Is Rekindling A Theme In Popular Video Game Storylines?

Reincarnation as a theme in video games is absolutely fascinating, and it pops up in some of the most unexpected places once you start looking for it. One of my favorite examples is 'NieR: Automata,' where androids endlessly fight and die, only to have their memories downloaded into new bodies—basically mechanical reincarnation with existential dread. The game layers this with philosophy about purpose and identity, making it way deeper than your average hack-and-slash. Then there’s 'The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild,' where Link’s resurrection from a 100-year slumber feels like a soft reboot of his soul, especially with all those forgotten memories. Even indie games get in on it—'Hades' has Zagreus constantly dying and returning, but each run feels like progress because of how the narrative unfolds. It’s not just about coming back; it’s about what changes (or doesn’t) when you do. What’s wild is how differently games handle it. Some, like 'Dark Souls,' make reincarnation a curse—you’re stuck in this loop of decay, and the world reflects that. Others, like 'Undertale,' let you literally reset timelines, but the characters kinda remember, which messes with your head. I love how games use mechanics to reinforce the theme—permadeath in 'Rogue-likes' feels like reincarnation with amnesia, and narrative-driven games like 'What Remains of Edith Finch' explore legacy through fragmented stories. It’s not just a plot device; it’s a way to make players question their own role in the cycle. After playing so many of these, I’ve started seeing reincarnation as less of a fantasy trope and more of a mirror for how we replay games ourselves—always chasing that 'perfect run.'

There's a certain magic in seeing love get a second chance, isn't there? Maybe it's because so many of us have 'what if' moments in our own lives—old flames we never quite forgot, friendships that fizzled too soon. Rekindled romance tropes tap into that universal nostalgia, but with the added fantasy of closure or redemption. Take 'Pride and Prejudice'—Darcy and Elizabeth's misunderstandings make their eventual reunion sweeter. Or in 'Before Sunset,' the unresolved tension from 'Before Sunrise' simmers for years before boiling over in Paris. These stories let us rewrite our own pasts vicariously, with grand gestures and honest conversations we wish we’d had. What really hooks me is the emotional archaeology of it all. Unlike fresh romances, rekindled love carries baggage—shared history becomes this treasure trove of inside jokes, old wounds, and growth. When characters like 'Normal People's Connell and Marianne orbit each other across years, their chemistry feels earned because we’ve seen their flaws and false starts. It’s comforting to believe people can change yet still fit together like puzzle pieces that needed time apart to reshape. Plus, let’s be real—there’s delicious drama in exes rediscovering each other while navigating new lives. That moment when one character realizes ‘Oh no, they’re hot now’? Chef’s kiss.

One of the most iconic games with a 'rising from the ashes' theme has to be 'Dark Souls'. The entire premise is built around a world on the brink of collapse, where the player, an undead, starts from nothing and gradually overcomes insurmountable odds. The game’s lore is steeped in cycles of decay and rebirth, with kingdoms reduced to ruins and gods fallen from grace. Every step forward feels like clawing your way back from oblivion, and the satisfaction of finally defeating a boss after countless failures is unmatched. It’s not just about physical resurrection—it’s about perseverance, learning from mistakes, and refusing to stay down. Another standout is 'NieR: Automata', where androids fight a seemingly endless war for a humanity that’s already extinct. The story twists and turns through themes of existential despair, but the characters keep pushing forward, searching for meaning in a world that’s already burned. The way the game layers its narratives, especially with the multiple endings, makes the eventual 'rebirth' moments hit even harder. It’s not just about rebuilding; it’s about finding something worth rebuilding for. The emotional weight of the final act still lingers in my mind—like watching a phoenix rise, only to realize it was never about the wings, but the flight itself.

One of the most haunting examples of this theme is 'NieR: Automata'. The way it handles memory—especially with characters like 2B and 9S—is gut-wrenching. Their repeated cycles of forgetting and remembering aren't just plot devices; they mirror how trauma and identity fracture over time. The game's existential dread hits harder because you feel the weight of those lost memories, even when the characters don't. Then there's 'Soma', where the line between memory and self is blurred into nightmare fuel. The protagonist’s journey forces you to question whether retaining memories makes you 'you'—or if it’s just a cruel illusion. It’s less about reclaiming and more about realizing some things are better left forgotten. That final choice still lingers in my mind years later.