I was nineteen and I should have been studying for a calculus mid-term when I first laid eyes on it. Kevin and I were holed up in his dorm room, surrounded by our textbooks and notes, but instead of studying we were flipping through his stack of GamePro magazines. Procrastination is funny – suddenly everything seems fascinating except whatever you are supposed to be doing.
In the back of the GamePro, there was a preview section for a game called Final Fantasy VII. There were screenshots showing the 3D characters of the game standing in a cyber-punk city and the text claimed that “Final Fantasy VII offers 40+ hours of gameplay” and that “the cinematic storytelling of Final Fantasy VII represents a breakthrough in video game storytelling”. Kevin looked at it and laughed saying, “Forty hours? Who has that kind of time?” I nodded along, but to be honest? I was doing the math in my head, calculating how I could adjust my schedule to fit in those 40 hours.
At the time, my PlayStation was relatively new, I’d purchased it using money that was technically designated for school supplies. I mean, philosophy class, I had a copy available in the library, right? Until then, I was primarily a Nintendo fan. I grew up on Mario and Zelda; I played the hell out of Chrono Trigger and Final Fantasy VI (which my old SNES cartridge insists on calling Final Fantasy III, because the 90s were confusing that way). Those were sprite based games with 16 bit characters. What I was looking at in that magazine seemed to represent something entirely different. A glimpse into the future of what games could actually be.
When FFVII finally arrived at retail stores I was broke. College freshman broke, which is a unique form of poverty. $49.99 + tax was essentially a thousand dollars. I survived two weeks of torture, listening to friends that had acquired copies of FFVII discuss this amazing game while I desperately attempted to avoid spoilers. I worked additional hours at the campus bookstore; I ate only cereal that I’d smuggled out of the dining hall in Tupperware containers; and eventually managed to scrape together enough cash to buy that iconic black jewel case.
The opening sequence is still incredible. Even now, nearly thirty years after, I get chills thinking about it. The camera pans back from a young girl holding a flower to show the sprawling city of Midgar; then the camera cuts to Cloud leaping off of a train to bomb a target. No tutorial, no exposition dump, just “Here’s the world, here’s the character, figure it out.” After years of games that start with “Welcome Hero! Let me teach you the controls for the next twenty minutes,” it was wonderful.
Midgar was a revelation. This was not a typical RPG environment with castles, forests, and generic medieval villages. This was a dystopian nightmare – a city built in layers, where the wealthy literally live above the poor and steal their daylight. The environmental storytelling was impressive. Just by walking around you could see the inequality in society. While the slum-dwellers struggle to survive, the wealthy elite live in luxury, and it felt so much more realistic and relevant than “an evil wizard threatens generic kingdom”.
I played FFVII in marathon sessions, often going until 3 or 4 am; then stumbling to morning classes as a zombie. “Just one more save point” was the constant lie I told myself (and the reason I spent countless hours trying to figure out how to optimize my save strategy), although the game’s save points were spaced out like some kind of cruel test of willpower. One more save point typically resulted in another 1.5 hours of gameplay. Poor Kevin would occasionally watch over my shoulder, ask innocuous questions that would trigger these lengthy descriptions of the plot that likely made him wonder if he’d made a terrible mistake in choosing to share a room with me.
Cloud was an entirely different type of RPG protagonist than anything I’d ever seen before. Most RPG protagonists in games were either silent blank slates or cheerful do-gooders. Cloud was moody, complicated, and ultimately, as I’d later discover, a completely unreliable narrator of his own story. As someone who was still attempting to determine who I was supposed to be as an adult (something I’m still working on at forty seven), his identity crisis hit home in ways I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time.
Then… Aerith died. Oh boy. I need to talk about this because it messed me up for weeks. It was 1997, prior to the internet spoiling everything, so I could still be surprised by popular media. I’m sitting in my dorm room, controller in hand, watching Sephiroth kill Aerith with that ridiculously long sword. I literally exclaimed “What the heck?” out loud. The Materia bouncing down those stone steps, that music… I kept waiting for the reversal, the Phoenix Down, the magical resurrection. Something. But it never happened.
This death broke every rule I believed I knew about JRPGs. Major party members don’t simply die halfway through a story; especially not the love interest; especially not in such a brutal and senseless manner. However, she did die, and the game was far better for it. It taught me that meaningful stories require real stakes and real consequences. You can’t create genuine emotional impact without risk.
The battle system was extremely good in terms of its simplicity and depth. That swirly transition from the field to battle screen, the sudden burst of battle music, still sends shivers down my spine. The Limit Break system was pure genius game design: taking damage fills your limit metre, so you’re constantly weighing the risks and rewards. How much damage do I allow Cloud to take so he can use Meteorain? I spent far too many hours deliberately keeping my characters wounded merely to increase their limit break potential, to my roommate’s utter confusion.
