Let’s be honest, the promise of a dual-protagonist game is intoxicating. The marketing sells us on this idea of choice, of experiencing a rich narrative tapestry from two wildly different perspectives. As both a long-time player and someone who’s spent years analyzing game design narratives, I’ve seen this promise made and broken more times than I can count. The recent title Assassin's Creed Shadows—or more specifically, the discourse around its conclusion—has thrown this age-old challenge into sharp relief. It’s a perfect case study for what I want to discuss today: the concept of narrative “domination.” It’s not just about power-leveling your character or mastering combat mechanics. True domination in a modern game is about seizing control of the narrative’s emotional payoff, a feat that becomes perilously difficult when a game’s structure is fundamentally split. This is where the wrath of a disjointed story can strike, undermining even the most polished gameplay.
I remember playing through the final acts, switching between Naoe and Yasuke, and feeling a growing sense of dissonance. The mechanics were fine, the world beautiful, but something in the story’s soul felt… negotiated. It wasn’t until I read some insightful critiques that the penny dropped. The core issue, as one analysis perfectly put it, is that “so much of Shadows has to assume that the player might be primarily playing as Yasuke instead of Naoe.” Think about the immense design burden that creates. Every major narrative beat, every character arc’s culmination, has to be engineered to function identically for two protagonists with ostensibly different motivations, backgrounds, and emotional journeys. The result? Compromise. The analysis notes that “the conclusion to Naoe's arc has to be emotionally cheapened so the experience is the same for both the samurai and the shinobi.” That’s a devastatingly accurate observation. To ensure parity, the narrative must sand down the unique, jagged edges of each character’s destiny. The specific, personal catharsis one character deserves is diluted into a generic, one-size-fits-all resolution. You don’t feel like you’ve dominated the story; you feel like you’ve witnessed a committee-approved version of it.
Now, you might argue that other games have handled this better. Some have, absolutely. But the alternative isn’t always satisfying either. The same critique contrasts Shadows with Claws of Awaji, stating its ending is “more conclusive” but “unfulfilling and inadequate in a different way by failing to live up to the cliffhanger of Naoe's arc.” This is the other side of the coin. When a game does commit to a character-specific climax, players who invested in the other protagonist feel short-changed, as if their chosen path was deemed less important. I’ve been there, spending 40 or 50 hours with a character only to have their personal stakes sidelined for a grand, impersonal finale. It feels like a betrayal. So we’re caught between two flawed models: the homogenized ending that avoids conflict but lacks punch, and the lopsided ending that delivers for one character at the expense of the other. Neither allows a player to truly feel they’ve mastered and owned the narrative journey from beginning to end.
So, how do we, as players, fight back against this narrative wrath? How do we dominate the game beyond the stats screen? My strategy, forged through too many hours of playtesting and analysis, involves a deliberate, almost surgical approach to engagement. First, I commit to a protagonist early. I ignore the game’s suggestion to switch frequently for tactical advantage. I’ll pick Yasuke or Naoe and stick with them for at least 70% of the main story quests, role-playing their perspective exclusively. This self-imposed limitation often creates a more coherent, if unofficial, narrative thread. Second, I actively curate the side content. If I’m playing as Naoe, I’ll prioritize shinobi-style stealth missions and stories about the hidden networks; as Yasuke, I seek out honorable duels and castle sieges. This isn’t just gameplay optimization—it’s narrative optimization. You’re building your own canon within the game’s framework, reinforcing your chosen character’s worldview and making the eventual, inevitable narrative compromises slightly less jarring because you’ve built a stronger personal context.
Ultimately, the quest to dominate your game’s narrative in an age of dual protagonists is an uphill battle against fundamental design constraints. The “Anubis Wrath” here is the fury of a story fractured by its own ambition, a final act that can’t decide who it belongs to. While we can employ clever strategies to reclaim a sense of ownership, the real solution lies with developers daring to move beyond simple structural parity. Perhaps it’s time for more bravely asymmetrical storytelling, where the ending isn’t a shared cutscene but a culmination shaped irrevocably by whom you chose to be. Until then, our domination will remain partial, a testament to our ability to find meaning even when the game itself seems unsure of the story it wants to tell. The true endgame mastery isn’t just about unlocking every skill; it’s about mentally stitching together the narrative you deserved from the pieces you were given.