Roo is most likely going to be the embodiment of evil if Viv's commentary on such a being and a counter force would be the closest to actual gods we would get in the show. My question is how would Roo work in a show like Hazbin Hotel. The show has repeatedly reinforced that no matter how bad people can be, everyone has the capacity for good and can choose redemption. How could a being that is the personification of all that is wrong with the universe fit into the narrative, particularly with how her character challenges Charlie's belief in innate goodness in all beings?
Hi!
I am not worried at all tbh. In literature and media you find many characters that embody "evil" and whose characterization changes depending on what the story wants to convey about evil. Like, even in the real world people just can't agree on what evil is :P
So, for example:
You have Iago in Otello, who embodies an "evil" without true explanation. Why does Iago hate Otello? We don't know. We are suggested multiple reasons, but none is confirmed. Deep down there is not a good enough explanation, which is true in the real world too. Why do people hate who is different? No real reason.
You have The First Evil in Buffy, who embodies why people do evil. They take the shape of dead people to torment the living, can't truly hurt people physically, but will mess with people's mind and manipulate them. However, they are deep down jealous of humans because they can "touch" each other, aka connect. > Personally, I think Roo might be a similar character.
In short, the characterization of Roo will depend on what Hazbin Hotel wants to tell about "good" and "evil", which is kind of the main theme of the series anyway. As a matter of fact I think the main theme of the story is "the knowledge of good and evil". This is why having two characters who embody "good" and "evil" may work pretty well.
As for what "good and evil" will be in Hazbin Hotel, I have actually briefly discussed it here. I will share some of my original thoughts and integrate them.
GOOD AND EVIL = LIGHT AND DARK
Charlie Morningstar: Once upon a time, there was a glowing city protected by golden gates known as Heaven. It was ruled by beings of pure light, Angels that worshiped good and shielded all from evil.
Good and Evil appear briefly during the Story Of Hell and they are associated to light (Good) and shadow (Evil). However, "light" and "shadow" are also two Jungian archetypes. According to Jung, light and shadow are two complementary parts of the self:
The light is what people show to themselves and others. It is what is in plain sight, out in the open. It is usually the way people want to be.
The shadow is what people hide from themselves and others. It is what lies in the darkness, hidden within. It is usually what people don't want to be.
So, light and shadow do often overlap with good and evil, as one usually shows their most positive qualities (light) and does not accept their most negative ones (shadow). However, this is not always the case. For example, one might wear an insufferable mask (light) and be unaware of their potential (shadow). So, sometimes the light can be bad and the shadow can be good.
Hazbin Hotel plays with the dichotomies of good/evil and light/shadow. In this way good and evil become loosely associated with the Jungian light and shadow. Good overlaps with Light, so Heaven is beautiful and it appears perfect, but it is full of secrets and contradictions. Evil overlaps with Shadow, so Hell is chaotic and violent, but it deep down has the potential to be more.
This juxtaposition between moral ideas and Jungian archetypes impacts also the knowledge of good and evil, which becomes that of light and shadow. This means that to understand good and evil one has to accept there is light and shadow within everyone, no matter how wonderful or horrible they are. To explore this idea Good and Evil might be not only the embodiment of their respective moral ideas, but also that of persona and shadow in jungian terms. It means that the two deities might be more complex than what people expect. This also fits with the information we have been given about them in the interview you mentioned:
"I'm excited for people to meet them (Good and Evil)," she says. "They're a huge part of the show. We did actually get a peek at them in season 1 — in the opening story, we're told about the entities of Good and Evil. So without giving too much away, the closest we get to gods are these concepts of Good and Evil personified. I cannot wait for that, because it's a fun way of exploring the concept of an entity without it being necessarily what people expect."
In short, Roo will be the embodiment of Evil and of the Jungian shadow (which is basically what the First Evil is in Buffy btw and Buffy has basically the same themes of redemption and hope Hazbin Hotel has). So, she is a character who will be used to explore why people give in to evil. Her characterization will also tie into these themes. To reference Buffy again, the First Evil is bound to lose cause they can never truly connect with others, hence they can never change. All of this comments on the main theme of Buffy: love and connection save. Hazbin Hotel is basically the same, so I am expecting Roo to tie into this commentary.
WHY DO PEOPLE DO EVIL IN HAZBIN HOTEL?
Good and Evil will explore what these two ideas are in the Hellaverse. So, it is hard to comment on a theme in a series before the story gets to it. That said, Hazbin Hotel has already started to build its themes and we get a pretty good idea of where "evilness" comes from in Hazbin Hotel.
In general, "sin" and "evil" seem to be connected to a poor sense of self. Both Adam and Vox aka the two villains of season 1 and 2 definitely share this trait:
Adam wears a mask 24/24 and tries to copy Lucifer.
Vox ties his sense of self to how others perceive him, copies Alastor, steals others' ideas.
This is also why both Adam and Vox deep down want to become "god". It's to compensate how empty inside they feel. In Hazbin Hotel the sin of "pride" stems from wanting to be more than you are because deep down you dislike yourself. Adam, Vox, Charlie, Lucifer and Alastor all share this flaw. This is why "pride"'s complementary side is "shame". Pride and shame are just the same thing felt differently by the characters: pride masks self-hate, while shame is when self-hate takes over.
Lucifer is probably the best example of this, as the titular Sin of Pride:
On the one hand he believes and acts as if he were better than anyone else (see his mocking of Alastor or his treatment of the Sinners). On the other hand he obviously hides a ton of self-hate and shame behind his prideful mask. As a result, he is stuck and can't grow up. He can't change.
Well, what's true for the King of Hell is true for Hell. The Sinners are stuck there because they can't face their sins. In a sense, they believe they can't change and keep spiraling and hurting each other. This is what Charlie's Habzin Hotel wants to correct. The hotel is a place where people can work on their "sins", so that they can change and get to Heaven:
Sir Pentious: I was watching a woman wandering past my workshop, a beautiful thing, young, so full of life. And then I saw… and I did nothing. I knew who did it, and I did nothing. He was a client, a man with power. I could have... I could have done something, brought the man to justice, but I… I didn't. I don't know if it was fear or apathy, but... I... that man went on to kill five more women. Five more. I still did Nothing, and he was never caught. I carried that guilt to my grave, and I ended up in Hell. And I deserved it.
Speaker of God: So, why are you here now, my child?
Sir Pentious: I don't know. My friends. My friends were in danger. Cherri was in danger. I had to do something. This time... I would do something
Sir Pentious's story suggests the sin a person needs to correct is the one thing they can't forgive themselves for. They must face their inner shame. They need to face their darkest side and to conquer it; they need to integrate with their "jungian shadow".
In this sense, they need to "overcome their pride". They must let go of this fake self-love (idol) and embrace true self-love (god), which is rooted in acceptance of who one is. This is why thematically Hazbin Hotel focuses on the Pride Ring and the Sinners are stuck there. Pride, shame, identity and redemption are all intertwined ideas. They all tie to the concepts of "good" and "evil".
In conclusion, Roo is going to be a personification of the jungian shadow and will challenge people to face their inner darkness. I think she will be characterized by her conflict with Good, which is gonna give us more information on the theme of "knowledge of good and evil".
oooh this is a super interesting read 👀 even more interesting when we already have a character who quite literally uses his shadow to express repressed feelings.
First off, his shadow seems to serve a different purpose between season 1 and season 2.
In season 1 you almost never see his shadow, and when you do it's in a context where he is behaving in a sadistic or predatory way.
(interestingly, his shadow has red eyes when he tells Vaggi he came to the hotel to watch sinners suffer. This is something we know is a blatant lie. Rosie sent him to the hotel. When Charlie later asks how he can enjoy watching them suffer he says that just because you see a smile don't assume you know what's going on underneath. Which implies that he isn't enjoying it.)
(It's also interesting to note that in season 1 his magic is red during these scenes! Which could mean literally nothing, but I have my doubts when some of these screenshots are in the same episode where the lights flash between red and green when he's threatening to rip Husk limb from limb. Funny how the light turns green specifically on the word disrespectful... and nowhere else. We know from season 2 being disrespected is a trigger for him.
I still think it's noteworthy when red and black is Roo's color scheme! It's interesting to see more and more green, which we see from the flashback is Alastor's color.)
The turning point seems to be after Adam nearly killed him. That's the first time we see his shadow "break character". It expresses the pain/frustration that he can't (at least not without giving up his image of always being in control), and it brings him to safety.
I think for most people, Alastor's anti social impulses would be his shadow, because "murder and cannibalism" are so wildly outside the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior. Thing is: that behavior is his comfort zone. He wants to project an image of being a psychopathic demon who is just here to manipulate and torture others, to the point where he stitched his smile on his face so nobody could read his true intentions.
His shadow in season 1 is part of his performance. However, his shadow in season 2, both metaphorically but also literally, is where he sticks his vulnerabilities. It is also far more active and expressive in season 2. It's another way he is trying to keep his performance going and establish control, control over others sure but also importantly it's a way for him to stay in control of himself.
Going back to "being disrespected is a trigger for him". Using his shadow to smack Lucifer's drink all over him after Lucifer repeatedly tells him that he doesn't do his job/isn't good at his job, feels kind of personal when later in the same episode we see a flashback of him killing a racist for spilling his drink on him on purpose. He can't kill him, but he can be petty.
(also while I am here with color theory: the trolley? Green. The lights in the radio studio? Green. The piano stool? Green. The wine that reveals he's a serial killer? Red. How much money do we want to bet if we get a flashback to his life before he became a murderer that he'll be wearing green)
His shadow being worried in his fight with the vee's is his self preservation instinct again (and arguably also frustration). He was fighting the same day he was also in pain and he did not expect a 3 on 1 fight. You can argue he was always planning on throwing the fight, but fighting all 3 at once makes his plan more difficult, and less predictable, to execute. He becomes much more relaxed and confident again once Niffty and Husk arrive and he can once again focus completely on Vox.
His shadow expresses pain that he is refusing when Vox is electrocuting him, because he doesn't want to give Vox the satisfaction of seeing him hurt.
(Also notable since we're talking about shadows: whatever the hell this is. Seems to be when his frustration with Vox is hitting a boiling point.)
He is fine with expressing anger. But pain? Fear? He will drag himself away from everyone and only come back when he can once again perform.
It's also kind of noteworthy that in every one of those screenshots, regardless of the emotion being expressed, the antlers on his shadow are huge. They only really grow on Alastor when he is particularly angry or sadistic. Which could just be a stylistic choice, but when you look at it through the lens of "stuff Alastor wants to repress" it makes me wonder if he would have more intense feelings in general but he tamps down on them so he has more control and it's easier to project the image he wants.
