 2018, placing Kratos—one of the most brutal and merciless men in all of mythology—at the mercy of his short fuse, learning to keep his anger in check, hoping to break the cycle and give his son a better chance. Kratos, like The Last of Us’ Joel, navigates a world from a default stance of protection, whilst struggling to deal with the residual trauma that shackles him. The “dad simulator” genre was birthed, which went all the way from the truly bizarre (parenting molluscs?!) to the recent cult smash PowerWash Simulator which—I shit you not—has been taking the world by storm since its 2021 release. I don’t own a pressure washer, so I’ll have to believe that this is an accurate representation of how cleaning dirty objects on your driveway feels. Who said video games were all about violence?
Other games have featured fathers, but not nearly enough memorable ones. For every Kazuma Kiryu there have been dozens of bland, identikit paternal failures, gathering dust in cupboards when they should be slowly fading in a CEX window by now1. Even amongst the great gaming dads, we’re sorely lacking positive role models—Big Boss from Metal Gear Solid, technically a dad, even though his sons were clones; The King Of All Cosmos in Katamari Damacy, a dad with a rough childhood who gave his son even worse through persistent demands for hard labour; or Bowser and his seven children, bequeathing a world to each in Super Mario Bros 3, and placing the death of a certain moustachioed plumber on their to-do list. Even Hades, winner of multiple Game of the Year accolades in 2021, had you living—and dying, and reliving—the Sisyphean task of escaping the Greek underworld, an ever-present overbearing father berating you after each and every failure.
Joel came into this world of terrible dads as a three-dimensional father filled with conflict, the disparate definitions of his role driving the narrative forward. Druckmann has said his writing is driven by "simple stories with complex characters." The Last of Us is a game, and a show, about zombies, clearly. They never say the word—apparently it was banned on set—but it’s about so much more: the dark twin of the mushroom zeitgeist; a changing climate that already contributes to a terrifying future none of us can predict; the evolving nature of truth, and the lies that we tell ourselves, and each other. But, at its heart, it’s a show about the feeling of fatherhood—of the opening of your heart, the great love you can take in, the grief when it’s brutally taken away from you, and the piercing pain and trauma unimaginable to any of us with children of our own. To lose a child, and spend your life dreaming of a parallel world where this didn’t have to happen—then seeing how that pain can ossify, sucking every avenue of light out of your life, being swallowed by darkness, making you feel incapable of feeling love again. And to then see light on the other side of a tunnel stretching back two decades, and to realise the lengths you’d go to to ensure you never went back in.
For a lover of the game, watching this rendition has been delightful, and mind-boggling. I’m in awe of how they did it—to make something that holds the source material with such reverence but isn’t afraid of deviating from it when the moment feels right: like in the third episode, which Esquire called “a TV moment that we’ll never forget” and many are already claiming belongs in the pantheon of all-time great TV episodes alongside “Pine Barrens”, “Ozymandias”, that episode of True Detective with a six-minute tracking shot, and when Desmond found Penny on Lost. That fact The Last of Us could get this good, this fast, whilst still honouring a game I hold very close to my heart? I’m still scratching my head, wondering how they pulled it off.
Ten years ago this game gave offered an early insight into how being a father might feel. I replayed it again a year before the birth of my second. The game puts a controller in your hand, imploring you to protect the life of a teenage girl that has fallen into your orbit. And protect her you must, over and over again. The last time I played it, I had to admit not being so consumed by a fundamental need to protect my family. I’d like to believe that, at a push, I’d be there to stand up when required, to do whatever is necessary to ensure their safety. Protect. Provide. Survive. That’s what dads have always done, and it was often the extent of their role. But how much resonance can we find in that perspective today, in a world where we’re expected to do so much more, where we’re defined not by how we save, but how we support, and where the idea of the primary breadwinner is becoming increasingly irrelevant? In opposite-sex marriages where both couples work, wives outearn husbands anywhere between a third and half of the time—up from a meagre 3.8% in the 1960s. In these instances, both partners end up fudging the numbers when they talk to researchers, with women underreporting their salaries by 1.5% and men overreporting by 2.9%. Societal pressure and cultural norms mean that men are still expected to protect and provide: a 2017 Pew Research study found that whilst 71% of Americans believed a father should be able to support his family financially, just 25% of men and 39% of women feel the same about the mother.
The grooves of these roles run deep; the father hunts, the mother nurtures. But they’re beginning to shift. They were already changing back in 2013, when I placed that Blu-ray disc into an ageing Playstation 3 and was first introduced to Joel and Ellie, unaware of the ride I was about to embark upon. They’ve shifted even further in the last few years, as fathers spend more time at home—some of them working, others taking the role of primary nurturer themselves, part of the one-third increase in stay-at-home dads since the beginning of the pandemic. We don’t just want to put a roof above their heads anymore, to protect them from danger, and to put food on the table. Fatherhood can be so much more. And this is something we should be celebrating.
Joel is a father in the classical mould. He protects. He provides. That’s what fatherhood meant for his dad, and the thousands of dads before him. But this time around, it’s all different. It has to be. Because brutal protection comes with a cost, and it raises children to believe strength and security are the only things that matter. As anyone keeping pace with the show will know—and those who’ve played the sequel will understand to their core—our children learn from those closest to them, and the actions they take, not the tales they tell. A father’s determination to protect his child, whatever the cost, will instil those same beliefs in her; his trauma will be passed along, rather than being buried in the ground where it belongs.
