The Legend of Zelda is a video game as ritual. It's enlivened by ingenious variations from one game to the next, but Nintendo's adventures in the land of Hyrule remain absorbed in the pleasures of careful repetition. These games are curated as much as they are designed; they're gardens rather than wildernesses. And so, at the end of Breath of the Wild, the hero in green defeats Ganon, as he always does.
But wait. This is not quite accurate. At the end of Breath of the Wild - delivered via DLC - Link, the medieval adventurer, gets a motorbike. That was how this particular Zelda ended. And so that was the point at which Nintendo's designers had to decide: what comes next?
It's still hard to know what to make of that parting gift. Noisy, gravel-spitting, rebellious – a motorbike would be unthinkable in any other Zelda game. But then the very idea of DLC would be unthinkable too. How could any of these intricate clockwork worlds have room for even a single additional cog?
This was Breath of the Wild, though, the game that stripped away decades of gadgets and structural rhythms. Link may have defeated Ganon, but much of the rest of the tradition was suddenly scrambled. No more predictable plot beats. No more polite trek from one dungeon to the next, growing more powerful with each step.
Here instead was an open-world Hyrule where the dungeons were largely secondary to the one-shot puzzle or combat Shrines scattered across the earth like a dusting of sugar on a pie. Here was a world where weapons degraded, where beloved horses could be lost forever, and where that familiar trickle of cherished items – the boomerang, the hookshot – was replaced with a handful of new powers granted at the start, and which the game would then rely upon for all its subsequent fun.
What did this mean? Up until now, Zelda had been about containment. The first game was inspired by Shigeru Miyamoto's childhood cave explorations, certainly, but it was born in a moment in which the designer was opening and closing his desk drawers and imagining a garden snug within each. Zelda offers adventuring, but always within safe boundaries.
It's dangerous to go open-world
This approach lasted until Breath of the Wild, which left its players startled, unmoored. Then came the motorbike, and then things took a truly bizarre turn. Two years after the release of Breath of the Wild, it was revealed that the follow-up, Tears of the Kingdom, would reuse the same map and the same structure of Shrines, swapping out the older game's powers but otherwise offering what seemed to be more of the same. What should we make of this? Was all that reinvention just a recalibration, and would we now be back to the business of repetition and ritual again?
Tears of the Kingdom's answer to this question is fascinating, and it takes a while to become clear. On the surface, Link's latest adventure follows a traditional approach to sequels: the stuff you loved, expanded and refined. More Shrines, new powers, another, grander threat to Hyrule. But beware that phrase ‘on the surface'. Underground, Tears of the Kingdom is every bit as wilful and singular as the game it builds upon. Maybe even more so.
Trailers for Tears of the Kingdom at first suggested horror and then sun-baked, sky-minded wonder. You would explore Hyrule, but also an archipelago of ingeniously crafted islands floating overhead. This felt like a sensible approach, but there was a lingering strangeness in the trailers that invited conspiracy theories. Were we really playing as Link? Was this really Hyrule once more? Could things be as simple as they seemed?
Within this online chatter, the dialogue that has dogged almost all Zeldas continued. Since the 8bit days, each new Zelda game has been forced into a conversation with all the others: what's new, what isn't, what are the main reference points? Maybe Tears of the Kingdom was simply a chance for the ground to settle after Breath of the Wild. There's still a princess, a young hero, a landscape that extends to the rosy horizon. But there's something else, too. Something waiting beneath it all.
Something lurking down below
In retrospect, those new powers were an early clue to the true spirit of Tears of the Kingdom. Breath of the Wild offered you ways to engage with the game's physics and bodge your own solutions to the challenges you were presented with. At heart, its powers were abilities designed for manipulating in-game objects in thoughtful ways. They opened up a new, more expressive way of playing, driven by everything from mechanical curiosity to bored tinkering.
By Tears of the Kingdom, though, the powers have become a cross between real-world design tools and explicit hacks. Making use of Ultrahand, Fuse and Ascend, you can craft complex machines and ridiculous weapons, or slip through Hyrule's hidden geometries. Aren't these options that come from a sense of polite frustration with what's come before? Aren't these tools enabling a form of escape?