What's interesting is that his shadow seems to be special in life too. A shadow having eyes and a toothy grin is not how shadows work. Rosie ensnares his shadow when discussing owning his soul. Though it could just be an artistic choice, it also wouldn't be surprising if details like that are relevant later (especially if we subscribe to the theory that his shadow powers are connected to Roo).
They are 2 parts of the same soul. Not different or separate enough to be a split personality. Alastor wanting to project a particular image so hard he's repressing his feelings into his shadow isn't out of character when he also stitched his smile on so he physically can't make another expression. He's wearing a permanent mask.
Blackmailing Rosie to fix his staff was his way of going back to baseline after an entire season of pain and his circumstances being more or less out of his control. He couldn't control Rosie and make her fix his staff the first time he asked. He seized on the opportunity. Next season will be the culmination of his need to be in control: his plot that involves him "pulling all the strings".
The major conflict with Alastor is going to be between what he wants (to be pulling all the strings) and what he needs (the connections he's made), it will be interesting to see how that conflict expressed in his shadow. Up to this point it has spent the majority of screen time just reflecting him and only occasionally going off script. However, if he's forcing himself to repress his attachments, that's an entirely new level of strain. When he did that while blackmailing Rosie, he knew there was no actual risk of her saying no. It was all a part of his "game". What will happen then, when it stops being a game?
The ending of Stranger Things confirmed my theory (outlined in a previous article) about Henry Creel. However, the final episode introduced crucial new elements that allow this theory to be expanded and brought to completion.
⚠️ Spoiler warning.
As predicted, Will comes into contact with Henry’s original pain — his deepest wound. However, as previously argued, there is no true redemption arc for Vecna.
In the final episode, Henry is finally given something he never had before: the chance to be seen and understood. The primal wound of not belonging — of isolation and dehumanization — encounters, for the first time, a moment of potential healing, provided Henry is willing to accept it.
When Will tells him, “You are a vessel. You were abused, just like me,” he does more than acknowledge him: he offers Henry a possibility of redemption. Will sees him and, at the same time, invites him to truly be seen. In that moment, Henry could take the hand being offered to him — but he cannot.
Will represents what Henry could have become if, when faced with trauma, he had chosen connection over control. Both were vessels; both experienced abuse, fear, and a loss of agency. The crucial difference is that Will does not turn trauma into identity or power. He remains open to relationships, empathy, and shared pain. Will embodies the idea that suffering does not inevitably lead to monstrosity — it is the choice between isolation and connection that determines the outcome.
Henry’s response makes his position unmistakably clear. He claims that he could have resisted, but that he chose to join the Mind Flayer of his own free will. This echoes the dynamic already identified: Henry’s self-mythologization, through which moments of vulnerability and powerlessness are rewritten as conscious, almost heroic choices, allowing him to avoid confronting his lack of control.
This dynamic is also evident in the way the Mind Flayer enters Henry’s life as a child. It is essential to clarify that the Mind Flayer is not the source of Henry’s trauma, but a symbolic ally that exploits it. Henry’s wounds — non-belonging, isolation, emotional dissociation — exist long before the contact. The Mind Flayer merely recognizes them, amplifies them, and gives them direction.
The scientist warns Henry to resist or be consumed; Henry tries to resist, fails, and the Mind Flayer kills the scientist. Henry does not feel satisfaction — only fear. Yet, in his internal narrative, that failure is transformed into a choice. Evil is not created in that moment; it is organized, justified, and mythologized. Henry was too fragile to resist the allure of a force that promised him control and meaning.
This internal structure also explains Henry’s selection of victims: first traumatized adolescents, then children.
Traumatized adolescents are chosen for two reasons. The first is functional: their mental defenses are already weakened, making them easier to access. The second is emotional: pain and trauma are the only emotions that belong to Henry’s emotional language — the only ones he can connect with. Henry is a child who never developed a complex emotional vocabulary; emotions such as joy, love, or serenity are simply unreadable to him. This is why, in season four, when he searches for victims within his mind, we see only traumatized individuals. Stable or happy people are not even registered by his perceptual system.
Children are also chosen for two reasons. The first is punitive. Henry repeatedly claims that he chooses children because they are weak, but this weakness mirrors the part of himself he cannot accept. Henry was a weak child, unable to resist the Mind Flayer’s control, and this remains one of his deepest wounds. Targeting children becomes a way of punishing that version of himself.
The second reason is ideological and tied to his vision of a “better world.” In Henry’s world, the Upside Down and the real world merge, and humanity is elevated into a new existential form: a single, forced collective consciousness in which everyone is connected as one organism, with Henry at the top.
This project is, at its core, Henry’s distorted attempt to form a connection with the world. The subtext is clear: if I cannot be part of society, I will absorb it; if the world cannot understand me because I exist on a different plane, then I will bring the entire world onto that plane. In doing so, Henry would no longer be the anomaly within the system, but its norm.
In this sense, Stranger Things is not only about a battle between worlds, but about a fundamental emotional conflict: connection versus isolation. Henry chooses absolute isolation disguised as forced unity; the protagonists choose the vulnerability of genuine bonds. The series suggests that the true antidote to the monster is not strength, but relationship — imperfect, painful, yet real. Vecna does not lose because he is defeated, but because he refuses the one thing that could have saved him: being human with others.
This is my last article of 2025, and I wanted it published today, before the finale of Stranger Things 5. Not to predict definitive answers, but to stop a certain interpretation: that of Henry Creel.
Henry is, in my view, the most misunderstood character in the entire series. In the finale he will not be portrayed as a pure villain, but as a profoundly human figure. Not in the sense of a classic redemption arc, but as an opening toward empathy. Stranger Things is not preparing a moral twist, but an emotional revelation.
To understand it, Henry must be read within the true architecture of the series: the Brenner – Henry – Eleven triad. This is where the story must close its circle.
⚠️ Spoiler alert. Let's start.
The Architectural Triad: Brenner, Henry, Eleven
Stranger Things is not built on a simple good-versus-evil conflict, but on a three-point structure.
Brenner is the creator
Henry is the monster
Eleven is the weapon who becomes a person
Henry is Brenner’s failed son; Eleven is the successful experiment. But this distinction is ideological, not objective.
Brenner never accepted Henry as a person. He treated him as an error to be corrected, an anomaly to be contained. This is where Vecna’s core project begins: proving Brenner wrong.
Henry reframes trauma to give it meaning. He is not different because he is wrong, but because he is superior. Not an accident, but an evolution. This is how he survives an upbringing in which he was never seen as human.
Within this logic, Eleven is not a success but an illusion. Brenner believes power can be controlled; Henry wants to prove that nature cannot be dominated and that Brenner’s system is doomed to fail. Destroying Eleven means proving that Brenner never created anything greater than him.
The Creel Family Story: Memory or Self-Mythology?
The audience sees Henry as a child who deliberately murders his family. But what the series shows is more complex.
The massacre is not presented as a neutral memory, but as a narrated memory, filtered through adult Henry. And here a fundamental fracture emerges between words and images.
Henry describes the event as a moment of understanding and choice. He claims he saw inside his parents, perceived their guilt, and chose to punish them. The act becomes philosophical awakening rather than emotional collapse.
Yet the images show something else: a child overwhelmed, losing control of his body. Henry does mention fainting, but reframes it as the result of “powers too great to control yet.” Not a breakdown, but a temporary limitation. Not fragility, but incomplete evolution.
Even his father’s survival is folded into the narrative as part of the plan. It is retroactive rationalization meant to protect his self-image.
Victor Creel’s memory contradicts this entirely. He remembers Henry as sensitive, not monstrous. That gap is essential.
The Conversation with Eleven: A Strategic Narrative
Henry reveals the massacre during a very specific conversation with Eleven in season four. It is not a confession, but a controlled narrative.
He does not speak to process the past, but to orient Eleven in the present. He constructs a worldview where power is nature and destruction inevitable. The subtext is clear: “You and I are the same.”
Even when he mentions fainting, he frames it as a developmental stage, another sign of latent superiority. This is where his self-mythology becomes visible.
Henry does not lie in the conventional sense. He believes his own story. That is what makes him tragic. Vecna is not born from evil, but from psychological survival.
The Monster Is Not Innate
The key point is this: the monster is not born—it is built.
The family’s death is not born from malice, but from overload. Henry was afraid, likely because his mother wanted to lock him away. He reacts without understanding the consequences.
Afterward, Brenner kidnaps him, studies him, punishes him, strips him of identity, and turns him into a weapon.
Henry becomes Vecna not because he is inherently evil, but because no one ever allowed him to be anything else.
Vecna as Signal, Will as Sensor
The creators have said the finale will be deeply emotional. That suggests the story will end not by defeating a monster, but by revealing one.
In this framework:
Vecna is the signal
Will is the sensor
Will perceives what others cannot. It is likely that he will connect not with Henry’s rage, but with his original pain.
The Cave Memory: The Original Trauma
The cave memory is the most revealing of all.
Henry was a child who felt too much. His connection to pain and the life cycle explains his interest in dead animals—it is empathy, not morbidity.
Henry says he entered the cave because he sensed someone suffering. His powers may have allowed him to feel pain from far away. He traveled there to help.
Instead, he is hurt and punished. The Mind Flayer particles intensify fear and overload.
One exchange is crucial. Holly asks: why did the man hurt him if Henry only wanted to help?
Max answers: I don’t know.
That “I don’t know” is a narrative stance. The show refuses to justify the violence. There is no hidden fault. Only a child trying to help and being rejected.
This is when Henry realizes he does not belong.
A Memory Henry Does Not Want Seen
The cave memory shows a Henry utterly different from his own narration: calm, altruistic, frightened.
And crucially, it is a memory, not a story. It is not filtered through his myth-making.
That is why Henry does not want it seen.
Because there he is not a god, not destiny, not evolution.
He is only a child who tried to help—and was hurt.
The Psychological Cost of a Child Killing
One question is rarely asked: what does it do to a child to kill someone so violently?
Even without conscious intent, such an act is psychologically devastating. A child lacks the tools to process responsibility for death, especially in fear and punishment.
The likely consequences are not cruelty, but:
dissociation
identity fragmentation
emotional repression
compensatory myth-making
Henry cannot survive seeing himself as a child who lost control and killed. So he transforms the act into destiny, necessity, superiority.
Vecna is also a defense against unbearable guilt.
Conclusion – The Meaning of the Finale
If Stranger Things truly closes its circle, it will not do so by killing a monster, but by making one visible.
Henry will not be absolved.
But he will be seen.
And in a story about trauma, childhood, and stolen identities, being seen is the most radical act of all.
The finale is not meant to tell us Henry was right. It is meant to show us why he became what he is.
Who Survives Stranger Things 5 and What Survival Really Means
In the previous article, we explored how death in Stranger Things is never used as a mere emotional trigger, but instead serves a deeply thematic purpose. Death represents sacrifice, closure, and the end of innocence. Survival, however, is far more complex.
