Between working and spending all my free time writing, revising, and toiling over Evergreen, I’ve been perpetually trapped within Itoi World, which has honestly served as both a relaxer and a great source of inspiration for me to continue to push onward and create. This month hasn’t been easy: I’ve been isolated from home, fallen ill, suffered through a week of spinning the ailment wheel after being sick, and gone through waves of the curse that is writer’s block. It hasn’t exactly been fun, but old habits are finally dying hard again, meaning I’m finally playing video games for longer than 20 minutes at a time again! Hooray!
After beating Earthbound, I naturally felt I should progress on to its sequel, threequel, or whatever you consider it. I personally think it’s a sequel due to one specific character’s influence, but I digress. MOTHER 3 is a game I don’t have as deep of a connection to as its direct predecessor. It’s always been the one I’ve been strangely intimidated by for no other reason than it’s different; not in a bad way, but in a way that little naive me thought wasn’t as whimsical as running around near-aimlessly, fighting rabid dogs and mushrooms, all while making friends.
Thematically speaking, MOTHER 3 is an eight-course meal of gut punches. The game splays its emotional stakes throughout novel-esque chapters, pouring its heart out on a canvas made of heartbreak, perseverance, and the war between old and new. Unlike its predecessors, the game doesn’t center its attention on one specific character’s plight and supplement it with relatively lighthearted, incomplex friendships; the story revolves around five different characters who’ve all been touched by unique subsets of the same tragedy: the degradation of the Nowhere Islands’ former society and the subtle subjugation of its people by a tyrannical body. Lucas’ mother is killed by an animal modified against its will, which leads to his twin’s disappearance; Flint—the father—must grapple with the loss of both his wife and his son; Duster and Kumatora are forced to confront and accept vulnerabilities that they otherwise would’ve suppressed; all of this is a result of a cycle that once resulted in the world’s end rearing its head once more in the form of a really, really spoiled immortal brat.
Much of the game is a slow, whimsically silly burn of emotions that makes you laugh when needed and cuts very deep when required. But as I continued to experience the world of MOTHER 3, I began to notice something prevalent evidenced by the character of its people: regardless of circumstance, if you choose to believe there is good in the world, there is hope.
The world that existed before the events of MOTHER 3 fell victim to a self-fulfilling prophecy, one that threatens its amnesiac successor in the form of the Pigmask invasion. Many of the Nowhere Islands’ denizens conform to the beast and accept it as their benefactor, but those who choose rebellion—primarily the protagonists—are forced to come to terms with what is essentially an ultimatum from the universe: Recreate the world before the Pigmasks do, or die trying. This objective is not made clear until the latter half of the game, but the emotional buildup toward the realization of such a stark consequence is accompanied by a lot of baggage, baggage that paints a picture of perseverance that allows each character to come to terms with destiny, yet also alter it.
Lucas—the protagonist and central figure of the narrative—witnesses his formerly tranquil, utopian hometown of Tazmily slowly transform into a capitalist society plagued by corruption and greed. Those who do not conform to the whims of the Pigmask government receive the wonderful punishment of having lightning repeatedly strike their homes, lightning that has no conceivable origin. Lucas’ and Flint’s home is the primary target of many of these strikes, signifying their unwillingness to move forward, but this decision carries with it a familial dichotomy. While Flint remains trapped within the depths of his grief, clinging to the last vestiges of his wife’s memory, Lucas, still a teenager, chooses to cope in a way that contradicts his younger self: he gets up in the morning, gets dressed, and lives. He is still racked by the losses he’s suffered, but it’s this determination and belief that there’s something beyond his past that allows him to grow beyond the tragedy that defined it, and that hope catalyzes his growth.
Kumatora—the princess of Oshoe Castle—has a background shrouded in mystery from the moment she’s first encountered. Her demeanor is one of unflappable, tomboyish confidence, molded by fierce independence. She’ll take down bad guys, go undercover to solve a mystery, and stick it to the Man in whatever way she pleases. When the Pigmasks take over, her way of life is severely disrupted, and she’s forced to make sacrifices to protect what she believes in. Despite her occasional impudence, her unwavering kindness exemplifies a belief in human nature that accosts the Pigmasks at every turn and serves as a direct foil to its ecocidal, authoritarian nature. She doesn’t even have to consciously be that way; she just is, and that’s enough to inspire morsels of hope in the lives she touches, especially in a certain monkey’s.
Duster—the crippled thief—although a punching bag for his father and mentor, Wess, continues to press onward. At first, his spark is dim, battered by an injured leg and a string of perceived underperformances, but none of this seems to shake his innate sense of selflessness. Ironic how his profession is theft, huh? Regardless of the insecurities and physical ailments that hamper him, he persists, taking on responsibility with not a single whisper of objection. He tackles his own identity crises with humility and actively seeks to assist Lucas and the party through their trials; as more is revealed about their pasts, he graciously takes on the role given to him as a protector, not a coward.