However, the Materia system was where the game truly displayed its genius. I filled actual notebooks with theory and combinations to maximize your stats. Creating optimal Linking All / Offensive Spell combinations to strike multiple enemies, linking Added Effect with Status Materia to make your weapons special, etc., every time I discovered a new way to combine Materia felt like I was finding a hidden cheat code in the best possible way. It was accessible enough for new players (simply place the shiny orb and you’ll be fine), but complex enough for fans like myself to spend hours experimenting and optimizing builds.
When you leave Midgar for the first time and see the world map… I actually called Kevin at 2AM to describe it to him, only to find out he had already reached that portion of the game several days prior and was currently messing around in the Gold Saucer. Our friendship survived, but only just. When I realised that the massive city of Midgar was only one area on an entire planet, that sense of scope was unprecedented. I distinctly recall standing there, controller in hand, attempting to wrap my brain around what I was viewing.
Nobuo Uematsu’s score was the emotional foundation for the entire experience. Those MIDI arrangements managed to convey emotion in a way few fully orchestral scores manage to today. “Aerith’s Theme” still brings me down. The standard battle music pumped adrenaline into my veins every time. And “One-Winged Angel”? That redefined what a boss fight music theme could be. I actually recorded parts of the soundtrack to cassettes so I could listen to it on my Walkman during lunch. Yes, I was that guy. No regrets.
I also want to emphasize the technical accomplishments of the game. Pre-rendered backgrounds with 3D characters roaming through them produced environments that seemed impossible on PS hardware. Yes, the blocky field models look primitive now – my kids call them “oven mitt people” – but in 1997, this was mind-blowing stuff. The FMV cutscenes required multiple discs due to CD-ROM limitations. Switching disks felt ritualistic, as if we were switching from one act to another of some sort of epic drama.
By the time I reached the end, my dorm room had turned into a viewing party. People who had absolutely no interest in my “weird Japanese game” suddenly wanted to see how it would conclude. The ambiguous conclusion sparked an immediate debate regarding what ultimately occurred. Was humanity saved? Destroyed? Transformed into something else? The ambiguity was both infuriating and perfect – it provided us with something to argue about over late night pizza runs for weeks.
I’ve replayed FFVII numerous times since its release, and what resonates changes with each playthrough. During my college years, I related to Cloud’s identity issues and the environmental messages. Late in my twenties, experiencing some professional setbacks, I was affected more by the perseverance aspects of the game. Today, in my forties, I relate to the themes of memory and legacy. It’s as if I’m reading a favorite novel at various stages of my life – you’re always discovering new layers because you’re applying different experiences to the material.
Sephiroth was a fairly straightforward villain at first – he’s gone insane and wishes to destroy everything. However, with each replay of the game, I’ve come to realise more complexity in his character. His discovery of his past; the sense of betrayal; the illogical reasoning behind believing he’s the planet’s rightful ruler… it’s advanced writing for a video game villain that continues to work today. That scene in the Nibelheim reactor where he discovers the truth about himself is still disturbingly effective in telling a compelling narrative.
I skipped classes to play this game. I dreamt about it when I finally slept. I discussed it endlessly with anyone who would listen and many who wouldn’t. FFVII fundamentally altered what I believed games could achieve. It demonstrated that they could explore serious themes like corporate greed, environmental degradation, and identity in a serious fashion. It illustrated that the 100+ hours I spent playing FFVII were not simply forms of entertainment – they were experiences that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
A couple of years ago, I persuaded my nephew to play the original before attempting to play the remake. He initially found the graphics difficult to accept (“Uncle Sam, why do their hands look so strange?”), but quickly became absorbed in the game once the story began. Witnessing him experience Aerith’s death, witnessing that same level of shock and denial I had experienced nearly three decades prior, was like observing some sort of cultural torch passing moment. Great storytelling transcends time and technology.
There is this scene somewhere in the middle of the game where Cloud realizes his memories may be false and states “What is this feeling?” I asked myself the exact same question throughout that initial playthrough, unable to verbalize how significantly this game was impacting me. With hindsight and the passage of time, I can provide a clear response: It was recognising that this medium I enjoyed could be genuine art. Not in some pretentious academic sense, but in the most obvious and emotionally powerful way possible. FFVII changed me because it showed me what games could become when developers set their sights beyond mere entertainment. For that reason alone, I will always appreciate that spiky haired mercenary with the oversized sword and surprisingly relatable struggles.
Elena is a librarian in Dublin with an encyclopedic knowledge of obscure European computer games that most English-language gaming sites completely ignore. She champions forgotten systems—the Commodore 16, the Spectrum 128K, the Atari ST’s untapped potential—with infectious enthusiasm and genuine expertise. Her writing documents regional exclusives and hidden gems that barely made it to print before the companies folded, preserving gaming history that would otherwise disappear entirely. She approaches retro gaming as cultural preservation, not mere nostalgia.
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