Can 'Chosen Just To Be Rejected' Describe Video Game Storylines?

The 'chosen by fate' trope is practically a backbone of RPGs and adventure games, and I adore how it shapes narratives. Games like 'The Legend of Zelda' or 'Final Fantasy' often thrust an ordinary character into an extraordinary destiny, making players feel like they’re stepping into something epic. It’s satisfying to see how a nobody becomes a hero because the world needs them—like in 'Skyrim,' where you’re literally the Dragonborn. But it’s not just fantasy; even sci-fi titles like 'Mass Effect' play with this idea, where Shepard’s role feels preordained yet earned through choices. That said, some games subvert it brilliantly. 'Undertale' lets you reject destiny entirely, and 'Disco Elysium' makes your 'hero' a mess who stumbles into significance. I love when games acknowledge the trope but twist it—gives it fresh life. Honestly, whether it’s overused depends on execution. If the journey feels personal, I’m all in.

The trope of 'chosen just to be rejected' is like catnip in romance novels because it taps into that universal fear of being picked but then discarded—like a shiny toy that loses its appeal. I’ve noticed it’s especially common in enemies-to-lovers arcs or stories where one character is initially idealized (the 'chosen' part) but then flaws emerge, leading to tension. Take 'Pride and Prejudice'—Darcy literally picks Elizabeth as a dance partner early on, but she rejects him hard because of his arrogance. The emotional whiplash of that moment sets up the entire slow burn. It’s not just about drama; it mirrors real-life insecurities in dating, where people wonder if they’re truly valued or just temporarily convenient. What’s fascinating is how modern rom-coms twist this. In 'The Hating Game', Lucy feels chosen by Josh for their rivalry, only to suspect he’s mocking her—until the rejection turns out to be a miscommunication. The trope works because it forces characters to confront their worth. Is the rejector being unfair, or does the 'chosen' character need to grow? Either way, it’s a goldmine for emotional payoff when reconciliation finally happens—often with the rejector realizing they were wrong. That moment when Darcy proposes a second time? Chef’s kiss.

It's wild how often this trope pops up in anime, especially in romance or school-life genres. Characters get built up as the 'perfect match'—maybe they confess their feelings dramatically, or the story spends episodes hinting at their compatibility—only for the other person to turn them down flat. What makes it sting more is how it's often used for character growth. Like in 'Toradora!', where minor characters face rejection to highlight the messy reality of teenage emotions. It's not just about shock value; it mirrors real-life awkwardness, making those moments painfully relatable. Sometimes, though, it feels overused as cheap drama. Shows like 'Nisekoi' milk this trope repeatedly, dangling hope before yanking it away. But when done right—think 'Your Lie in April'—it carries weight, forcing protagonists to confront insecurities or redefine their goals. The trope works because rejection is universal, but its impact depends on whether the story treats it as a stepping stone or just a narrative speed bump.

The text in video games often describes characters with rich backstories or enigmatic traits, and one that stuck with me is the protagonist from 'Disco Elysium'. You play as a detective with a shattered psyche, haunted by fragmented memories and a voice in your head that’s either your subconscious or something far stranger. The game doesn’t just tell you who he is—it forces you to piece together his identity through booze-soaked regrets, surreal dialogues, and the way NPCs react to him. What’s fascinating is how the game lets you shape who he becomes. You can lean into his self-destructive tendencies or claw your way toward redemption, and the text morphs to reflect that. It’s less about a fixed description and more about how the world perceives your chaos. That ambiguity makes him one of the most human characters I’ve encountered—flawed, unreliable, and utterly compelling.

Ever stumbled into a situation in a game where you accidentally skipped a crucial cutscene or made a decision that locked you out of content you really wanted to see? Yeah, I’ve been there too, and that’s when the question of regression in a game’s storyline becomes super relevant. Some games, especially older RPGs or linear narratives, don’t let you rewind or revisit earlier points without starting a new save file. It’s frustrating, but it also adds weight to your choices—like in 'The Witcher 3,' where certain decisions permanently alter the world. Other titles, though, are more forgiving. Visual novels like 'Steins;Gate' often have branching paths with a timeline feature, letting you jump back to key moments and explore different outcomes without replaying everything. Modern games are increasingly incorporating regression mechanics, whether through chapter select, manual saves, or even in-universe explanations like time travel in 'Braid' or 'Deathloop.' Open-world games like 'Red Dead Redemption 2' sometimes let you replay missions with adjusted strategies, though your overall progress remains fixed. It really depends on the design philosophy—some developers want your choices to feel irreversible for immersion, while others prioritize player freedom. Personally, I appreciate when games offer a compromise, like autosave slots or 'what-if' modes, because losing hours of progress due to one misclick can be heartbreaking. Still, there’s something thrilling about living with consequences, even in a virtual space—it makes the story feel more yours.

