Philosophical Power in Video Games
A (hopefully novel) discussion
Video games are becoming a more widely accepted artistic medium in modern culture — and that’s good. To write these games off as a childish or intellectually invalid medium is to blind oneself to a range of stories, perspectives, and questions that might not exist elsewhere. But most discussions about philosophy in gaming revolve around “design philosophy”: what makes a game “well-designed”? What mechanics and structures create the best gameplay experience? What limitations do we put on the player, or what tools do we give them?
Those questions are fine, but these aren’t the kinds of philosophical questions I want to discuss today. Today, I want to talk about how video games display and discuss the concept of Power. Not power level, not your in-game stats or weapon levels, but in terms of social, institutional, cultural, and influential Power. Power as discussed by the likes of Foucault, Hobbes, and Weber. My goal is to leverage the views of these philosophers against characters, themes, and narratives in games created in the last 20 years — hopefully without appearing an entirely ignorant and clumsy fool — to highlight the intellectual validity of the medium.
It’s also damn interesting. Let’s get started.
What is Power?
From my research and experience, most discussions of power begin (and too commonly end) with the concept of Hobbes’ Leviathan. Hobbes, shaped by his experience with the English Civil War, claimed that any government was better than none, and that the form of government least prone to dissolution into civil war was that of an absolute political authority. University of Oregon Philosophy Professor Colin Koopman summarized Hobbes’ view of power in an essay published on Aeon: the “best and purest power would be exercised from the singular position of sovereignty”. That singular position of sovereignty is Hobbes’ Leviathan.
This, combined with Weber’s argument that state power came from a “monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force” (Politics as a Vocation, 1918), creates a theory of Power that is singular in origin and form. While this may be appealing in its simplicity, I can’t agree with the implicit (or explicit, depending on who you ask) statement that the Leviathan represented the only form of Power. We socially acknowledge Power outside the presence of any given state, often reframing it as “influence” (which is its own trap); therefore the Leviathan as the singular expression of Power must be false.
Enter Foucault, one of the more influential modern contributors to the discussion of Power. He shrugged aside the idea of a single, distilled essence of Power, opting instead to investigate a wider array of distinct forms of Power. Hobbes’ Leviathan would qualify as one of these forms. He proposed that power is intentionally acting upon others’ actions to interfere with them; power exists as a series of ways to make people behave contrary to their own intent or nature.
Foucault discussed how different forms of Power can come to oppose each other, either directly or via influence. In his essay, Koopman highlights Foucault’s example of the judicial court: a historic place of sovereign power becoming influenced by medical and psychiatric experts without the threat of violence. In this example, the knowledge of these subject matter experts granted them the power to influence the decision of the legal body — a classic arm of the Leviathan — clearly demonstrating the existence of different forms of power. I agree with Koopman in his statement on Foucault’s work:
“The irony of a philosophy that would define power once and for all is that it would thereby delimit the essence of freedom. Such a philosophy would make freedom absolutely unfree.”
The implicit idea that power inherently opposes freedom in some regard, but also enables it by contrast, will be important for one of our later examples. We would not care so much about power if we did not care so much about freedom.
At the end of the day, there is no agreed-upon definition of power. We have only the theories and opinions of smarter people upon which to build our framework of reasoning.
So now that I’ve dazzled you with some small research and pseudo-intellectual summary, you might be asking: “Where are the games? I was promised games.”
Wait no longer! It’s time to discuss our games. I’m going to be discussing three games here today in some form or another — either in terms of thematic relevance, character study, or narrative focus. Those games are God of War (2018), Star Wars - Knights of the Old Republic 2: The Sith Lords (2004), and Divinity: Original Sin II (2017).
Obviously, spoilers ahead.
God Of War (2018): Kratos, Atreus, and the Leviathan
Those only vaguely familiar with the God of War franchise would only know the setting and the series’ hallmark excessive and gratuitous violence. That might lead people to assume certain things about these games’ perspective on Power: namely, that power is a corrupting and abuse-prone force in the universe. With the earlier games, you might be right — not so with the 2018 soft-reboot of the franchise.