To survive means to choose, to remember, to preserve. It means carrying the weight of events, trauma, and memory forward. Survival is not an absence of consequence—it is the consequence.
This article is the promised companion piece to the previous one, which focused on who might die and why [Who could die in Stranger Things 5 and Why it would make sense]. Here, attention shifts to the other half of the equation: who survives the ending of Stranger Things 5, and what that survival means thematically.
⚠️ Full-series spoilers ahead.
Survival as a Narrative Choice
In storytelling, no one survives by accident. Characters remain alive because the story needs them to—sometimes for plot reasons, but especially for thematic ones. In a final season, survival is no longer about setting future events in motion. It is about meaning.
For this reason, this analysis focuses entirely on the thematic implications of survival, rather than on speculation or mechanics. Characters already examined in the previous article will not be revisited here.
Characters Who Survive — and What Their Survival Represents
Mike Wheeler – Survival as Emotional Maturity
Mike begins the series as an impulsive leader, driven almost entirely by emotion. He is constantly searching for his role in the world, a search that becomes deeply entangled with his relationship with Eleven. Unlike the others, Mike remains confused for much of the series—uncertain about how to love, protect, or lead.
His arc can only truly close with a form of catharsis: the abandonment of impulsivity as his sole driving force, the recognition of his own desires, and the construction of an identity that does not depend on Eleven. From the beginning, Mike defines himself as Eleven’s paladin, yet Eleven quickly becomes someone who does not need protection. This destabilizes both their relationship and Mike’s sense of self.
Mike’s survival represents the ability to define oneself from within, rather than through dependence on others. Growing up, for Mike, means learning who he is without needing to be needed.
Following GIF is my answer to the question Who Mike is going to choose between Eleven and Will at the End?" :
Lucas Sinclair – Survival as Moral Courage
Lucas is consistently one of the most clear-eyed characters in the series. He makes the right choice even when it isolates him.
His survival reinforces a quiet but central theme: true courage is not loud. Lucas embodies strength as self-control, empathy that persists despite fear, and the idea that growing up does not require losing one’s moral core.
Max Mayfield – Survival as Recovery, Not Erasure
If Max survives—even deeply scarred—Stranger Things makes a crucial statement about mental health.
Her story confronts grief, depression, abuse, and psychological torture. Letting her live affirms that healing is neither simple nor linear. One can live with scars. One can relearn how to walk. Being saved does not mean being weak.
Max’s journey—from a fearless skateboarder to a girl who loses the use of her legs yet remains grateful for a second chance—redefines survival as endurance with dignity.
Joyce Byers – Survival as the Keeper of Memory
Joyce is not an action-movie hero, yet she is relentless.
If Joyce survives, she becomes the emotional archivist of the series: the one who remembers, who protects, who refuses to let loss become meaningless. She embodies care as resistance and the fierce, protective love of a mother who would do anything to safeguard her family.
Joyce represents a form of love that does not merely save the world—but allows people to keep living in it.
Nancy Wheeler – Survival as Responsibility and Awareness
Nancy has been one of the most adult characters in the series from the very beginning, and a catalyst for growth in those around her (Steve and Jonathan). Her arc rests on two pillars: accepting responsibility (first for Barb, then for Hawkins itself), and forging a path different from the one laid out by her parents.
Nancy’s survival represents a transition into adulthood without compromise. She embodies the idea that one can stare into the abyss without letting it consume them. Facing reality—even when it is horrific and uncomfortable—is framed as an act of maturity.
Jonathan Byers – Survival as an Exit from Self-Erasure
Jonathan is often underestimated, yet his arc offers one of the series’ most nuanced reflections on masculinity. His model of sacrifice stands in direct contrast to Hopper’s traditional macho archetype.
Jonathan consistently places others’ needs before his own, nearly to the point of disappearing. If Jonathan survives, the series asserts that caring for others does not require self-annihilation. His life ceases to exist solely as a function of being a son, brother, or boyfriend—a shift symbolized by his separation from Nancy.
Jonathan represents the child forced into adulthood too soon. His survival affirms the possibility of building a future despite a past shaped by premature responsibility.
Robin Buckley – Survival as the Affirmation of Identity
Robin, alongside Will and Mike, is one of the characters most closely tied to the theme of identity.
Her survival communicates that authenticity is not a weakness, even in a hostile world. Strength can exist in irony, intelligence, and vulnerability. Robin is not a classical warrior; she carries no sword or shield.
Letting Robin live allows the series to affirm that not everyone needs to be a fighter to matter.
Erica Sinclair – Survival as the Inheritance of Childhood
Erica represents the next generation.
If Erica survives, childhood is not destroyed—it is transformed. Her survival signifies continuity. It means the world does not end with this group, and that knowledge, courage, and resilience are passed forward rather than extinguished.
Murray Bauman – Survival as Uncomfortable Truth
Murray is the archetype of the “madman who was right.”
His survival suggests that truth has value even when it is inconvenient, alienating, or makes one appear unhinged. Outsiders matter. Understanding the world does not require blending into it.
Murray’s continued existence affirms dissent as a form of insight.
Karen Wheeler – Survival as the Collapse of Protective Ignorance
Karen represents the adult sheltered by normalcy.
If she survives, her arc illustrates what happens when reality arrives too late. The illusion of domestic safety collapses: her home is destroyed, her marriage gone, her body wounded. Karen embodies the trauma of those who believed themselves protected until they were not.
I'm sorry, i didn't find any Karen Wheeler GIF but I see this fitting good.
Holly Wheeler – Survival as the Continuity of Innocence
Holly has never been an active participant in the conflict, and that is precisely her narrative function.
She represents what the protagonists have lost: an innocence untouched by horror. Her survival is thematically essential. Holly living means childhood does not die—it is merely postponed. She is the silent answer to the question: was it worth it?
As a mirror to Will, Holly demonstrates that not every child must be permanently marked. Evil does not have the right to steal every childhood.
I'm sorry, didn't find any GIF either.
Conclusion – What Survival Ultimately Means in Stranger Things
Taken together, the survival of these characters paints a clear moral picture.
Stranger Things is not ultimately a story about defeating monsters. It is a story about what happens after. About who carries memory, who bears responsibility, and who learns how to live with what cannot be undone.
Survival, in this series, means:
choosing life over self-erasure,
growth without cynicism,
healing without forgetting,
and continuity despite loss.
Childhood ends. The game is over.
But meaning remains.
The survivors remember the rules even when they no longer apply. They carry the names of the dead. They grow up not because they want to—but because the world demands it.
And in that sense, Stranger Things leaves us with a final, quiet truth:
the real victory is not surviving the horror, but learning how to live after it.
Who Could Die in Stranger Things 5 — and Why It Would Make Sense
Introduction
This article aims to explore one of the hottest topics surrounding the finale of Stranger Things Season 5: who will die. However, rather than treating death as a guessing game or a shock tactic, this analysis approaches it as a narrative tool—specifically, as the possible closure of long-running character arcs.
The goal, therefore, is not to predict deaths for their own sake, but to examine which characters are thematically and narratively suited for sacrifice, which are not, and what each potential death would mean for the overarching message of the series.
This piece is intentionally focused on potential deaths: who could be narratively “meant” to die, and why.
A companion article will instead explore the opposite question—which characters are most likely to survive, and what their survival would mean thematically.
Spoiler warning: if you are not up to date with the show, proceed at your own risk.
Death as a Narrative Tool in Stranger Things
Throughout its run, Stranger Things has never treated death as random. When characters die, their deaths tend to:
complete an arc,
embody a theme (sacrifice, guilt, redemption),
or mark a transition from childhood to adulthood.
As the final season approaches, death—if used—will almost certainly serve as a thematic punctuation mark, not mere spectacle.
Characters Who Could Die (and Why It Would Make Sense)
Steve Harrington
Probability of death: HIGH
Steve’s arc is one of the clearest and most complete in the series. He begins as a superficial, arrogant bully and evolves into a caring, protective, almost parental figure. Steve is the fully realized hero, and narratively, characters like him often die when they have nothing left to prove.
This evolution is perfectly encapsulated in his heated discussion with Dustin about Eddie’s death. At first, Steve argues that Eddie died “for nothing,” seeking a heroic moment—framing sacrifice as ego-driven and pointless. Later, he revises his stance, acknowledging that Eddie’s death saved Dustin. That shift mirrors Steve’s entire journey: from self-centered thinking to genuine altruism.
A death for Steve would canonize who he has become. It would represent the sacrifice of an imperfect adult to protect the next generation. Steve embodies the idea that growth is possible, even if you start from a bad place. His death would speak directly to themes of responsibility and maturity.
Eleven
Probability of death: MEDIUM
From weapon to person, from experiment to human being—Eleven’s arc is one of reclaiming agency. While the show seems to set up a potential heroic sacrifice to close the cycle of Hawkins once and for all, such an ending may actually contradict her development.
For much of the series, Eleven’s identity is tied to self-erasure: draining herself to protect others, defining her worth through suffering. When she loses her powers in Season 4, she no longer knows who she is. Over time, however, she learns autonomy—she learns to exist beyond being a weapon.
For this reason, the most coherent ending for Eleven is choosing life, not martyrdom.
This is where Kali becomes thematically important. Kali represents the other side of Eleven’s trauma: cynical, nihilistic, unable to believe in redemption. She is a more “disposable” character from a narrative standpoint, and her potential death—contrasted with Eleven’s survival—would reinforce a core message of the series: the system is tragic, but your past does not have to define your future.
Will Byers
Probability of death: LOW (but thematically powerful)
Will’s arc revolves around the child who never fully came back. His persistent connection to the Upside Down makes him a figure of prolonged trauma rather than recovery.
Will functions similarly to Harry Potter: doomed to suffer as long as his Voldemort—Vecna—exists. If Will were to die, Stranger Things would become a story about irreversible loss and the idea that some wounds never heal.
Such a finale would be deeply bitter and deeply adult.
The parallel strengthens when considering Henry/Vecna (even in name) as a Horcrux-like entity of the Mind Flayer. Will’s death would symbolically represent the ultimate cost of that connection.
Jim Hopper
Probability of death: LOW
Hopper is a deconstruction of the American macho archetype: a human shield who defines himself through protection. He doesn’t truly live—he survives. His arc is steeped in survivor’s guilt and readiness for sacrifice; Hopper is always willing to die because, to him, his life is worth less than others’.
Narratively, this would suggest a sacrificial death. Thematically, however, the opposite makes more sense.
Hopper’s real growth would be realizing that protecting others does not require dying—that he deserves happiness beyond survival. If both Hopper and Eleven choose life, their shared ending would heal a key fracture: Hopper views sacrifice as protection, while Eleven experiences it as abandonment.
