Why the Legend of Zelda is great, and Link is an example to us all (well, except in his choice of headgear)

HEY, LISTEN!

Previously, I’ve banged on about the many complicated ways that videogames can influence children and how we gaming types shouldn’t bury our heads in the sand over the issue or, worse, wheeze up a massive fuss and make ourselves look like we deserve to be the main window display in “Ye Olde Snivelling Dickhead Shoppe.” Today, though, to add a more personal perspective to this whole messy business, I’d like to share some thoughts on my own childhood gaming experiences.

Specifically, this means Zelda. My first Zelda experience came at the tender age of twelve, when my brand-new Nintendo 64 was placed proudly atop my fourteen-inch TV like a chunky plastic monarch, regally surveying the few square metres of tattered bedroom that would be its new kingdom. Not having had much gaming experience beyond the odd prod at a Gameboy, my N64 – alongside its most famous game, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time – was a revelation. The colours! The sounds! The wide open vistas! It was the first time I’d seen how art, music, characters and story can all come together to give a game a real atmosphere, a soul all of its own, and I was hooked.

I’ve played through six different Zelda titles – my very favourites, Ocarina and the even better Majora’s Mask, have had eight or nine plays each, so my total Zelda time must easily run to a few hundred hours: this may sound weird, but it’s really not so bad in context.  All the games follow the same basic formula: something most heinous, often the evil Ganon, is threatening the mystical land of Hyrule and it’s up to Link, a sprightly kid in a green nightcap who’s usually between ten and nineteen years old, to make his way across the land defeating Ganon’s assorted flunkeys until getting to the big bad boss himself and taking him down mano-a-mano. Along the way, you explore Hyrule’s towns and villages, which contain their fair share of oddballs and troubled souls who can help you along your way.

Is it violent? Absolutely. Link’s always waving his sword about, slicing some monstrous spider into gooey leg soup or lobbing flaming arrows at evil bats. A lot of the fun lies in using a mix of skills and tactics to overcome your obstacles and escape mortal peril – without combat, there wouldn’t be any real game mechanic. Nevertheless, it’s still a far cry from stabbing Arabs in the face amidst some grimy HONESTLY-IT’S-NOT-AFGHANISTAN-IT-JUST-LOOKS-VERY-SIMILAR near-future warzone – no, this is just simple, old-fashioned fantasy. In the dark ages before the invention of television finally made it blissfully simple to figure out where all your furniture should be pointing, kids would be reading about or acting out their own Zelda-like adventures, with courageous champions slapping down naughty monsters. You know: the Hero’s Journey, and all that. In fact, Zelda draws on a rich heritage of folklore from its native Japan – a heritage that goes back centuries, and is translated into the game as one simple message:

Whenever it’s possible to help someone, you should.

For much of Ocarina, for example, it’s impossible to progress without lending a hand to folk. You have to help the lovable Gorons find a new source of their favourite food (rocks), and chase angry parasites from the belly of the giant fish Jabu-Jabu.  Yet there are plenty of things you aren’t obliged to do, but can if you feel like it: rescue lost dogs, round up chickens, help a family escape a creepy spider-curse. These always result in some tangible reward for the player, usually a nice bit of equipment, and you can always clearly see the positive difference you’ve just made to someone’s life. They don’t just slink off moodily, but actively parade their newfound happiness about the place and always, always – in accordance with Japanese customs – offer a hearty “Thankyou!”

Hang on Anju, we're gonna fix this!

Throughout Japanese fairytales, especially stories like “The Tongue-Cut Sparrow” and “Momotaro,” there’s a recurring theme  - the protagonist offers some small help to his fellows, and later on finds this good deed repaid many times over, often when he or she needs it most. It’s easy to see why Japanese society, for all its faults, is one of the most cohesive in the world. The game’s designers cite one story in particular – the “straw millionaire” – as the direct inspiration for Zelda’s famous trading quests, which have Link running around the whole of Hyrule, swapping items with various strangers to solve their problems, before finally receiving some sort of reward. In Ocarina, you have to make nine such swaps before you can finally get the eyedrops you need to help out your mate Biggoron, who’s promised to make you a wicked tasty sword if you can help him reclaim his sight.

It might sound like all this helpfulness stems from selfish greed for shiny new toys, but that’s not necessarily true: in Majora’s Mask, the darkest but most brilliant of the series, Link has only three days to save a town from being crushed by the falling moon. He does this by constantly travelling back in time, reliving those same three days over and over until he can finally sort it all out. This means that, after you’ve put all your effort into, say, saving the marriage of two tragically cursed lovers,  you only end up having to warp back to the past and see all that good work undone. Even though you get to keep whatever baubles you received for your efforts, they don’t make up for how absolutely heartbreaking it is to see these characters, those lovely, endearing people for whom you feel genuine empathy and worked so hard to help, sent straight back into misery.

Even though a lot of stories on the subject are obviously nonsense, it’s still true that games can have a negative impact on children’s learning and behaviour. Yet, as someone who’s been a committed Zelda fan since he was a wee sprout of a lad, I think it’s still worth remembering that these titles, in tribute to those classic folktales, carry a strongly prosocial message and prove that it’s possible to have a hugely successful, multi-million selling series of games that aren’t just artistically brilliant and great fun to play, but can also teach you to be a better person.