In the 2018 release, you find Kratos (the titular God of War) living in the frosty lands of Norse mythology with his son Atreus. The entire narrative impetus for the story is simple: Kratos’ wife has died, and wants her ashes spread on the highest mountain in all the realms. Simple right?
This simple journey winds up spanning multiple worlds from Norse mythology, forcing Kratos and Atreus to work together to overcome threats both mortal and divine. There are two running themes for our protagonists in this game: the acceptance of power, and the responsibility of power — one for each.
As a deity of war, violence, and bloodshed, Kratos could reasonably be described as the purest example of the Leviathan: his very station and identity revolve around him being a pure incarnation of force. His status as a deity would naturally put him at the top of the social totem pole for humanity, thereby outweighing any singular state. Kratos has the might and will to make any passing desire a reality — but we’ve seen that already. The original trilogy was a bloody revenge quest, Kratos exerting his will over the Greek pantheon until there was no pantheon left. The Kratos we meet in Midgar is a man haunted by his crimes, haunted by the power he can wield — a man trying to escape from what he is. Kratos is a man cursed by the consequences of his very existence, and this affects his relationship with his son, Atreus.
Atreus, the half-god son of Kratos, has no awareness of his deific status until halfway through the game. As a young boy he is — as most of us were, let’s be honest — an unruly, disrespectful shit that desperately wants to be taken seriously. This, of course, makes it hard for Kratos to treat him as an adult and reveal the truth. Atreus needs to be on the edge of death for Kratos to reveal the truth — when he learns, it doesn’t go well. Where Kratos constantly works to instill discipline and control in his son, Atreus immediately begins to fantasize about how to use his newly-acknowledged power. The generational inheritance of Power terrifies Kratos, because he knows that it comes with the promise of abuse, trauma, and consequence. He’s seen it. He’s done it.
While the two grow, change, and bond over the course of this excellent and artistically magnificent game, these two themes stay relevant. God of War (2018) presents power as simultaneously a tool, and a corrupting influence; we see it twist Atreus’ previously caring, inquisitive personality into something condescending, judgemental, and aggressive almost immediately. While the Power demonstrated by each of God of War (2018)’s characters is shown to be innate, controllable, and unique, it would be dishonest to suggest that power is so universally allotted. Indeed, the unique status of these mythic characters as mythic may change how we perceive their relationship with Power. Every character in this story is their own Leviathan — and that definitely isn’t portrayed as a good thing. God of War presents personal Power almost entirely in terms of violence, threat of violence, or relative might. But when it diverts from that formula, highlighting the power based in discipline and love, the contrast makes it all the more poignant.
To me, one of the more interesting questions posed by God of War (2018) is this: In a world where there is no state or highest power, where every individual is their own Leviathan, what does it mean to be Powerful?
I’d love to hear your answer.
Star Wars - Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords (2004): Freedom Through Power, Through Conflict
To those that have met me, or those who have seen me on Discord servers or other written forums, the presence of this game on this article is entirely unsurprising. I cannot escape from this game; more specifically, I cannot escape from one specific wise, bitter, and complicated old woman.
I am, of course, talking about Kreia. Again.
For those of you who don’t know, Kreia is perhaps the most interesting character in the Star Wars universe. In Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords (henceforth KotOR 2 or TSL), Kreia is the very first person you meet after waking up in a medical tank surrounded by corpses. She is a mysterious old woman dressed in the classic brown Jedi robes — but as you speak to her, as she inserts herself into your story, you learn that she is, emphatically, not a Jedi. Indeed, many of the lessons and bits of advice she provides trend dangerously towards Dark Side or Sith teachings: discussions of power, manipulation, influence, and control.