Killing Hopper would also have devastating thematic consequences for Joyce. Hopper and Joyce function as dual adult archetypes:
Hopper as the physical protector,
Joyce as the emotional caretaker.
Removing Hopper would force Joyce to inherit both roles, something Hopper could do for Eleven, but Joyce could not realistically sustain. It would also push Joyce into becoming Eleven’s symbolic mother, shifting the series’ message toward endurance over healing.
If both Hopper and Joyce were to die, the message would be the bleakest possible: childhood destroyed, children forced into adulthood alone.
Dustin Henderson
Probability of death: HIGH
Dustin is a surprisingly strong candidate for a final sacrifice.
Within the group’s D&D dynamic, Dustin is the mediator: Mike is impulsive, Lucas competitive, Will defensive. Dustin questions the rules themselves. When facing an overpowered boss, he complains about unfair stats, rejects sacrifice as strategy, and insists on having a plan.
Eddie’s death, however, fundamentally challenges this worldview.
Dustin’s arc may lead him to accept that the world—and the adventure—does not always make sense. Rules break. Plans fail. Meaning is not guaranteed. By inheriting Eddie’s emotional legacy, Dustin could ultimately mirror his sacrifice.
The imagined scene is tragically fitting:
the plan collapses, Dustin realizes what must be done. Mike insists, “Wait, let’s think, we need a plan.”
And Dustin replies: “Screw the plan, Mike. None of this makes sense anymore. There are no rules, this is not D&D anymore”
He sacrifices himself so that Will can finally cast Fireball on Vecna.
Mike telling Dustin “wait, we need a plan” would represent the completion of Mike’s own character arc. Throughout the series, Mike has consistently been the impulsive one—the first to act, the first to leap forward, often driven by emotion rather than strategy. In this moment, however, the roles are reversed. Mike becomes the voice of caution, reason, and planning, while Dustin is the one ready to act without rules. This inversion would signal Mike’s growth into leadership and emotional maturity, marking the point where he has learned restraint.
Dustin’s potential death would carry a meaning that goes beyond sacrifice or heroism. It would symbolically mark the moment when Stranger Things stops being a game of Dungeons & Dragons—and becomes real life.
From the very beginning, D&D has been more than a hobby for the group. It has been their language, their framework for understanding the world. Monsters have names, rules exist, strategies matter, and every encounter can be solved if you think hard enough and roll well enough. D&D represents childhood itself: a space where chaos can be organized into systems, where danger is frightening but ultimately manageable.
Dustin is the character most deeply tied to this logic. He believes in plans, in balance, in fairness. He questions unfair odds, refuses sacrifice as a mechanic, and insists that there must always be another solution. As long as Dustin is alive, the story still believes—at least a little—in the idea that the world can be played.
His death would be the moment that illusion collapses.
If Dustin dies, it means the rules no longer apply. It means you don’t always get a turn, you don’t always get a plan, and sometimes the dice never roll in your favor. There is no Dungeon Master pulling punches. There is no reset. There is only consequence.
In that sense, Dustin’s death would represent the definitive loss of childhood. Not just innocence, but the belief that life is structured, fair, and ultimately understandable. The surviving characters would not simply be grieving a friend; they would be crossing an irreversible threshold into adulthood, where meaning is no longer guaranteed and choices are final.
Dustin dying would tell the audience something brutal and clear:
this is no longer a game.
The campaign is over. What remains is life—and growing up means learning how to live with what you lose.
Conclusion
If Stranger Things chooses to kill major characters in its final season, those deaths will not exist for shock value alone. They will function as narrative conclusions, crystallizing years of character development and anchoring the series’ final themes.
Every potential death analyzed here represents a different idea:
sacrifice as growth, sacrifice as trauma, sacrifice as tragic inevitability. Together, they outline the emotional cost of growing up in a world where danger, loss, and responsibility arrive far too early.
However, death is only one half of the story. Just as important as who dies is who survives—and why. Survival, in Stranger Things, is never neutral: it carries guilt, memory, and the obligation to keep going.
In the end, the series has never truly been about monsters. It has always been about children learning, too soon, that love has a price—and that becoming an adult sometimes means paying it.
The next article will explore the other side of that equation: the characters who are most likely to survive Stranger Things 5, and how their survival could define the final meaning of the story.
Just a quick post about one of my favorite scenes: Lucifer's introduction. I love this moment so much because in less than three minutes A LOT is conveyed about the character. The writers set up his flaws, his motivations, his visual symbolism and his relationship with Charlie. All while delivering some of the most iconic lines of the season:
DEFYING EXPECTATIONS
Lucifer's introduction starts a little before his actual appearance, as Charlie shares what she thinks of her father:
Charlie: No, we just have never been close. After he and mom split, he never really wanted to see me. He calls… sometimes, but only if he's bored or like, needs me to do something.
Charlie sees Lucifer as uncaring, self-absorbed and distant, which is why she is unsure about calling him. Her friends too are full of expectations about what the King of Hell is like:
Angel Dust: Well I'd like to meet the big dick in charge.
Niffty: The ultimate bad boy. I bet he's scary.
Angel describes him as "the big dick in charge" and Niffty bets "he is scary". Well, the scene cuts to Lucifer and these assumptions are immediately subverted.
On the one hand the "big dick in charge"'s first moment on screen is a masturbation innuendo (a joke, which also references how much Lucifer misses Lilith):
Lucifer: That's it… Almost there…
On the other hand "the ultimate bad boy" is revealed to be silly, childish and fond of rubber ducks (a funny detail, which is actually a nod to Lucifer's past as the angels' "ugly duckling"):
Lucifer: Now presenting… the magic-tastical backflipping rubber duck! Ha ha! That spits fire!
So, Angel and Niffty's beliefs are not (completely) right, but what about Charlie's? The answer lies in the first thing we see of Lucifer, which is a wall in his study-room full of portraits of Charlie and Lilith:
This alone tells us Charlie's viewpoint isn't entirely correct. Why should a person have so many pictures of his family if he did not care?
READING THE ROOM
Lucifer's study-room is our first glimpse into his character and it conveys much information.
It is full of portraits of Lucifer's loved ones. To be precise, he has two family portraits decorated with hearts, two pictures of Charlie at different ages and a picture of his friend Frederick Von Eldritch. This suggests Lucifer is a loving person, who once surrounded himself with family and friends.
The walls are cracked and the room is overall very messy, with objects left on the floor (look at the brush on the left). It mirrors Lucifer's inner world: he is broken and twisted by loneliness, pride and depression.
The ducks are the most eye-catching detail. They are everywhere and of multiple kinds. They contrast the rest of the decorations: apples, seraphims' wings and snakes' tongues. These are all serious biblical motifs (who Lucifer is supposed to be)... and then there are the ducks (who Lucifer really is).
The room's design is circus-themed. Many objects are decorated with horses, elephants and other circus animals. Moreover, the curtains above Lucifer's desk suggests the idea of a stage. The metaphor is clear: Lucifer is the greatest showman and its desk is where he crafts the greatest show of creation.
The focus on art is present also in the nature of the room itself, as it's Lucifer's study-room, so a place where he works and builds things. We can see it because of the different tools on the wall. Even the door suggests the room's function since it has a pair of scissors on it:
So, Lucifer's room tells us a lot about him. We discover he loves deeply (his loved ones' portraits), but has isolated himself in his own head (his study-room) trying to cope with art (the circus-theme setting). However, he is going through an art block (the rubber ducks), which leads his mental health to degenerate more and more (the cracks and the messiness).
A FATHER-DAUGHTER TALK
Lucifer is introduced rambling about ducks and lamenting he can't create anything new:
Lucifer: Please, okay. Oh, thank you, thank you. Oh God, who am I kidding, This sucks!
Interestingly, this is similar to Charlie's own introduction at the beginning of the episode:
Charlie: I'm just not quite understanding why it's not working. Okay, okay, think Charlie. Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think. Okay if I do this, it's going to be- I have trust falls every single morning. We can do-
Like father like daughter, I guess. Both Lucifer and Charlie are struggling with their dreams/creative projects. Lucifer builds rubber duck after rubber duck with no creative drive whatsoever. Charlie is instead only drive and no substance, as she is tackling an idea bigger than her. As a result, they are both stuck and need each other to move on. Still, they keep misunderstanding each other. This comes up perfectly in their first conversation.
Lucifer is too volatile to communicate properly. This is shown the moment Charlie calls. He goes from surprise to panic to anxiety. The end result is a disaster:
Lucifer: Daughter? Daughter calling, daughter, daugther calling! OH! Uhm-uh. Hello, Charlie. H-Hey, heyyy, hey Char-Char. No! No. That's not good. Oh, this is the first time she's called you in years. This has to be perfect. Hey, bitch!
In general, he is unable to have a normal conversation. He fails to remember information (Charlie is running a hotel to rehabilitate sinners), is too proud to show any vulnerability (he tries to play it cool by acting busy) and shifts among many emotions. He goes from insecurity to happiness when he thinks he can spoil Charlie. Then he grows frightened the moment Charlie mentions Heaven only to act guilty, as Charlie begs him. Finally, he completely loses focus of the topic at hand and is overwhelmed with excitement when Charlie invites him to the Hazbin Hotel. This behavior is mirrored in Lucifer's body language. He never stops. He keeps walking around the room, plays with the ducks and his cane, sips some tea, looks longingly at his family photo... and happily sings and dances before leaving to meet Charlie.
Charlie is too focused on her objective to pick up on the (many) clues about Lucifer's mental health. So, she ends up frustrated and why shouldn't she be? She finds herself repeating to Lucifer what her project is, when all of Hell knows about it! And even after she goes through her explanation Lucifer is still missing the point:
Lucifer: Hey! How are you? Oh ho. Wh-Wh-where are you these days?
Charlie: You know where I am Dad. I've told you before.
Lucifer: You have? Oh, yeah uh, well, you know, I um uh-
Charlie: I told you when you called me five months ago, or did you not listen?
Lucifer: No, no, no, no. Just, you know, just forgot. I've just been really busy! Ya know, with, um… Important things.
Charlie: Well, I'm actually running a hotel to rehabilitate sinners. Maybe you saw our commercial.
Lucifer: Oh… sadly, I missed it. heh heh. You know I haven't been watching much TV lately. Scrambles the brain. But, hey, A hotel! Fun!
