Playing God of War As A Grieving Parent

Graphic from God of War press kit.

My son Jonathan would have liked God of War. I can imagine him smirking the first time Kratos throws his frost-infused axe, then summons it back to his hand, ready to throw it again, slash a nearby foe, or just strut around frozen Midgard, looking cool. I suspect Jonathan’s jaw, like mine, would have hit the floor when first wielding the fiery chained Blades of Chaos. I was not prepared to see those things in motion, having never played the previous games.

I tell of what Jonathan would have done because he is no longer with us. As I write these words, two years have passed since the day he died unexpectedly, a young teenager cut off from his dreams and plans, friends and family, the time we should have shared.

In the months that followed his death, I had to take great care when subjecting myself to anything unfamiliar. I felt raw, exposed, and easily triggered, like my whole being was on edge. I couldn’t handle anything that made light of death or put children in distress for a laugh. I switched off the movie Airplane midway through, at a scene in which a young girl struggles to breath. I felt physically ill and deep loathing for this oft praised movie. That evening I’d needed a moment to rest and heal. I’d thought laughter would do me good. But I couldn’t laugh. Not at that.

It wasn’t necessarily the presentation of death—or even the death of children—that I couldn’t face. Around this time, I also read Harrow the Ninth, the second book in Tamsyn Muir’s Locked Tomb series. The novel is all about grief and coping with loss. I adored it. It took those themes seriously. I found it healing.

I deliberately avoided playing God of War during this time because I knew the story features the relationship between a father and a son. I didn’t feel I could enjoy that story just then. What I didn’t know until I gave the game a try months later was that its story is centered on grief. It begins with the funeral. Kratos, the game’s playable protagonist, along with his son Atreus burn the body of Faye, wife and mother to each respectively. Faye had wished her ashes to be scattered at the highest peak in the nine realms. Fulfilling that wish drives the plot from beginning to end.

But theirs isn’t the only grief at work in this mythical world. During their adventure, Kratos and Atreus encounter Freya, a mother who would do anything (and has!) to protect her son. We also meet that son, Baldur, who resents his mother’s intervention and grieves for what it cost him. Baldur is also the game’s chief antagonist, setting up the likelihood that this story will end on a note not of healing and peace, but of greater grief and pain.

It was good that I’d waited. But I’m also glad that I took a chance on it. In many ways, God of War reflected my own journey processing Jonathan’s death.

And, as I expected, watching Kratos and Atreus together did remind me of the times Jonathan and I shared. Lessons I taught him. His excitement when showing me something he could do for the first time. Games we played together. And our arguments when both of us were beyond frustrated with each other.

My grief has been something like the ashes Kratos carries with him — always there, a weight never fully unfelt even when more pressing matters demand my attention. Grief reminds me of the past, but also drives me forward, toward the hope for healing and maybe, somehow, reunion.

Freya’s fear spoke to me as well. Often since Jonathan died I’ve felt afraid, not only that something terrible will befall my other kids, but that Jonathan himself is somehow still in danger. It’s as though I dread that what has already come to pass has yet to happen. I sympathize with Freya. Like her I fight a battle I’m doomed to lose. I can’t save my son. And that scares me, strange as it sounds.

Without giving away too much of the game’s ending, I note that, like Kratos and Atreus, I too learned more about someone I loved after they had gone. I didn’t experience anything as revelatory as what they did, but I felt like I got to know Jonathan a little better as we went through his belongings. Papers he’d written for school. LEGO creations he’d built. Small things all, but significant nonetheless.

I wonder now what Jonathan would have made of the relationship between Kratos and Atreus. Would he have related more to the father or the son? Would he have judged Kratos harshly for keeping the truth that he’s a god from Atreus? Would he have sighed when Atreus eventually let that knowledge go to his head? What memories of loss would their grief have brought to Jonathan? If I’d incessantly called him “Boy” in a deep voice, how far across the room would his thrown shade have thrown me?

I can’t answer these questions. I can only wonder, only imagine what might have been. We used to talk about video games he played, often as I drove him to school. He didn’t like a lot of the turn-based RPGs that I grew up playing, but that was okay. We had enough common gaming interests to keep a conversation going. There were other games I wanted to share with him when he got older, but he won’t be getting older. I’m looking forward to playing God of War Ragnarök, but I won’t pretend that traveling with a slightly older Atreus won’t be a little challenging for me.

Of the many reminders we keep of Jonathan around the house, one of them is his profile on my PlayStation 4. It’s visible every time I log in to play, but like the ashes Kratos carries, I don’t always notice it. Like my grief it’s often in the background, present but not always fully perceived. But when my eyes fall upon it, I think of my son, the times we shared, and the fun he used to have playing video games.