The interesting thing about Kreia conceptually is that she simultaneously straddles and abandons the Light Side / Dark Side, good vs. evil moral framework of the entire Star Wars universe. She is simultaneously Jedi and Sith, but also vehemently neither. She speaks of the weaknesses of both ideologies: Jedi dogma cuts people off from close ties and emotion, and therefore cutting themselves off from power. Sith beliefs, left unchecked, lead to the devouring of the self and the blind addiction to the acquisition of Power. She has walked both paths, and denied both paths. Kreia is an interesting mirror to you, the Exile; you’re a walking wound in the Force, and abnormality that stands counter to everything the Force is traditionally thought to be.
Kreia’s ideology, therefore, is somewhat unique in Star Wars. Her view of power is nuanced in it’s application and purpose, but singular in origin. In her words:
“If you seek to aid everyone that suffers in the galaxy, you will only weaken yourself… and weaken them. It is the internal struggles, when fought and won on their own, that yield the strongest rewards.” — Kreia
Kreia views conflict as the sole source of power and growth. As you play through the game, she questions your intentions for the companions you acquire. She rather coldheartedly advocates for you to use them to their fullest extent, and then discard them — they are tools for your grander purpose. The game rather interestingly supports this; by taking on the struggles of your companions, or the people around you, you grow stronger yourself by leveling up or acquiring new abilities. By choosing to invest in your companions, strengthening them as individuals, you are weakening yourself in relation to them — and therefore in actuality. Like Foucault, Kreia sees conflict, resistance, and defiance as both paths to power, and an expression of it — without resistance, power is absent. A time of perfect peace, in this mindset, is a time of stagnation.
Kreia expresses a much more Foucaultian perspective on how Power exists and is used; she very rarely uses violence or force to get her way. Instead, she influences others by leveraging her knowledge of them or of current events, convincing them its in their best interest to do what she says. The very fact that I’m talking about her character and her teachings here would suggest that her beliefs and ideals have power in themselves; her usage of “conditioned power” as described by John Galbraith (The Anatomy of Power, 1983) has convinced me, the player, to discuss these themes and ideas. Kreia uses a variety of tools and forms of power (blackmail, bribery, legitimate wisdom, advice, selective empathy, etc) to influence those around her in order to meet her goals.
So what are her goals?
Remember earlier, when I said that the idea of Power and Freedom being inextricably linked was important? This is where it comes into play most literally. Context for the uninitiated: in Star Wars, the Force is the energy field binding all things. It is often said to have a “will”, and is occasionally treated with a pseudo-deific reverence. This deification of the Force is core to Kreia’s character motivation: she sees the Force as a sick intelligence playing games with people’s lives in this endless war for “balance”. Due to the Exile’s (player’s) nature as a wound and aberration in the Force, she mentors, guides, and uses you throughout the game for one, singular purpose:
Kreia wants to destroy the Force, to kill it, in order to be set truly free. In her words:
“I wield it, but it uses us all, and that is abhorrent to me. Because I hate the Force. I hate that it seems to have a will, that it would control us to achieve some measure of balance, when countless lives are lost.” — Kreia
And when you no longer work toward her purpose, she sheds no tear, hardens her heart, and stands against you as your final boss of the game.
This adds a new dimension to Kreia’s philosophy of Power and her motivations: she seeks true freedom, and is teaching you in hopes that you’ll do the same. I’ve discussed Kreia in the past, and there are several wonderful video essays diving more deeply into her character online, and I encourage you to listen to some of them for more context. I’d do it, but we’d be here all day. I’m only here to talk about Kreia’s philosophy of power, at least in simplified form. So what can we pull from this?
Kreia’s conflict-based approach to the origin and acquisition of Power naturally leads towards an apathetic or amoral application of it. We see this with Kreia’s easy, almost prideful manipulation of everyone around her — including you. But does this mean that Power is a corrupting influence? The game poses a contradictory narrative here (in part due to the limitations of Star Wars’ moral binary); Kreia is clearly in control of herself (and others), you as the player have the same potential. But your companions? They are utterly under your control, your power — and utterly corruptible. The primary villains of the game, Darth Sion and Darth Nihlus, are entirely corrupted and consumed by their hatred and power respectively.