This is interesting because for once Charlie isn't the one moving around non-stop and jumping excitedly from one topic to another. She is instead very still and barely moves. This conveys how much nervous she is and how important the whole conversation is to her. Deep down she wants to convey her feelings to her father and for Lucifer to understand her. This is why she mentions the advertisement. She hopes Lucifer has seen it and would comment on it. That said, the key difference between father and daughter here is that Charlie has a support system:
Throughout the conversation the focus is as much on her as it is on her loved ones. Angel is nervous and hopeful, Pentious is about to cry and Vaggie stands beside Charlie and holds her hand to encourage her:
This is in stark contrast with Lucifer whose loved ones are only present in pictures. It is telling he interacts with them twice throughout the scene. First when he throws the fantastical rubber duck away and then when Charlie tells him she needs him. Overall daughter and father are both lonely and need each other. However, Charlie has been working to build a new family, while Lucifer has been grieving his lost one.
IT'S SHOWTIME!
All in all Lucifer's introduction is great because in one single scene we get a full layered character. I think this is important in a series like hazbin, which is really short and needs every moment to matter. After all, Lucifer appears in just two episodes and manages to have a pretty satisfying arc. This works because his development is built on this very first moment we share with him. This is true both for the episode Dad Beat Dad itself and for the season as a whole.
When it comes to the episode, Lucifer introduces himself this way:
This rocks from a meta-narrative standpoint. Here, Lucifer is playing "the greatest showman". He is acting as a circus ringleader presenting to us his newest attraction. The thing is the newest attraction is literally himself. He is the back-flipping duck, which spits fire:
And immediately after this pompous presentation, Lucifer throws the duck away saying it sucks. That's because he thinks he himself sucks. And yet, what does it happen during the climax of the episode?
In the same room where we met Lucifer for the first time, we see him creating a different duck. One made of light instead of rubber, one that inspires Charlie to dream big:
One that convinces Charlie even ugly ducklings can turn into beautiful swans. One that suggests to her even the Devil himself may be redeemed. The juxtaposition between these two duckies illustrates Lucifer's overall arc and character in a simple, but powerful way.
When it comes to the season as a whole, Lucifer starts his story in a messy and cracked studio only to end it by building a brand new version of the Hazbin Hotel:
The new building has many layers:
It shows the Hazbin Hotel fully becoming Charlie's, as it is not an empty vestige of Lucifer's old hotel anymore
It is a tongue-in-cheek commentary on Hazbin Hotel's Disney inspiration (the old hotel is inspired by a building in a Disney Theme Park) and of its path to become its own thing (the new hotel)
It is the rebirth of Lucifer and Lilith's old dream in a new form
It is a symbol of Charlie and Lucifer's bond being mended
As a matter of fact the Hazbin Hotel is similar to Lucifer's study-room. It is an old building Lucifer built, which is now in ruins. It represents the situation of Hell, of Charlie's family and of Lucifer himself. Charlie is trying to fix all these things with her Hazbin Hotel project. So, it is fitting Lucifer comes through by the end of season 1 and supports her into building something new. He left his daughter with the burden of fixing his mistakes, but he is finally learning he should instead be the one supporting her. It is only his path towards healing and finding his creative drive again.
Suspicion (1941) : The Good Wife and the Silent Victim, Exploring female identity
Suspicion is a 1941 film by Alfred Hitchcock. Although it is probably not one of his masterpieces, it remains a film worth watching even more than 80 years later.
The viewer experiences the story through the eyes of the female protagonist, Lina (Joan Fontaine), as she navigates her relationship of doubt and suspicion with her newlywed husband, Johnnie (Cary Grant). The choice of a female lead fulfills a well-known literary archetype: the good wife or the pure victim. Lina is portrayed as a woman full of grace, with eyes overflowing with love. She is educated but naive, shy, reserved, and modest. This creates a strong contrast with the ambiguous figure of her husband, allowing the viewer to empathize with her and experience a shared state of anxiety.
Moral Reflection and Character Dynamics
The film imposes a moral reflection. I often found myself wondering, “Why doesn’t she run away?” questioning whether exposing herself to danger and self-harm could be justified by a noble feeling such as love. The speed with which they marry further gives Lina the aura of an innocent and pure woman who falls into the hands of a charming yet dangerous Cary Grant.
A gentle woman like Lina in such a context heightens anguish and tension, as the viewer is invited toward a genuine sense of protection. This archetype explores a key and recurring theme in Hitchcock’s narrative: the danger inherent in intimate relationships, where closeness can become a threat.
Victim or Complicit?
There is also the question of whether Lina is truly only a victim or also complicit. Despite knowing about her husband’s illicit activities, she continues to stand by his side without reporting him. At the climax of the final scene, when she thinks Johnnie is trying to kill her by pushing her out of the car to fall off a cliff, a single reassuring word from him makes her doubt herself and convinces her to return home to care for her beloved with devotion.
The Role of Cary Grant and Artistic Constraints
Cary Grant’s persona is used to heighten tension. At the time, Grant was known for bright, charming roles and was undeniably handsome. These qualities help instill doubt and suspicion in the viewer, adding a subtle unease. For this reason, the film’s ending is much less dark than originally planned, to avoid having such a beloved actor play the role of a murderer. This also invites reflection on how politics and censorship, specifically the influence of the Hays Code, could shape artistic decisions.
Cinematic Techniques Creating Suspense
Hitchcock creates suspense through framing, lighting, and music. In the scene where Johnnie brings a glass to Lina, he initially appears as a shadow before disappearing into darkness. The glass, containing a white liquid (in contrast to the surrounding darkness), is illuminated to focus attention and mark it as suspicious. Lighting transforms everyday, cozy environments into dangerous places. The music communicates and emphasizes uncertainty, never providing a clear moral judgment and fueling doubt about whether Johnnie could really be a murderer. Hitchcock also uses silence effectively, echoing through the tense domestic setting. Several scenes feature long shots of characters or shots from behind that conceal faces, such as the shot from behind Cary Grant while Lina prunes the hedges, making him appear threatening and obscuring his expressions to feed doubt and suspicion.
Why the Film Still Disturbs Today
Suspicion continues to unsettle because, although at the time of the film divorce was not yet possible—making Lina especially trapped in her role as a wife—her situation still feels surprisingly relevant today. Once married, women were bound not only by a legal contract but also by a strict cultural and moral code that defined them primarily through their role as wives and caretakers of the family. In one scene, Lina is even criticized for raising legitimate doubts to her husband, accused of being a bad wife. What remains striking is that, in modern society, many women still find themselves in the position of victims, often lacking the strength or opportunity to act, victims of skilled manipulators like the character played by Cary Grant.
Rediscovering The Tree of Life (2011): A Journey from Boredom to Revelation
The Tree of Life is not just a film—it’s an experience, a meditation on existence, grief, memory, and the eternal dance between nature and grace. When I first watched it as a 17-year-old, sitting under the stars in an open-air cinema, I didn’t yet have the tools—or the patience—to understand what Terrence Malick was trying to say. I was with a friend who was my age and such a die-hard cinephile that, even though we haven’t spoken in years, I doubt he’s lost that passion. It was a hot and sultry Italian summer evening.
Back then, I had no real interest in cinema and I used to think of auteur cinema as nothing more than a pretentious exercise in style, either meant to bore the audience or to provide “alternative” types with their weekly dose of intellectual self-gratification.
I remember it vividly: as we left the theatre, I was so bored I never went to see another movie with that friend again. He enthusiastically suggested Habemus Papam by Nanni Moretti as our next outing, to which I politely replied, “No, thanks.” Let’s just say that, at the time, I was far more interested in parties and boys than in intellectual pursuits.
But today, as my blog probably suggests, almost 15 years later, I’m no longer that teenage girl—and not only do I now appreciate auteur cinema, but The Tree of Life has become one of my all-time favorite films.
The Challenge of Writing About This Film
Writing down my thoughts on The Tree of Life might be one of the hardest things I’ve ever attempted. As always, I’ll base my reflection on the notes I took during my first viewing—eight pages, in this case. I believe this method is the most sincere, as I strive to communicate in my articles with honesty and without pretension. I have no interest in echoing critics; I simply want to share the raw experience of a viewer encountering a film for the first time.
Don’t worry—I won’t subject you to the full eight pages. That might be more exhausting than the film itself. So let’s begin.
“Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations?”
The opening line of The Tree of Life is a quote from the Book of Job (38:4,7):
“Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations? … while the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?”
Right after this line, the film plunges into a series of cosmic images depicting the origin of the universe. My very first thought upon seeing the opening image—a moving orange blotch—was: “a womb.” Overlaid on this image is the voice of an adult man, seemingly recalling the act of his own birth, as if remembering life as a fetus.
Soon, the film introduces one of its central themes: the contrast between the way of Nature and the way of Grace. This dichotomy is explained by the female lead (played by Jessica Chastain) in this poignant monologue:
“The nuns taught us there are two ways through life … the way of Nature … and the way of Grace. You have to choose which one you’ll follow.
Grace doesn’t try to please itself. Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. Accepts insults and injuries.
Nature only wants to please itself. Gets others to please it too. Likes to lord it over them. To have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy … when all the world is shining around it … when love is smiling through all things.
They taught us that no one who loves the way of Grace … ever comes to a bad end.
I will be true to you. Whatever comes.”
Interpreting Nature and Grace
In my interpretation, the way of Nature and the way of Grace are embodied by the film’s two parental figures. The father is a harsh, self-serving man, concerned only with his own goals and pleasures. The mother, by contrast, is quiet, enduring constant emotional blows without resistance.
However, Grace—more broadly—represents anyone who resists the natural order, which moves forward blindly and brutally, without consideration for individuals.
A Meditation on Sound, Image, and the Eternal Cycle
The Power of Sound and Visuals
What struck me most while watching The Tree of Life was the extraordinary use of sound and cinematography. The audio is deeply evocative—shifting from gothic tones to classical music to ambient noise—which connects seamlessly with the characters’ emotional states and enhances the film’s isolating and alienating atmosphere.
Visually, the film is just as stunning. The cinematography has a unique tonal quality—subtle, surreal, and painterly. Although I don’t have technical expertise in photography, it’s clear that very deliberate choices were made to give the film its distinct visual identity.
Loss, Awareness, and Cosmic Origins
We are introduced to the death of one of the sons—a tragedy that plunges the family into grief and triggers a journey toward new awareness. A neighbour tries to offer comfort by saying that we are “just passing through” this life, but her words fail to soothe.
At this point, the narrative expands dramatically. The camera takes us back to the beginning of the Earth and the evolution of life forms. Some of the cosmic imagery features abstract shapes that resemble genitalia and seminal fluid—symbols of creation and birth. It becomes evident that the characters are part of a timeless cycle that began at the dawn of existence.
This idea is reinforced visually as the setting transitions from a 1950s traditional home to the sterile, modern buildings of the 21st century. The film invites us to see change—not just in architecture or family dynamics—but in the very nature of existence itself.