All this loops back to the story’s central event: The end of the freakin’ world. This revelation very suddenly thrust upon our party of heroes in the form of Ionia’s speech, the content of which refers heavily to “the time” drawing near, along with an ancient Dragon that sleeps underneath the islands whose awakening has been foretold for eons.
Now what exactly is “the time”, you might wonder? It’s never made explicitly clear what happens when the Dragon is awakened, but it doesn’t take a genius to infer the truth. If the Pigmasks succeed in pulling each of the seven needles, something grave will befall the world. They possess a weapon without a soul, something with a familiar power, which is why Lucas and the party have to see to it that they are the harbingers of “the time” and not them. If not… Well, it’s made clear that evil will wash over the world and snuff out all light. In order to prevent this, Lucas’ love must be the one to pull the final needle, or else.
How do you deal with such an intimidating, perilous, heart-wrenching task? Our heroes seem to digest their new reality with a lot of poise rather than unbridled emotion. Knowing that the world you once cherished will meet its end one way or another isn’t exactly a fairytale ending. Yet, when you remember all that the party has suffered—the loss of family, loss of identity, the loss of home—it makes sense to me why the commitment to the world’s recreation, regardless of the evil that threatens them with the same goal, might seem preferable to searching for another outcome. Noble, even.
I often wonder what I’d do if I were in their shoes. If I were Lucas, would I let despair overtake me, knowing that with each needle pulled, I’d be one step closer to losing the world where my mother and brother once peacefully lived? The world where my friends and I used to play? The world that’s still there, but that I no longer recognize? The thought is paralyzing, yet he chooses to carry on. Not a word of dialogue uttered, not a breath of fear or morsel of objection; we know he feels it deep inside, as evidenced by his continuously living memories of his past in the form of apparitions and solemn flashbacks. Having no qualms about ending the world in which you experienced a life-altering tragedy, although selfish, wouldn’t be too far-fetched to expect from a traumatized boy, right?
Lucas isn’t like that, though. It isn’t shown directly through dialogue, but from his actions and the people’s word. He chooses to endure with kindness and love rather than bitter contempt. His “silence” isn’t a blemish, it’s an assent—a quiet testament to his strength beyond what words could describe. You carry out his hopes with each step you take toward the end, a hope that carries with it a promise for the new world he’s been destined to shape.
In the latter half of the final chapter, the island’s secret is revealed: The quaint, archaic society that once existed upon it was the result of the former world’s self-destruction, strung together with a fictitious story created by its few survivors who chose to wipe all memories of their pasts so that they could preserve their future. Porky’s influence derailed that plan, introducing the same flawed systems that caused humanity’s first collapse; he’s essentially a representation of the cycle of greed and corruption that can arise from modern society, and the equilibrium each Tazmilian worked to maintain was supposed to prevent the cycle from ever developing again. Once Lucas and the party realize that their way of life was an amnesiac facade, it comes as a shock, but not one they’re unwilling to accept. They know a better life is possible; they’ve felt love in all different ways, from nature and their fellow humans, and it’s the hope they carry in the new world’s name that guides them toward it.
MOTHER 3’s story is not one of pure heroics against a tyrant—it is one molded by the hope each of its protagonists carries in their hearts to end the perpetual cycle of hatred, greed, and indifference to each other that has already brought about the end. It is the prospect of hope that drives Lucas and his friends to pull the final needle—the idea that a world full of love and kindness is sustainable, not a fantasy, not a feigned future destined to collapse over and over again. It’s a wonderful message. I don’t know if there’s ever been a game as purely, goofily critical as this.
There’s a point in the game’s first chapter where you, as the player, enter your name. It’s not a moment I tend to remember, even after it’s repeated a few chapters later. MOTHER games always ask the player’s name because we are equally as important as the protagonists. We guide their actions and experience their stories and emotions, all of it, through their eyes, as if we were them. Unlike MOTHER 2, though, there is no meta moment where the player’s prayers help defeat the final evil. You are only mentioned at the very end, when the world goes black, and all those with hope have survived, and they thank you for your efforts.
Maybe, just maybe, staring into the inky blackness of an infant world with limitless possibilities, we see the reflection of that same hope? Maybe the love you carry for MOTHER 3’s world is a reflection of the world they wish to create? Maybe that sounds too deep, too complex, or even cliché, but I think a game with a multitude of emotions can make you feel a lot of crazy things. Maybe if you believe in the hope that Lucas had, despite having everything taken from him, you’ll find their future in the actions you take to aid our world.
Nothing’s as cool as believing there’s hope for all of us, right? That our existences mean something? You might be a teardrop away from realizing that, but you’ll have to hold it in until the end.
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