Dark Souls II
This review contains spoilers
If we represent the universe as a blind, striving force that pushes us toward desires that can never be fully satisfied, then the modern video game industry is usually a machine built to distract us from this truth. Most games offer the illusion of agency, the dopamine hit of "winning," and the false promise that we are the center of the narrative. Dark Souls II, however, is distinct because it refuses to lie to us. It is a piece of software that understands the fundamental nature of existence: that life is a pendulum swinging violently between pain and boredom, and that our only hope is to find dignity within the suffering.
To play Dark Souls II is to engage directly with the Will to Live in its most raw, punitive format. The game’s central mechanic—the curse of the Undead—is not merely a plot device; it is a metaphysical argument. We are driven by a blind impulse to seek "Souls" (power, currency, status), yet the acquisition of these souls brings no permanent peace. They are spent, lost, or hoarded, and the hunger returns immediately. The game design brilliantly operationalizes the futility of desire. When you die, you do not simply restart; you "Hollow." Your maximum health bar physically degrades, a visual representation of the erosion of the self. The game punishes failure by making success statistically harder, stripping away your humanity piece by piece until you are nothing but a husk. In a lesser work, this would be bad design. Here, it is profound philosophy.
We must speak of the world of Drangleic itself. While its predecessor (Lordran) was a tight, interconnected knot of geography, Drangleic is a sprawling, disjointed dreamscape—a series of fading memories stitched together by fog. Critics often point to the impossible geometry (an elevator in a windmill leading up to a castle in a volcano) as a technical failing. I argue this surrealism elevates the experience to the sublime. The world is dissolving, just as the memories of the NPCs are dissolving. The tragic King Vendrick, wandering his crypt in a mindless circle, is the ultimate avatar of human ambition. He sought to conquer the curse—to conquer the Will—and was reduced to a naked, aggressive impulse. The game forces us to look at him and see the inevitable terminus of our own grinding.
Yet, amid this bleak determinism, Dark Souls II offers a rare, redemptive capacity for aesthetic contemplation. Consider Majula. In the Schopenhauerean sense, art is the only temporary escape from the tyranny of the Will, and Majula is that art. The waves crashing against the cliffs, the eternal sunset that never dips below the horizon, and that haunting, discordant melody—it creates a space of suspended suffering. When the player warps back to Majula, the striving ceases. For a moment, we are not fighting; we are merely perceiving. It is beautiful, sad, and deeply necessary. It effectively argues that while we cannot defeat the suffering of the world, we can momentarily transcend it through beauty.
Mechanically, the game is often cited as the "black sheep" of the series—slower, heavier, more prone to ganging up on the player. But this methodical pacing aligns perfectly with a worldview that demands patience and asceticism. You cannot button-mash your way through the Shrine of Amana; you must deny your impulse for speed. You must observe, suffer, and act with deliberation. The harshness of the hitboxes and the aggression of the enemy AI serve to remind the player that the universe is indifferent to their comfort.
Ultimately, Dark Souls II stands as a triumph because it offers a narrative choice that goes beyond the binary of "save the world" or "destroy it." In the Scholar of the First Sin conclusion, we are given the option to walk away from the Throne of Want entirely. This is the highest philosophical achievement: the denial of the Will. By refusing to participate in the cycle of lighting the fire—refusing to perpetuate the endless, suffering-filled system—the player achieves a kind of digital nirvana. It is a masterpiece of misery, a game that hurts us so that we might understand the value of the pain. It is disjointed, cruel, and often unfair, which is exactly why it is one of the most honest artistic statements of the modern era.
To play Dark Souls II is to engage directly with the Will to Live in its most raw, punitive format. The game’s central mechanic—the curse of the Undead—is not merely a plot device; it is a metaphysical argument. We are driven by a blind impulse to seek "Souls" (power, currency, status), yet the acquisition of these souls brings no permanent peace. They are spent, lost, or hoarded, and the hunger returns immediately. The game design brilliantly operationalizes the futility of desire. When you die, you do not simply restart; you "Hollow." Your maximum health bar physically degrades, a visual representation of the erosion of the self. The game punishes failure by making success statistically harder, stripping away your humanity piece by piece until you are nothing but a husk. In a lesser work, this would be bad design. Here, it is profound philosophy.
We must speak of the world of Drangleic itself. While its predecessor (Lordran) was a tight, interconnected knot of geography, Drangleic is a sprawling, disjointed dreamscape—a series of fading memories stitched together by fog. Critics often point to the impossible geometry (an elevator in a windmill leading up to a castle in a volcano) as a technical failing. I argue this surrealism elevates the experience to the sublime. The world is dissolving, just as the memories of the NPCs are dissolving. The tragic King Vendrick, wandering his crypt in a mindless circle, is the ultimate avatar of human ambition. He sought to conquer the curse—to conquer the Will—and was reduced to a naked, aggressive impulse. The game forces us to look at him and see the inevitable terminus of our own grinding.
Yet, amid this bleak determinism, Dark Souls II offers a rare, redemptive capacity for aesthetic contemplation. Consider Majula. In the Schopenhauerean sense, art is the only temporary escape from the tyranny of the Will, and Majula is that art. The waves crashing against the cliffs, the eternal sunset that never dips below the horizon, and that haunting, discordant melody—it creates a space of suspended suffering. When the player warps back to Majula, the striving ceases. For a moment, we are not fighting; we are merely perceiving. It is beautiful, sad, and deeply necessary. It effectively argues that while we cannot defeat the suffering of the world, we can momentarily transcend it through beauty.
Mechanically, the game is often cited as the "black sheep" of the series—slower, heavier, more prone to ganging up on the player. But this methodical pacing aligns perfectly with a worldview that demands patience and asceticism. You cannot button-mash your way through the Shrine of Amana; you must deny your impulse for speed. You must observe, suffer, and act with deliberation. The harshness of the hitboxes and the aggression of the enemy AI serve to remind the player that the universe is indifferent to their comfort.
Ultimately, Dark Souls II stands as a triumph because it offers a narrative choice that goes beyond the binary of "save the world" or "destroy it." In the Scholar of the First Sin conclusion, we are given the option to walk away from the Throne of Want entirely. This is the highest philosophical achievement: the denial of the Will. By refusing to participate in the cycle of lighting the fire—refusing to perpetuate the endless, suffering-filled system—the player achieves a kind of digital nirvana. It is a masterpiece of misery, a game that hurts us so that we might understand the value of the pain. It is disjointed, cruel, and often unfair, which is exactly why it is one of the most honest artistic statements of the modern era.
Mini Review: Modern gaming sells the illusion of agency; Dark Souls II presents the honest brutality of the Will. Drangleic is a surreal dreamscape where "Hollowing" operationalizes the erosion of the self. Yet, in Majula’s eternal sunset, we find Schopenhauerean respite—pure aesthetic contemplation. It is a masterpiece not because it empowers, but because it reflects life's indifferent cruelty, offering dignity only to those who endure the suffering with deliberate, ascetic patience.