Fathers, Sons, and Breaking the Cycle
The boy at the centre of the story is now grown (played by Sean Penn), and he appears to have received news of his father’s death—a man remembered with deep bitterness. The father (Brad Pitt) is portrayed as an ambiguous figure: violent, rigid, yet still yearning for affection. The relationship between father and son is fraught with emotional tension and toxicity.
Having read various interpretations online, it is not clear or explicitly shown that the father has died: the father figure represents a complex model of violence and love, but the narrative does not depict him as deceased. Therefore, thinking that the father’s death triggers Sean Penn’s memories is a possible interpretation but not a canonical or explicit reading. Nonetheless, this is what the film personally communicated to me, and I like to stay true to this interpretation.
Over the course of the film, we witness how the son seems destined to continue the cycle of violence and emotional repression passed down to him—possibly from his own grandfather, although we learn little about that generation. Fortunately, the premature death of the youngest son interrupts this cycle. The tragedy provokes regret and reflection in the father, leading him to become more self-aware. As a result, the son grows into an adult who is far more emotionally attuned and capable of genuine connection.
Sibling Rivalry and the Birth of Desire
The family dynamic is also marked by hostility toward the younger brother—seen as a rival due to his artistic tendencies, which please their father. The main character cannot conform to this model, and this tension breeds resentment.
One scene captures the moment of awakening desire and shame with poetic subtlety. While playing in the garden, the mother gets soaked by a garden hose, and her undergarments show faintly through her clothes. The scene then cuts to a woman revealing her thighs, and the boy sneaking into her house—like a journey into a symbolic cave. There, he discovers her nightgown. Overwhelmed by guilt and confusion, he throws it into the river—water here symbolizing purification, a spiritual act of absolution.
Cosmic Echoes and Existential Questions
Several of the film’s cosmic sequences evoke clear visual and musical references to 2001: A Space Odyssey by Stanley Kubrick. The rising orchestral music is reminiscent of Also sprach Zarathustra (1896), and the glowing planetary lights seem to symbolize a journey toward higher consciousness—perhaps the emergence of the “star child” in a different form.
The scene showing people with disabilities and criminals is especially striking. It underscores that nature’s cycle is not fair or perfect—it simply continues, indifferent to human notions of justice or goodness. This connects to one of the film’s most profound questions: What is the point of being good, when God—or nature—clearly isn’t? In The Tree of Life, God is often equated with nature: vast, beautiful, and ultimately indifferent.
The Last Words: My Understanding of the Film
A Dreamscape of Reconciliation
In several scenes, moments blend the surreal with the supernatural—such as chairs moving on their own and the mother dancing while seemingly floating above the meadow. These evocative images suggest me that the entire film unfolds as a dreamlike journey through memory, where reality and imagination intertwine to explore the depths of the characters’ inner worlds.
The grown child now seems to enter a dreamlike state in real time. Lost in a desert, he walks through a doorway and finds himself on a beach where others like him wander, searching for meaning. Suddenly, sunlight breaks through, illuminating everything. Around him, people seem to experience the simple joy of being alive. It is God who reveals Himself through nature, clarifies the meaning and presence of the cycle, and gives meaning to everything.
In this ethereal afterlife, his family is reunited in a vision of what a loving, nurturing family could be. At last, everything falls into place. He sees his father and brother again, and through this reunion, he heals the wounds of his childhood. Everything reconnects. He, and the family as a whole, are absorbed back into a larger, eternal cycle.
Love as the Only Salvation
The ultimate message of the film seems to be that the only way to find true happiness is through love. The Tree of Life is, at its core, an existential meditation on humanity’s place in the universe and the emotional truths we face within nature’s relentless, impersonal cycle.
The film left me with an overwhelming sense of smallness in the face of the cosmos—of being a brief moment in a process that began millions of years ago and will continue long after I’m gone. But within that awareness, it also suggested something profoundly hopeful: that love, not achievement or ambition, is what gives life its meaning.
It’s our connections—family, affection, relationships—that make our time on Earth worth living. Everything else, no matter how impressive, is destined to dissolve into the immensity of the cycle.
Pixel Capitalism - Part 3 : Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley, Capitalist Nightmare Edition
This article is intended purely as a mental exercise and has no propagandistic aims.
We explored in the first episode of Pixel Capitalism how Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley base their gameplay and reward systems on a softened capitalist model — albeit with some differences. In this article, however, we’re going to imagine what these games might look like if they were based on a pure capitalist model, even to the point of exaggeration. We'll explore the game design challenges that might come with such a shift and speculate on how players could react to it.
For those who missed the previous two articles, I recommend checking them out for continuity of the analysis at the following links:
Pixel Capitalism: A Comparison of the Economic Systems in Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley
Pixel Capitalism – Part 2: Is a Socialist Alternative in Video Games Possible?
Through this analysis, I want to examine how such a model could be applied to game systems, offering a reflection on how our society — and even our sense of satisfaction — can be influenced by our favorite cozy games. Even when we play to escape a life that sometimes feels bitter, we’re still stuck inside a system. Ironically, we end up enjoying mechanics that, in real life, we might find exhausting or suffocating.
Animal Crossing (Pure Capitalist Edition)
Tom Nook becomes a predatory CEO: He doesn’t lend you money interest-free anymore. Instead, you're stuck with monthly payments and variable rates. Miss a payment? Your house gets repossessed.
Forced labor to pay off debt: Every day you must work for Nook Corp: gather resources, manufacture furniture on commission, and deliver everything under tight deadlines.
NFTs and microtransactions: Rare furniture is sold as unique digital assets. Want a purple couch? That'll be €5.99 (I am in Europe) or 300 hours of fishing.
Competitive labor market: Other villagers open rival stores. You’re forced to cut prices or go out of business.
Climate change and pollution: Over-deforesting the island degrades the environment. But short-term profits tempt you to do it anyway.
Social class system: Richer neighbors live in VIP zones, while you may end up in a shack if you can't make your mortgage payments.
Stardew Valley (Pure Capitalist Edition)
Hyper-competitive agriculture: JojaMart isn’t just an optional antagonist anymore — it’s your direct competitor, and if you fail, they buy your farm.
Exploited time management: Every day is tracked down to the second. No breaks allowed. Max out productivity or go bankrupt.
Forced growth cycles: Pesticides, chemical fertilizers, and GMOs are required to meet market demand.
Agricultural debt: You take out loans with interest to buy seeds and tools. Fail to repay? You lose your land and machinery.
Sponsorships and advertising: The Pumpkin Festival is sponsored by JojaCorp. Everyone is contractually obliged to promote their brand.
Well… sounds fun, right?
Game Design Challenges
Designing a game like this poses numerous challenges, both to maintain narrative and economic consistency and to keep the experience fun — without driving the player to burnout.
What’s most striking, though, is that almost no player would likely avoid questioning the ethical legitimacy of such a system. Sounds terrifying? In truth, it wouldn’t be that different from the world we already live in.
In a pure capitalist model, managing resources could easily create gameplay tension: you'd need to calibrate inflation, speculation, and market manipulation. Without a carefully balanced system, players could quickly feel stuck or overwhelmed.
A game like this would require players to understand complex concepts like debt, unemployment, inflation, speculation, market crashes... and that’s no small feat. Thankfully, simulating such intricate economic and social systems in real-time would require a game engine with the horsepower of a Ferrari, and the AI investment would send development costs through the roof — so we can sleep well knowing this game may never be made.
What If...?
Still, wouldn’t it be fascinating if Animal Crossing had fluctuating prices based on supply and demand? Economic events like market crashes, bubbles, collective corporate failures, hyperinflation? NPC agents competing in the same market, while others call for proletarian revolution?
Here’s another idea: political mechanics — the ability to bribe officials or influence regulations to your advantage. Is that strictly “capitalist”? Maybe not. But in a post-apocalyptic game design fantasy, anything goes, right?
Let’s End on a Smile
How about imagining these scenes from “Animal Crossing: Capitalist Nightmare Edition”?
Scene I – Achievement Unlocked: “Destroyer of Natural Habitats”
[Living room. The child plays on a Switch. Cheerful music plays — but it’s oddly oppressive.]
Kid:
Mom! MOM! I just unlocked the achievement “Destroyer of Natural Habitats!” I deforested the entire island!
Mom (mildly horrified):
You… destroyed all the nature?
Kid:
Yeah! Now I can sell canned clean air to the new poor residents!
Tomorrow, I’m getting my five-stars house elevator. It’s on a variable-rate lease!
Mom:
…And what about your village friends?
Kid:
All fired. They now work in my warehouse packaging genetically enhanced apples. Even Ruby the bunny has back problems.
Scene II – From Hero to Zero
[Next day. Same room. The kid is devastated, crying in front of the screen.]
Mom (walks in with juice):
Sweetie, what happened?
Kid (wailing):
MOM! They repossessed my house! Tom Nook said I missed the last payment on the “Luxury Profit View Terrace Package”!
Mom:
But… didn’t you say you had 300,000 bells?
Kid:
Yeah, but I speculated badly in the tulip market! I bought everything at +400%, then the market crashed because of Isabelle’s sustainability tweet! Now I sleep in a ditch by the river!
Mom:
Can’t you… just start a new game?
Kid:
No, the new file costs €5.99 and I have to sign a non-compete clause with the Land Registry Mole.
Mom:
...
Kid (sniffling):
At least I can sell my digital furniture on NookBay to buy a pixelated sandwich…
Let’s Discuss!
Would you actually play a version of Animal Crossing or Stardew Valley like this?
Do you think games should explore dystopian capitalist models more seriously or leave them to satire?
How much do you think real-life economic systems are already embedded in your favorite games?
What would be your first move in Animal Crossing: Capitalist Nightmare Edition? Build wealth — or burn it all down?
Share your thoughts, jokes, or nightmare feature ideas in the comments below!
Adding my 2 cents here to your post "Pixel Capitalism", I think the gaming industry pushes on capitalist models for games, over anything different, cause it works efficiently and effortlessly in creating addiction in players, the more you game the more they gain. That's why a socialist model is possible to recreate in a game, but the very issue would be: would it sell million of copies keeping players addicted to it?
Hi Martina, welcome and thanks for sharing with me your pov!
You raise a great point — the capitalist game loop is designed for retention and monetization, and it’s hard to compete with its efficiency. But I wonder if addiction and success always have to go hand-in-hand. A game built around socialist principles might not aim to “hook” players the same way, but could redefine what meaningful engagement looks like: think satisfaction through collaboration, community-building, shared achievement.
Also, not all best-selling games rely on hundreds of hours of gameplay to succeed.
Titles like Super Mario Bros., Mario Kart 8 Deluxe, or even Hogwarts Legacy have sold tens of millions of copies, yet they don’t necessarily offer the kind of endless grind or live-service mechanics that drive addiction. Their success comes from tight design, emotional resonance, and cultural impact, not just playtime metrics.
