Persona 3was a beautiful product of its time. More than just a game, it offered a genuine glimpse into the essence of being a high school student at the turn of the millennium (which, coincidentally, I was at the time of its release in 2006). The game’s story would certainly stand the test of time if you were to remake it - as therecently not-so-announcedtrailer suggests one is in the works — but I’m not sure if you can reproduce its original magic one hundred percent for a newer audience, especially for those who didn’t experience it in its heyday and live the reality it sought to reflect.
Before getting to my point about the time-bound heart of the experience, I should say that I find the prospect of a remake entirely justified, technically at least. The rouge-like Tartarus dungeons were as plain asFallout 76’s debut, and the social links were mostly transient two-minute conversations that went nowhere until you fully leveled them up.
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Persona 3’s social simulation aspect was nothing to write home about either. It mainly revolved around you shuttling between your school, the shopping mall next door, and your dorm room with your headphones on 24/7. Your window to the world; your social connections - or confidants, to use a modern term - were your roommates, your school buddies, your little portable PC that you used to secretly sort out your teacher’s love life, and the human-like manifestations of your depression and inevitable death like Pharos and Ryuji. It wasn’t as flamboyant or exuberant as some of Persona 3’s successors or other cute and lovely social games like Animal Crossing or The Sims.
But weirdly enough, for the 14-year-old me, Persona 3 felt like an accurate representation of what my daily routine and mental state were like back in the day (yeah, even that last weird depression part). Just like in Persona 3, my life was a small patchwork of fleeting social moments with other school friends and vibes with strangers via dial-up connections to the mythical portals of Yahoo, Skype, and Myspace. There were no fancy LCD TVs to transport you to alternate dimensions likePersona 4’s Mayonaka Channel, or smartphones like those that marked the dawn of the digital age inPersona 5. I mostly got by with Evanescence and Linkin Park songs blaring in my headphones every day, feeding my adolescent depression about the meaninglessness of life and the inevitability of death. And this game never missed an opportunity to confront you with these sentiments at every turn, making you painfully aware of death as the single, absolute truth in the world.
I might have outgrown that broody teenager phase, but I still vividly remember myself identifying with the protagonist’s nonchalant demeanor, his strange imaginary friends, and of course, his grand, unfortunate end. It felt that way not only because of the powerful and resonant storytelling, but because my entire worldview at the time was as limited as the one the game portrayed and executed. And nowadays, this restrictive and simplistic social ecosystem does not exist anymore, so I could only wonder how the people of today, who are more connected and knowledgeable, could resonate with the game’s main character and those bygone days in the same way it was for me.
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Persona 3 also goes against what most modern games are all about: longstanding emotional connections to characters, clear and defined goals, and a certain margin of freedom. The game has no qualms about killing its characters, as well as many of the characters' loved ones (such as Junpei’s beloved Chihiro, Akihiko’s friend Shinjiro, and even Koromaru the dog’s deceased owner).
And for those who are alive, you can only meet up with them at very specific times (quite restrictive compared to Persona 4 and 5). The game doesn’t even give a clear answer to what exists at the top of Tartarus for a big chunk of storytime. You can’t find much comfort or a normal hook in this experience, and you shouldn’t, because it’s a game about how powerless and clueless you can be against the odds, against life, and against the passing of the days. And in today’s globalized world, there are more options, life paths, and even alternative medical choices forthose who are suffering, so Persona 3’s imposing leitmotif of death and resignation would simply feel anachronistic.
The palpable sense of depression that permeated the game through the outdated graphics or mechanics, coupled with the you-are-here-to-die storyline, and the uncanny resemblance of my own youth reverberated within me because of how the game (and I) existed at this specific point in time. And while I’m happy for anyone who falls in love with the remake again, I can’t help but feel that it’s a very different game to the one I grew up with, and different from the social reality of today.