With this in mind, it seems that KotOR 2 tries to display Power not as a moral force or entity, but as a variable range of tools to be leveraged by people of sufficient will. Many of the influential characters exert their Power over others successfully; whether or not those actions are immoral, or simply cold, is up to the player. To grow more powerful requires pitting your power against others’, to seed that conflict and grow even more powerful from it. This apathetic philosophical free for all is the centerpiece of Kreia’s philosophy of Power, and colors her desire to become free: she chooses to try and destroy the Force, to exert her will over its will, working within the very confines of conflict she describes.
It’s a nuanced viewpoint, especially limited to an article like this. I encourage playing the game yourself, creating your own viewpoint, and coming back to this. It’s a wonderful character, an interesting discussion, and a great game.
Divinity: Original Sin 2 (2017): The Choice of Absolute Power
As far as RPGs go, Divinity: Original Sin 2 (DOS2) is one of the best I’ve ever played. The gameplay loop is stellar, the storyline and characters are interesting, amusing, heartwarming, and heartbreaking, and the music absolutely slaps. It has multiple endings, the largest portion of which is dependent on a decision you make at the end of the game.
The plot of DOS2 involves around you, and a small set of other unique individuals. You are all Sourcerers, people who are capable of using energy beyond the realm of standard magic — but using this magic calls demonic Voidwoken to you, which puts everyone around you in danger. You start off on a prison ship, and the first act of the game involves you escaping the prison fortress you’re dropped off in. Over the course of this journey, you discover that you are Godwoken; a chosen champion of the old gods that’s destined to bathe in raw Source energy, consume the spirits of the old gods, and ascend to Godhood yourself. In classic fantasy RPG fashion, you’re told you have the potential to be all-powerful really early on, and your journey is all about getting to that point. It’s a fantastic game, and I highly recommend it, but I’m going to be skipping over most of it to get to the ending.
At the end of the game, you are given multiple options for how to use your access to the Source. You can sacrifice the source in your body, giving it all up to another Godwoken with different motivations or a strong purpose. You could take it all and become truly Divine, leading your people forward as an avatar of pure power. You could make the decision I did, initially, and evenly spread this power to every living sentient creature alive — evening the field by making millions of mini-gods. Or, you can drain all Source from the world, and use it to permanently drive away the Voidwoken forever — killing or spiritually lobotomizing every living Sourcerer in the process.
This situation poses a different question than the other two examples. Instead of questioning the nature of power, or the acquisition and purpose of power, Divinity Original Sin 2 asks how power should be used. Most importantly, it does so without any moral judgement; asking you to present your choice, and then respecting it and showing you the consequences. The question DOS2 asks isn’t one necessarily of power; the game is asking you to make a fundamental judgement of yourself, your character, and the world in which this is happening.
The deeper question hidden underneath that is this: Do you have the right to make that decision? Have you earned that right, or have you stolen it by having the sharpest sword or biggest fireball around? Do you choose, or do you let someone else do it?
Conclusion
This came out a LOT longer than I was expecting it to, but I’m still somewhat proud of it. I don’t claim to be a real philosopher — it’s not my college degree, and I’ve not spent years studying it. I’m just a man that likes to read, play games, and think himself intelligent. There’s a solid chance I’ve missed important nuance or context for some of these philosophers’ perspectives, which means there’s a solid chance I’m just simply wrong. If so, please educate me in the comments — I’d love to hear about it.
My purpose in writing this article was to highlight some interesting questions around Power that I’ve come across in modern video games, in part in a bid to legitimize them as an intellectually-valid medium. While there are games that might make better arguments for this, and games that are more thematically and ideologically sophisticated, I chose these out of familiarity and fondness. I encourage others to examine their own favorite games, books, shows, whatever, and share their perspectives on these things.
There is so much to talk about, and so much to share. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this; I’m sure it was a bit of a slog. This might be my longest article for some time. If you want to continue the conversation, fire away in the comments. It’s always a good time.