One of my all-time favorites that nails the 'chosen just to be rejected' theme is 'The Magicians' by Lev Grossman. Quentin Coldwater thinks he's destined for greatness when he discovers magic is real, only to realize the magical world is just as flawed and cruel as the mundane one. The way Grossman subverts the Chosen One trope feels so raw—Quentin spends the whole series grappling with inadequacy, betrayal, and the crushing weight of unmet expectations. It's like Harry Potter for disillusioned adults, where the magic doesn't fix your problems but amplifies them. Another gem is 'Nevernight' by Jay Kristoff. Mia Corvere trains to be an assassin to avenge her family, but the Dark Goddess who 'chooses' her manipulates her at every turn. The book drips with irony—Mia’s divine favor feels more like a curse, and her victories come at brutal costs. Kristoff’s prose is viciously poetic, making every rejection sting. These books resonate because they strip away the glamour of destiny—what’s left is messy, human, and unforgettable.

The phrase 'Chosen just to be rejected' hits hard because it speaks to that universal fear of being picked for something—whether it's a role, a relationship, or an opportunity—only to end up feeling discarded. It reminds me of how characters in stories like 'Neon Genesis Evangelion' grapple with being selected as pilots, only to face existential dread and isolation. Shinji's struggle isn't just about fighting angels; it's about the crushing weight of expectations and the loneliness that follows when you realize you were never truly wanted for you. That duality of being special yet disposable is heartbreakingly human. In fan communities, I've seen this theme resonate deeply, especially in discussions about underdog characters or tragic arcs. Take 'Attack on Titan'—Eren Yeager is literally chosen by fate to carry the weight of the world, but his journey spirals into rejection from friends and himself. The phrase isn't just about failure; it's about the irony of being singled out for a purpose that ultimately leaves you hollow. It makes me think about how often we chase validation, only to find it comes with strings attached.

One storyline that really stuck with me is Ellie and Dina's relationship in 'The Last of Us Part II'. The way their bond evolves from playful banter to deep emotional reliance feels so authentic. Ellie's journal entries and small interactions—like the dance scene—add layers of tenderness amidst the game's brutal world. Naughty Dog didn't shy away from showing the complexities, like Dina's pregnancy or Ellie's trauma, which made it feel raw and human. Another favorite is Chloe and Rachel in 'Life is Strange: Before the Storm'. Their whirlwind connection captures teenage rebellion and longing perfectly. The scene where they perform 'The Tempest' together? Pure magic. It's messy and intense, just like first love. Bonus points for the subtle hints in the original 'Life is Strange' that make revisiting their story even more heartbreaking.

Amnesia as a plot device in games is fascinating because it’s rarely just about memory loss—it’s a gateway to unraveling deeper mysteries. Take 'The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild,' where Link wakes up with no recollection of his past. The game doesn’t 'cure' his amnesia in a traditional sense; instead, players piece together fragments through exploration, environmental storytelling, and flashbacks. It’s less about restoring memory and more about rebuilding identity. The emotional payoff comes from discovering who Link was alongside him, making the journey feel personal. Some games, like 'Amnesia: The Dark Descent,' use it as a horror mechanic, where forgetting becomes a survival tactic. The 'cure' here is often escape or confronting the trauma head-on, which leans into psychological resolution rather than medical realism. Other titles, like 'Life is Strange,' treat amnesia more metaphorically. Max’s time-rewinding ability echoes the selective memory of trauma survivors—she can 'undo' moments but never fully erase their impact. The narrative doesn’t offer a neat cure but explores how memory shapes relationships. Even in RPGs like 'Planescape: Torment,' where the protagonist’s amnesia is central, the 'solution' is philosophical: accepting forgotten sins as part of rebirth. What stands out is how games reframe amnesia not as a flaw to fix but as a narrative tool to deepen player immersion. The closest thing to a 'cure' is often the player’s own emotional investment in uncovering the story.

Nothing hits harder than a game that makes you feel like your heart's been ripped out, chewed up, and handed back to you with a side of existential dread. 'The Last of Us Part II' is a masterclass in this—every choice feels like a gut punch, and the moral gray areas leave you staring at the ceiling at 3 AM questioning humanity. Ellie's rage and grief are so raw, it’s almost uncomfortable to play. Then there's 'NieR: Automata', where the existential angst isn’t just background noise; it’s the whole symphony. 2B’s story starts as a cool android fightfest, but by the end, you’re drowning in questions about purpose, loss, and what it even means to be alive. The way it layers tragedy with philosophy is brutal in the best way. Honorable mention to 'Silent Hill 2'—James Sunderland’s journey through fog and guilt is a slow burn of psychological torment. The monsters are literally manifestations of shame, and that’s just chef’s kiss for angst lovers. If you want to marinate in misery, these games are your gourmet depression buffet.