That said, games like Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley thrive precisely because they tap into slow, long-form engagement — rooted in routine, patience, and comfort.
In these cases, a non-capitalist design might struggle to maintain that same stickiness without relying on micro-goals or behavioral loops. It’s a real design challenge.
But I like to think that with enough artistic vision and a bit of courage, it’s a challenge that can be overcome — maybe even to help reshape the way we understand society, self-worth, and how we connect through play.
Ecce Bombo (1978): Nanni Moretti and the Beautiful Confusion of a Lost Generation
I know what you were expecting. Given the title of this blog, you probably assumed I’d start with a deep, moody dive into a Fellini film — 8½, La Dolce Vita, something with a dream sequence and a circus metaphor, right? And yet... here we are, with Ecce Bombo. No clowns, no Anita Ekberg in the Trevi Fountain. Just Nanni Moretti, some neurotic twenty-somethings, and a whole lot of talking in kitchens. Disappointed? Don’t be. There’s plenty of existential confusion to go around.
Directed, written, and starring Nanni Moretti, Ecce Bombo is a semi-autobiographical, low-budget film that became a generational statement — almost in spite of itself. Released in 1978, at the tail end of Italy's post-'68 cultural and political upheavals, the film captures a group of disillusioned former student activists now drifting through life in a haze of apathy, ironic self-awareness, and useless intellectual debate.
The Italy of Ecce Bombo is one where the political fervor of the 1970s has cooled into indecisive, neurotic disillusionment. Ideals have collapsed, activism has faded, and what’s left is a group of young, middle-class Romans talking about everything and doing nothing.
And that’s exactly where I started watching the film.
Watching Ecce Bombo with a notebook (a mistake?)
Ecce Bombo is a strange film.
I started watching it with my usual notebook in hand, ready to jot down ideas, to decode what Nanni Moretti was trying to tell me — what message, what critique, what “truth” I was meant to uncover.
But then, out of nowhere, the film throws this line at me:
“We are the reflection of this petty-bourgeois society; we are their mirror.”
(Italian: “Siamo noi il riflesso di questa società piccolo-borghese, siamo il loro specchio.”)
This moment completely threw me off. It felt like the film was making fun of all the notes I’d taken so far.
Suddenly I wasn’t sure anymore — does this film really want to tell me something? Or is it just a masterclass in ironic nonsense?
And then I thought: maybe it’s both.
On the one hand, the film seems to mock people like me — casual “Sunday intellectuals” who expect profound meaning wrapped in cryptic symbolism. On the other, maybe that very line is the key to understanding the whole thing.
Either way, as I say in my blog description, I like to overthink things, so that’s what I’m going to do in this article.
Nanni, forgive me.
“Ecce Bombo!” — or: How to Sell a Film Like You Sell Fish
The opening credits shout the film's title — Ecce Bombo! — over a black screen. My first reaction was: “Is this being yelled by a street vendor?” I immediately thought of someone trying to sell me something, to draw my attention in, like Sophia Loren shouting in the market:
“Pesce fresco, pesce vivo!”
(“Fresh fish, live fish!”)
So from the very beginning, I felt like Moretti wasn’t just showing me a film — he was hawking it to me. Ironically, self-consciously, even mockingly.
Sex in a van, or: Never Trust a Narrative
The first scene features a couple having noisy sex in a camper. I thought, “Ah, here are our protagonists.”
Wrong.
We’re told they’re just actors shooting a movie — and they’re never seen again.
This is Ecce Bombo in a nutshell: just when you think you’re settling into the story, it deconstructs itself. Characters say and do things that make no sense. Punchlines arrive without setups. Every scene feels like a deadpan joke that might secretly be about your life.
Apathy as a Lifestyle
The characters are listless, bored, passive. They don’t fill time — they let time pass through them. They’re not in pain, they’re just… vaguely fine?
There’s no real desire to live differently — just little comic moments that bubble up from the emptiness. Like the scene at lunch: the mother says she has to make a phone call, gets up, sits back down, then leaves again. Or the way the friends walk into a kitchen like they’re entering from a stage wing.
And then there’s this unforgettable exchange between Michele and his girlfriend. She confesses to cheating on him — just because she felt like it. His reply?
“Little one, why are you crying? 'Cause I’m a great artist?”
(Italian: “Piccola, perché piangi? Perché sono un grande artista?”)
I laughed out loud — and felt completely unmoored.
I wrote in my notes: “This is a critique of post-political society — no more activism, just passivity and ironic detachment.”
And I believed that, until Mirko’s line about being society’s mirror made me doubt everything again.
Olga, or: The One Who Feels Too Much
Olga feels like a character from an Eastern European drama — even her name evokes it. She’s the most visibly affected by the emotional emptiness around her, and in that sense, she represents a critique of the others’ lifestyle.
But she’s trapped in it too.
In one scene, she calls a friend looking for emotional connection. They invite her out — she declines. The telephone connects her, yes, but it also reminds her that connection isn’t contact, and inaction breeds loneliness.
Telecalifornia: Italy meets American Dream (and shrugs)
Another detail: the reporter who works for “Telecalifornia” in Rome. It’s absurd — and probably a jab at globalization, at Italy’s weird infatuation with the U.S., and at the way identity gets flattened into imported clichés.
The joke makes no sense — and yet it makes total sense.
The Cult Quotes: Empty Words, Full Meaning
A couple of lines from Ecce Bombo have become iconic, and with good reason:
“Am I more noticeable if I don’t go, or if I go but keep to myself?”
(Italian: “Mi si nota di più se non vengo o se vengo ma me ne sto in disparte?”)
“I do things, I see people.”
(Italian: “Faccio cose, vedo gente.”)
Both lines are funny and tragic. They reflect alienation, self-consciousness, and a kind of reluctant resignation — all wrapped in dry wit. They don’t mean much, and yet they mean everything.
The Ending: The One Who Goes
At the end, everyone wants to visit Olga — except Michele, who says he “can’t stand depressed people.” But he’s the only one who actually goes.
That’s Ecce Bombo: contradiction, irony, a quiet moment of accidental sincerity.
Conclusion: Between Irony and Despair (I Choose Overthinking)
Ecce Bombo leaves you suspended between absurdist humor and existential dread. It makes you laugh, then doubt yourself, then wonder if you’re supposed to be laughing at all.
It’s a film that refuses to give you clarity, and maybe that’s the point. Or maybe there is no point. Maybe it’s just a bunch of guys talking in kitchens until something vaguely meaningful happens.
But me? I’ll keep watching, rewatching, and — notebook in hand — searching for meaning even when the film mocks me for it.
Nanni, forgive me. But that’s what I do.
Pixel Capitalism – Part 2: Is a Socialist Alternative in Video Games Possible?
This article is intended purely as a mental exercise and has no propagandistic aims.
This is the second article in a series reflecting on the economic logic behind “cozy” video games. It is not intended as propaganda, but as a framework for critical thinking.
In this second episode of the Pixel Capitalism series, I will explore the possibility of an anti-capitalist alternative in the gameplay of Animal Crossing: New Horizons and Stardew Valley.
Although it’s not an easy task, I find it incredibly fun.
If you missed the previous episode, I recommend checking it out Pixel Capitalism : A comparison between Economic Systems in Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley —it’s essential to understand the foundations and assumptions from which we started this analysis.
Introduction: Beyond Aesthetic and Productive Capitalism
After analyzing how Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley represent two faces of video-game capitalism—one aesthetic, the other productive—the natural question arises: Is there an alternative path?
Is it possible to imagine and structure gameplay inspired by socialist or cooperative values, without falling into the trap of work disguised as play?
In this article, we explore:
the defining features of a socialist economic model;
how they could be translated into gameplay mechanics;
whether engagement and a sense of progression can be maintained without private property, accumulation, or individual profit.
What Do We Mean by “Socialism” in a Video Game?
To be clear, we’re not referring to socialism as a rigid political doctrine, but rather as a set of economic and social principles, including:
collective ownership of the means of production (in-game: land, tools, resources);
fair redistribution of value created (in-game: resources, time, rewards);
decision-making by participation (in-game: democratic governance);
overcoming competitive individualism (in-game: no rankings, personal scores, or private wealth);
emphasis on leisure time and wellbeing.
Applying these principles to game design means breaking away from many of the logics driving current management games. Personally, I believe democratic governance is the most challenging to overcome, but we'll explore why further on.
Regarding overcoming competitive individualism—while these two games aren't competitive in the classic sense (no PvP and relaxed communities)—they are not exempt from such dynamics. Upon close inspection, we can identify mechanics that position the player competitively, both against themselves and others.
In Animal Crossing, the collection mechanics and achievement cards present a certain challenge, as does comparing one’s island via dream codes with those shared by talented content creators—offering a sense of comparison. A similar dynamic exists in Stardew Valley, though community comparison may be less pronounced.
This well-established system effectively maintains player focus and prolongs game longevity. Even if we may not appreciate it, it's an effective marketing strategy: the more time players spend in-game, the more likely they are to invest in it or its merchandise.
Imagine a cozy management/simulation game set in a post-crisis rural community, where the goal isn’t individual growth, but collective wellbeing. A village to rebuild together, based on mutual aid, shared labor, and time to live.
Economic Structure
No single owner: land and resources are collectively owned. Players co-manage agricultural, artisanal, and social activities.
No personal currency: there is no individual wallet. A common budget is used to upgrade services, buy equipment, or manage seasons.
Symbolic rewards, not material gains: progress is measured in village wellbeing, ecological balance, and members’ happiness.
Mandatory but non-punitive cooperation: daily planning of shared labor. No one is forced to do everything; resources are shared equitably, respecting individual pacing.
Weekly shifts and rotational labor cycles: tasks (farming, cooking, teaching, animal care) are rotated to avoid rigid specialization.
Periodic assemblies (narrative game loop): players collectively decide where to invest time and resources—building a school? a library?
No “endgame” tied to optimization: there is no leveling cap—only communal equilibrium, which can either be fragile or harmonious depending on collective choices.
But is it really possible to reinvent Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley this way? What might not work?
Risk of reduced individual agency: if everything is collective, the player may feel “one among many” without real impact.
Gameplay balancing issues: keeping engagement without personal rewards requires a strong narrative system and well-crafted social dynamics.
Multiplayer dependency?: a true cooperative structure works better with multiple players, but the model should also accommodate single-player experiences.
Animal Crossing in Socialist Mode: From Personal Island to Communal Commune
Here’s a list of structural changes for our discussion—some of which would challenge game design significantly:
The island is no longer yours, but ours: you’re a peer member of a self-managed co-op.
Homes are assigned based on need, not purchased on credit. No mortgage with Tom Nook. Resources for building are gathered and shared equitably.
Nook’s Cranny becomes a community depot, managed on a rotational basis by villagers.
