Final Fantasy has been a part of my life ever since I played the very first game on the NES as a young child. I first discovered it through Nintendo Power. I must have read that article dozens of times. There was something about it that captured my imagination and refused to let go. I still don’t know exactly why, but I’m grateful I had the chance to experience it. Not only did it make me a lifelong fan of role-playing games, but it also deepened my appreciation for reading and art.

The series has continually evolved through complex stories, flawed characters, and unforgettable music. Yet despite how different each installment can be, every game manages to preserve the qualities that make Final Fantasy so special. That’s why anyone can begin with almost any entry and quickly become immersed in its world, then hopefully set out on their own journey through the rest of the series.

With both Final Fantasy IV and Final Fantasy X recently celebrating milestone anniversaries, I’ve found myself reflecting on their lasting impact. Both games arrived at times in my life when I needed the messages they brought forth.

Final Fantasy IV was one of my most-rented games growing up, alongside Breath of Fire, Breath of Fire II, and Final Fantasy VI on the SNES. There was something about it that always drew me in and never let go. It wasn’t until the original PlayStation that I finally owned a copy. The moment I pressed Start, I was transported back into an epic adventure filled with heartache, betrayal, loss, redemption, and the timeless journey of discovering who you truly are.

Cecil’s journey is especially memorable because it begins with a profound moral conflict. While blindly following orders, he becomes complicit in the destruction of the Summoner village, leaving a young girl to mourn the loss of her mother. Haunted by what he has done, Cecil begins questioning both his king and his own actions. From that moment on, he must earn redemption through countless trials not only in the eyes of those he has wronged, but within himself.

That’s what makes Cecil such a compelling protagonist. He isn’t memorable because he’s the chosen hero; he’s memorable because he’s deeply flawed. Watching him cast aside the darkness and embrace the path of the Paladin feels earned. His transformation isn’t simply a change in class; it represents forgiveness, growth, and the courage to become a better person.

Cecil isn’t the only reason Final Fantasy IV endures. Every member of the cast experiences moments of sacrifice, loss, and personal growth, making the world feel alive and the stakes deeply personal. Decades later, it’s those characters and their journeys that continue to make Final Fantasy IV one of the most unforgettable adventures I’ve ever experienced.

Final Fantasy X is especially dear to my heart. It was the first game that truly felt like my dad’s final gift to me. That sounds silly even to me as I write it, but that’s honestly how it has always felt.

It was the last Final Fantasy released while my dad was still alive before he was killed in a car crash in 2002. I still remember bringing home an issue of Official PlayStation Magazine and immediately popping the demo disc into my PlayStation 2. My dad sat and watched me play, amazed by how far video games had come from the days of the Atari to the stunning graphics of the PS2. I still find myself wondering what he would think of today’s games and how much they have continued to evolve.

After I lost my dad, I lost my desire to enjoy life. I was trying to cope with my mother’s declining mental health while never really allowing myself the time or space to grieve. I felt completely alone, and over time I turned to alcohol in an attempt to numb the pain. I was lost in that fog for a long time.

Then I played Final Fantasy X.

It didn’t magically erase my grief or solve the problems waiting for me outside the game, but it gave me something I desperately needed: hope. As I journeyed through Spira, I slowly began to untangle myself from the grip of self-destruction. Little by little, it reminded me that even after unimaginable loss, there was still a path forward.

Tidus’ journey was ultimately about restoring hope to Spira. Because he wasn’t bound by Yevon’s teachings or burdened by generations of tradition, he was able to see possibilities that others could not.  His perspective allowed him to help find a way to not only save Spira from its endless cycle of suffering, but to also save Yuna from the sacrifice everyone believed was inevitable.

In many ways, Tidus became a beacon of hope for a world that had long since forgotten what hope felt like. He brought people together regardless of race, culture, or belief, reminding them that they were stronger united than divided. His optimism was infectious. Even as he struggled with his own fears and uncertainty, he never stopped looking for reasons to smile or encouraging others to do the same.

Watching Tidus experience the wonders of Spira through fresh eyes also changed how I viewed the journey. His sense of curiosity and appreciation made even the smallest moments feel meaningful. As he traveled toward Zanarkand, he found beauty in a world overshadowed by death; and in doing so, reminded me that even in life’s darkest moments, there is still light worth searching for.

Final Fantasy X is something truly special, and each time I return to it, I’m reminded why. The game offers a space to grieve, to reflect, and ultimately to find the strength to keep moving forward. It doesn’t promise that life will become easier, but it reminds us that even after tremendous loss, hope can still endure.

One quote has stayed with me ever since I first reached the ending:

“Just, one more thing… The people and the friends that we have lost, or the dreams that have faded… Never forget them.”

I never have. Whether it’s remembering my dad, reflecting on the difficult chapters of my life, or simply revisiting the worlds that helped shape me, Final Fantasy X continues to remind me that the people we love and the experiences that define us are never truly gone as long as we carry them with us.