These powers, pushing at the boundaries of everything from the way the world is created to the way a puzzle can be solved, suggest that the problem with Zelda wasn't that it was becoming familiar, because it had traded in familiarity since the SNES. The problem was that its familiarity could make it slightly airless. That's a hard problem to solve. And so Tears of the Kingdom turned its focus somewhere entirely new, on the game's unseen bedrock, and it built something astounding down there. Something entirely unexpected.
Welcome to the Depths, the underside of Hyrule, far beneath the floating sky islands waiting to be neatly solved, far beneath the grass and sands of the open world itself. Accessed via ugly red-rimmed tears in the earth, the Depths are a vast underworld of darkness and danger. If it's hard not to feel that recent Zeldas are the work of a talented team that is quietly weary of the baggage Zelda brings, the Depths are a perfect response.
Granted, the series is no stranger to parallel worlds, yet the Depths remain very different from the puzzle-piece dimensions of Link to the Past and Ocarina of Time. Those were precise additions, printed circuits that slotted cleanly into place. The Depths connect with the land above them, but they're also filled with a sense of chaos, of being half-complete. They're pitch-black and claustrophobic and, tellingly for a Zelda game, they're frequently optional.
Even so, it feels like these spaces were crucial to the people who made them. Why? Because this is the place where this Zelda's eternal conversation with other Zeldas ceases. Immediacy. The chatter and speculation falls silent, and you are left to the unfolding moment.
What a moment. Deep in theatrical murk, the air around you feels thick and treacherous and alive with adventure. There's no vista to draw your eye with distractions, nothing up ahead to plan an idle five minutes around. Instead, you're exploring in order to survive, working to unlock a network of scattered Lightroots, treetrunk nodes that reach down from the ceiling. Trigger them and you get a pool of light and a matching pool of illuminated map. You get fast travel, the slightest sense of your bearings, and the feeling that you're reclaiming a little of this terrifying space.
There's a puzzle down here, and it leads to a useful reward, but for once in a Zelda adventure it's hard to focus on because you're so thoroughly stuck in the present. With the lights off, the landscape ceases to be earth and slopes and trees, instead becoming something mysterious, almost a form of enemy as it occludes the horizon. Actually, forget the idea of a horizon: everything seems to be looming close, tangling underfoot.
Embrace the depths
Life feels clumsy and precarious in the dark. With the lights on, it's often even worse. With crimson pools of heart-sapping Gloom splattered across the ground and up the walls, this is Hyrule as crime scene. There's something gleefully cruel to the design itself: all alone, resources dwindling, unseen enemies pacing around you. Zelda has always made you feel like you're walking in the footsteps of the designers, perhaps to a fault. No more. In the Depths, the designers seem to have moved on far ahead, and they remain out of reach. Instead you must light your own path, all thoughts of the landscape above forgotten.
Endless jostling horror! But it's almost always a choice for you. Above the Depths there's still a story of rescue and reclaiming to be had, albeit one of the oddest the series has ever told. Ancient evil can still be defeated and the land saved. More crucially, Link's story up there is still built of moments of kindness as he explores Hyrule, solving strangers' problems.
But the Depths, that huge, unprecedented, non-understandable id, are down there all the while. Optional or not, it's theme-stating on a geological scale. The Depths are meant to destabilise. Here, at the very bedrock of the game that every Zelda team has to make, is the game they seem to have actually wanted to make this time.
The inchoate nature of the Depths suggests the designers were following their own path in search of what a Zelda game could be, instead of what it should be. And so Tears of the Kingdom advances the eternal conversation about Zelda and ritual and repetition not by upending things like Breath of the Wild, but by having the courage to ignore the conversation entirely. Down here, a new route forward takes shape, one Lightroot at a time. In the shifting darkness, Tears of the Kingdom opens its eyes.
This Tears of the Kingdom article was first published in issue 400 of Edge Magazine. To get more like this delivered straight to your doorstep (or digital device) consider subscribing to Edge.