Collected materials go into a communal warehouse and are used based on democratically decided priorities.
Villagers are not passive—they actively participate in gathering, decoration, and maintenance.
Some villagers can take temporary roles (carpenter, gardener, music teacher), but rotate every few days to prevent hierarchy and burnout.
The real challenge? Ensuring the player still feels active and influential in island aesthetics. In a democratic structure, public works and communal assets are collectively decided, which could limit the player’s creative freedom. But what if the player is democratically elected as a delegate at the start of the game? This narrative shortcut could give them enough decision-making power without undermining socialist principles. The arrangement would form a building cooperative: villagers help with public works rather than just idly standing where you terraform *coff coff...
Housing becomes a right, and upgrades are achieved through shared labor and resource use—wood, stone, clay. The ultimate goal shifts from completing a personal home to building a harmonious community, where all villagers are happy, included, and actively contributing.
Stardew Valley in Socialist Mode: From Private Farm to Agricultural Cooperative
Reinventing Stardew Valley under this model is more complex, but I’m up for the challenge:
The farm is no longer a private inheritance—it becomes communal land managed by a cooperative group of farmers.
Agricultural labor is divided among villagers on a weekly rotation.
Automations (sprinklers, machines) cannot fully replace human work—they can only ease it.
The harvest is shared among members, with quotas prioritizing the elderly, sick, and children.
Surpluses are exchanged with other communities via a solidarity network—not sold for profit.
JojaMart is not even an option—it’s replaced by a collaborative cooperative network.
Each week, members decide how much to work and how much to allocate to rest, art, or mutual care. No penalties for taking a sabbatical week.
Again, as in Animal Crossing, the player could be elected as a representative to retain enough managerial power to keep gameplay fun.
Why Try This?
Reinventing Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley under a socialist model doesn’t turn them into strictly political games, but it does acknowledge that every game is already an ideological representation. Who owns what, who decides, who works—and why—are all design decisions that shape our worldview.
A cooperative, non-competitive gameplay model can be:
equally engaging;
emotionally deeper;
and perhaps even more relaxing, precisely because it frees players from the loop of endless production.
And You, How Would You Reinvent the Game?
I’ve imagined an alternative, cooperative, anti-capitalist version of Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley. But this is just one proposal—and like any collective process, discussion is essential.
Would you like to contribute your vision?
Here are some questions to spark the conversation:
In Animal Crossing, what role would you want the villagers to actually play? Would you like an island where everyone works together?
In Stardew Valley, could you have fun without owning the farm? Is there a sense of belonging without property?
What types of rewards motivate you more: personal ones or shared ones?
Have you ever wished a game let you decide together with others what to build or cultivate?
How can a game be interesting when free time matters more than productivity?
What collective dynamic would you include in a game aiming to transcend the logic of accumulation?
And of course, the GIF of Ruby was not chosen at random. Her curious, focused gaze is no accident—it reflects a creative vision turned toward the avant-garde. Ruby is not just observing; she is imagining, questioning, and reconfiguring the world around her. In many ways, she represents the very spirit of this article: a quiet but determined push toward new awareness, collective thinking, and radical reimaginings of the spaces we inhabit—digital or otherwise.
Pixel Capitalism: A Comparison of the Economic Systems in Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley
Pt. 1 : Analysis of the two economic systems in comparison
This article is intended purely as a mental exercise and has no propagandistic aims.
As is often the case, the world of video games tends to represent or satirize reality through aesthetic elements and gameplay mechanics. In this article, I aim to focus on comparing the two economic models presented in Animal Crossing: New Horizons and Stardew Valley, two well-known titles in the management and simulation genre. This intellectual exercise was inspired by a meme I encountered online, which labeled Animal Crossing as “cozy capitalism” and Stardew Valley as “cozy socialism.” However, I don’t believe that Stardew Valley genuinely features socialist elements—aside from a few aspects that soften its otherwise capitalist structure rather than defining a truly socialist framework.
This article is intended to be the first in a four-part series, which will be divided as follows:
Analysis of the two economic systems in comparison;
Is it possible to create a socialist alternative?
Structural limitations of pure capitalism applied to these games;
Structural limitations of pure socialism applied to these games.
Let’s begin with Part One, which I’ve titled: “Pixel Capitalism: A Comparison of the Economic Systems in Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley.”
Animal Crossing as Aesthetic Capitalism
Animal Crossing features a capitalist economic system based on debt (a mortgage from Tom Nook), resource collection, and commerce:
Housing: Repay mortgage → Expand home → Collect resources → Earn Bells → Repay mortgage → Repeat until reaching full expansion.
Public Works: Get construction permits → Collect resources → Earn Bells → Fund public projects voluntarily → Repeat until satisfied with aesthetics.
The player is placed within an illusion of freedom, as the game's progression depends on passively accepting this cycle. Public works represent a form of community financing, where the player acts as both benefactor and urban planner—not a debtor. However, the player remains the sole contributor to the island’s beautification, as the villagers offer minimal or no help. Tom Nook’s system more closely resembles a form of personal credit—albeit with no interest or penalties.
The game’s primary currency is either Bells or Nook Miles, and Tom Nook’s nephews make it clear that Nook’s Cranny does not offer store credit.
The turnip system simulates a form of stock market and gambling. The player buys turnips every Sunday at a fluctuating price and must sell them within the following week to turn a profit and avoid losses. Prices change twice daily and follow weekly trends or behavior patterns (e.g., rising, falling, big spike, small spike)—very similar to stock market curves. The player must analyze these trends and predict the best time to sell, but there is always some degree of risk and unpredictability. Online communities have formed to share turnip prices and mitigate this risk.
The game encourages social networking between players through trading and island decoration, but there is no real cooperation with the in-game villagers.
Thus, we describe it as aesthetic capitalism, since the ultimate goal is the beautification of the island through accumulation and personal investment.
Stardew Valley as Productive Capitalism
Stardew Valley values labor and agricultural entrepreneurship. The player builds a personal business, tailored to their tastes and aspirations, while promoting both community support and ethical choices. Game progression follows a pattern:
Create a business → Gather resources → Progress → Expand → Automate processes.
JojaMart represents predatory capitalism, and the game rewards players who restore the Community Center. However, this does not involve a real ethical choice: funding JojaMart offers no tangible gain, only a narrative loss. The supermarket chain is portrayed as a symbol of greedy capitalism attempting to corrupt even the purest places—and possibly as a warning to the player, who fled the alienating system of the big city and corporate life, that no place on Earth is truly free from that system.
That said, the Community Center is still funded entirely by the player, with no cooperative contribution from villagers. Unlike Animal Crossing, capitalism in Stardew Valley is more demanding: it’s not really possible to log in and simply walk around, contemplate nature, or casually interact with NPCs. The game requires daily tasks and routines. While this may feel more rewarding than factory labor, it still constitutes a form of alienation, since the player must continue working or risk seeing their crops rot or animals starve.
Conclusion: Cozy Worlds, Capitalist Logic
Despite their comforting aesthetics and the promise of slow-paced life, both Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley operate within clear capitalist structures.
Animal Crossing presents a soft, aestheticized capitalism, where players are driven by debt cycles, resource accumulation, and endless customization—all under the appearance of freedom and relaxation. It turns the anxiety of productivity into a form of cozy consumption.
Stardew Valley, on the other hand, offers a more productive capitalism, where the player is a self-managed entrepreneur, responsible for growth, efficiency, and survival. While it gestures toward community values and critiques corporate power, the core gameplay still centers on production, planning, and economic self-sufficiency.
Let’s Reflect Together: What Do You See Behind the Pixels?
Now that we've unpacked the economic logic behind two of the most beloved “cozy games” out there, I’d love to hear your perspective. These games often fly under the radar when it comes to critical economic or ideological analysis—but they shape how we think about work, value, and community, even when we just want to relax.
Here are some questions to reflect on—and to discuss in the comments if you'd like to share your thoughts:
Do you think a truly non-capitalist game experience is possible? What would it look like in terms of gameplay?
In Stardew Valley, do you feel more free or more pressured to optimize your farm? Is it truly an escape from corporate life, or just a shift in workload?
In Animal Crossing, have you ever felt "stuck" in the cycle of collecting, paying off, upgrading... and repeating? What motivates you to keep playing?
Does building and customizing your own virtual world bring you joy, or a subtle sense of obligation? Can both coexist?
Can a game be relaxing and still challenge the economic status quo? What games do this well, in your opinion?
If you were to redesign one of these two games with a more collectivist or anti-capitalist framework, what features would you add or remove?
Whether you’re a casual player or a game design enthusiast, I’d love to hear how you interpret the hidden systems that shape our cozy escapes.
Oh, and anyway... I am a big fan of both games. I spent 1000 hours playing Animal Crossing.
BoJack Horseman: The Bojack Horseman Story, Chapter one
I just started watching the show and came up with the very ambitious idea of making an analysis for episodes I find relevant for the themes introduced. Let’s start with the opening line.
The exact line BoJack delivers during the Charlie Rose interview is:
"Look, for a lot of people, life is just one long, hard kick in the urethra. And sometimes when you get home from a long day of getting kicked in the urethra, you just want to watch a show about good, likable people who love each other, … where, you know, at the end of 30 minutes, everything’s gonna turn out OK. … Did I already say the thing about the urethra?"
The line sets the tone for the show and BoJack vision of life: life is pain. It also acknowledges the role of television as a form of emotional escape.
Another powerful line at the end shows when he refers to Mr. Peanutbutter this way: “He’s so stupid, he doesn’t realize how miserable he should be. I envy that.”
BoJack knows how miserable he is. His self-awareness becomes a burden. This line also shows how often BoJack compare himself to others.
I think the first episode subtly lays the foundation for many of the show's deeper themes:
Depression and Existential Emptiness
BoJack is a man who seemingly has everything — money, fame, a nice house — yet feels profoundly empty and unfulfilled. He seeks comfort by watching obsessively Horsin’ around to keep living the golden days and the projection of a better himself, brilliant, positive and fulfilled with meaningful human connections.
Toxic Relationships and Loneliness
BoJack's interactions with Princess Carolyn and Todd show how he clings to people while simultaneously pushing them away: “I am not afraid of commitment. I commit to things all the time. It’s the following through on that commitment that I take issue with.” The line shows he does stick to things eventually, but he can’t manage intimacy and self-sabotage.
Identity and Image vs. Authenticity
The idea of hiring a ghostwriter for a memoir symbolizes BoJack's disconnect from his own narrative — he's lost touch with who he really is and relies on others to shape his public image. This is the reason why he struggles to write it himself: he wants to look like someone he’s not and this is also the reason why he asks the ghostwriter to cut off from the biography the pieces of the evening where he turns out the worst of himself.