Closing out this season of five-star TV, I’m left with the same question I had upon finishing the game a decade ago: is Joel a good father? Are any of us in the position cast judgement on another dad, even a fictional one, and the actions of someone trying their best? What does being a good dad even mean, here in 2023? And what might it mean if—or when, depending on the bleakness of your outlook—the entire world turns to shit, whether due to a mycelium-based outbreak, an ever-warmer climate in often inhospitable cities, or any of the dozens of black swans that may lie in our future.
I don’t know the answers. But I’m glad we’re living in a time where we’re finally asking the questions.
Did you watch it? Let’s talk about the ending
I’m doing my very best to avoid spoilers here, ballet dancing on thin ice, We’re all parenting in the slipstream of popular culture, but this is one horse I’ve kept pace with. I don’t think you’ll see a better show on fatherhood this year. Succession will give it a good run for its money, especially for those of us who grew up with a powerful patriarch in their own homes.
Bit of a random way to wrap up today, but for those who have seen the finale and want to talk about it, I’d love to hear any and all interpretations in the comments this week, especially thoughts on how you’d have reacted in Joel’s shoes for that finale. Let’s keep the conversation locked to the first game, without ruining anything for those who have played the sequel.
OK. Be warned. Here be spoilers:
Back to our regular programming.
3 things to read this week
“Tate-Pilled” by Lisa Miller in Intelligencer. A report from the front lines, speaking to boys who have come under the influence of Andrew Tate, a man who “conquered their TikTok “For You” pages seemingly overnight.” This is the perfect storm of algorithmic recommendation engines, children finding ways to circumvent parental controls, and a demagogue filling the minds of a generation of young men, seeking to fill a hole vacated by old, dying definitions of masculinity. “Jacob, the son of a former community organizer, watched the Star Wars movie The Last Jedi when he was in middle school; he had been an ardent fan, and he hated the film because he felt Disney had turned Luke Skywalker into a joke. So he went to YouTube for some critical reads, and the next thing he knew, Ben Shapiro, a Star Wars nerd, was being served to him on his feeds […] for a time, he went down the alt-right vortex, consuming hour after hour of -Shapiro and Owen Shroyer of InfoWars.”
“Learning to Become a Better Grandfather” by Paula Spain in The New York Times. Inside the growing trend of our dads trying to become better grandads. This article contains an interview with Ted Page, who runs Good Grandpa, a little like TNF for the older generation. “Cultural and demographic trends, including better health and longer lives, mean that grandfathers can take more active roles. And there’s some evidence that American fathers spend considerably more time caring for children than their predecessors did: an average of eight hours a week in 2016, compared with just 2.5 hours in 1965, according to the Pew Research Center. As contemporary dads become grandpas, caring for kids may feel satisfying and familiar.”
“Fathers Gained Family Time in the Pandemic. Many Don’t Want to Give It Back” by Claire Cain Miller in The New York Times. An NYT double-bill, perfect for those of you with a subscription or are fellow fans of the “keep hitting the Esc key to circumvent the paywall” hack. This one looks at the dads who have seen the light of a world where work plays less of a dominant role, and the experiments they’re undertaking to ensure it remains a reality. A “Even before the pandemic, the generation of fathers currently raising children wanted to be more involved than their fathers had been, research has shown. But they hit obstacles, like societal expectations for traditional gender roles and workplaces that penalized men who prioritized family and rewarded those who were always available. The shared crisis of the pandemic seems to have offered some fathers a path around those obstacles.”
Good Dadvice
One thing to watch with about the kids this week
The Whole Brain Child is the one book I recommend to all parents once they get past the baby stage. It’s the only parenting tome I’ve read multiple times—three so far, lining up for my fourth. It’s written as a reference that can be picked up and reused at different stages in the parenting journey. This four-minute video is a great introduction to the core metaphor that runs throughout the book: that a child’s mind is like a developing house, and we have many opportunities to “bring them up to the attic” and help them do the renovations themselves.
Hey! Listen to this!
If you didn’t immediately finish this week’s essay and cue up the first episode of The Last of Us—what is wrong with you? Didn’t I make it clear?! Well, at least I hope it’s now on your ever-expanding list, so I can highly recommend pairing it with the companion podcast. They’re between 30-60 minutes long, and feature both showrunners: Chernobyl’s Craig Mazin and the brain behind both games Neil Druckmann, who discuss the ins and outs of each episode with Troy Baker, who voiced Joel in the original games.
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Reason 652,107 of why the internet is great: in searching as for whether this company exists in both the US and the UK, I found this thread on Reddit, from a former employee of ten years, going into detail about why the changes in how stolen phones could be blocked remotely killed their entire market.
Like you, I was a huge fan of the game. I played it twice, and--long before the HBO adaptation was announced--had my then girlfriend, now wife watch a compilation of the cutscenes on Youtube.
We both enjoyed the show, but I don’t know how I would have felt if I’d never played the game. So much of Ellie and Joel’s relationship I had to fill in with my residual emotional attachment from the game. In a vacuum, they handled the finale perfectly, but for a nine episode season with only six and a half featuring Joel and Ellie together, it all felt very rushed. The high-water mark was definitely the Sam and Henry episode. “When We Are In Need”, episode 8, absolutely biffed what remains in my opinion one of the most intense, realistic portrayals of human evil in video game history.
That said, it seems to have inspired a very good newsletter. Realize enjoyed reading your thoughts on fatherhood in video games--medium and industry.
Ok so a mom of 3 boys here so I found this super interesting! My husband and I kept asking each other after the movie--which we watched with our boys--if the fight (and the deadly sacrifices) was REALLY worth it, It felt like it was a fight of egos and it felt it was straight to the big guns without even a negotiation. and the son just wanted to follow his father's footsteps and make him proud so he took these crazy risks because he thought that's what would earn them.... my thoughts.