Yakuza 0 and Narrative Accessibility
I had never touched the Yakuza series before the summer of 2017. Till then, my knowledge of the open world brawlers had been limited to an image of a dancing man with a baseball bat, a chicken named Nugget, and melodrama for days. The humor and tone was a hell of a sales pitch, but a series dating back one entire Final Fantasy XV development cycle and boasting a whopping six mainline entries (and five spinoffs) doesn’t exactly scream entry point. Lacking a PS2, I was relieved to see that Yakuza 0, the latest Yakuza game to come Stateside, is a prequel to the main canon — an introduction to the whole dang series right here in 2017. With an upcoming remake of the series’ debut providing further accessible continuity, it seemed like there would be no better time than now to take the plunge. What’s so striking upon booting up Yakuza 0 is how quickly felt endeared to the protagonist, Kiryu, despite my limited knowledge of the series, the seedy nature of the protagonist’s occupation, and the game’s rather harsh introduction.
Yakuza 0 wastes little time introducing players to the violent world of Kamurocho’s clans. Against a backdrop of swimming shadows and neon lights, Kiryu and his oathbrother Nishiki walk along arcade strips, the latter’s unkempt swagger a cool foil to Nishiki’s mafioso panache. Players can tell from first blush that Kiryu is the game’s straight man, his sleek black suit and determined mien bring to mind classic rogues of film noir — individuals who exist in society’s underground and adhere to a strict personal code. The men are out grabbing drinks after one of Kiryu’s scummier jobs, work for a lone shark. It’s routine. A back alley, barred knuckles, quick collection money from a debtor and done. The scene is uncomfortable if brief, presented just before the Yakuza brothers convene, and the resulting tone reeks of criminality. Initial impressions of Kiryu are dark, and as a new Yakuza player I wasn’t sure if this game was going to keep me engaged. Memories of Grand Theft Auto V’s grisly torture episodes springing to mind, Yakuza’s opening sequence is a far cry from the soapy melodrama I’d been expecting. But in spite of first impressions, the game follows up with one hell of an appeal to personal experience.
A quick drink and round of karaoke later, Kiryu finds himself dragged by Nishiki to a nearby ramen joint. An all nighter for this special occasion. But as the night drags into dusk, Kiryu’s attention is seized by the restaurant’s overhead T.V., the harsh CRT screen projecting live footage of a crime scene. The body of Kiryu’s collection target was found smack dab in the empty lot where he finished the job. Kiryu’s the new kid on the block; could he have gone overboard, collection money turned murder? As a player, the scene made my gut wrench. A man’s dead, Kiryu’s in a world of trouble, and somehow I knew this feeling. Like being new at an office job and unsure whether or not the screw up was my bad. Temptations to run, cover up the mistake, the boss breathing down my neck. Yakuza 0 has transposed this familiar, mundane anxiety to a wildly unfamiliar gangster setting.
It’s not an original trick. Plenty of games, even anime frame their narrative within familiar (read: high school) settings for the purpose of engaging drama. But the overall effect is a remarkable conveyance of pathos. All of this is to say that Yakuza 0 helps new players navigate the complicated gang politics by making its lead characters really damn charming. Kiryu may not be a traditionally “good” guy, but the recognizable nature of his predicament is an emotional foothold from which the game was able to build his character. There’s still plenty to appreciate about grittier crime games like Mafia or Max Payne, but since Yakuza is more focused on soapy melodrama than its contemporaries, making the protagonists characters we can root for is all part of the charm. This one, the prequel, is able to achieve remarkable narrative accessibility through its empathetic leads and the understandable situations in which they’re placed. But to achieve it’s tremendous heart, Yakuza 0 contrives negligence of the nature of its protagonist’s past occupation.
There’s a split between how Kiryu is presented throughout the game’s duration and the violence inherent to his past occupation, and it’s when players assumes control of Kiryu that the context surrounding violence pivots. Early in the story Kiryu is framed for murder, exiled from the Yakuza, and driven into hiding. Subsequent violence is framed as an act of self-defense or necessary protection for those he cares about. Kiryu’s no longer ruthlessly beating collection targets, he’s protecting Kazama, his mentor and father figure from clan expulsion. By quickly disengaging with the introduction’s brutality, Yakuza 0 defers confrontation with the grim, if romanticized, nature of Kiryu’s day to day work. Even when Kiryu explores the streets of Kamurocho, the player is never allowed to initiate combat outside of defending civilians. That Kiryu is defensive under player observation and control is an important, if manipulative aspect of Kiryu’s characterization that builds upon that initial, potent engagement in the ramen shop. Kiryu is someone we root for because his situation is unjust and he’s got a moral code — at least he’s not one of the bad Yakuza. The context and motivations surrounding Kiryu’s “in-game violence” gives the impression that, while he’s a gangster, Kiryu’s man who sticks to noble values above all. And he’d readily break rank if his morals conflict with his job.
While Kiryu’s honor code represents the endearing qualities that make Yakuza 0 accessible to newcomers like me, his strength as a protagonist suffers from a lack of growth over the game’s duration. Besides the introduction’s Empty Lot collection scene, Yakuza 0 rarely affords more than a glimpse of the darkness inherent to Kiryu’s time with the Yakuza. Rather than utilize any potential contradictions in Kiryu’s history as a springboard for character development, the game leaves our protagonist’s relationship with past, off-screen violence frustratingly vague. It feels like the game puts on a good face while the player’s watching. What was Kiryu like when he was a “normal” member of the Yakuza and, if he’s always been comfortable in his morality, did he struggle to comply with his gang’s objectives and praxis? A consequence of Kiryu’s honor code existing in its present form is that it limits how his ethics can develop or falter over the course of the narrative. This is apparent in how Yakuza 0 is at once reticent to show Kiryu regret the violence with which he’s been long associated. Yet during the game’s dramatic climax, Kiryu is somehow able to come to terms with his moral code over barred fists and bare tattoos. And ultimately the moment feels unearned. If Kiryu were always at odds with the Yakuza’s methods despite his loyalty to Kazama, the game is tepid about exploring Kiryu’s perspective on the nature of organized crime. Again — Kiryu’s not necessary a “good guy”, and it’s manipulative of the game to exclusively illustrate him as one.
Due to the Yakuza 0’s pulpy tone, it’s understandable that a distance exists between the game’s heightened reality and the actualities of crime. But even within the game’s fiction, a significant gulf exists between the development of Kiryu and his counterpart Majima, who exemplifies a more successful narrative arc without sacrificing that sense of approachable charm for newcomers like myself. While I grew attached to Kiryu due to the tenability of his morals and circumstance, Majima’s introduction achieves similarly endearing qualities with the flashiest, most wonderfully flamboyant act of cabaret managerial skill rendered in gaming. It’s a great hook, and the scene smartly subverts his charming bravado by revealing the frustrated, angry man behind the mask. Similarly to Kiryu, Majima’s been exiled from the Yakuza for supporting his oath brother out of turn, and he’s been under the clan’s thumb ever since. Yakuza 0 identifies Majima’s vulnerability as a platform from which to begin a character arc about exploring life under oppressive systems. We’re shown Majima struggle to carve out an identity within the limited spaces that the Yakuza permits his existence. Since he’s reluctant to care for others, Majima is forced to reconcile with an internal conflict about whether to conform under the Yakuza’s pressure. Majima’s inceptive charisma may appear deceptive, but it’s cogent with his need to save face as a coping method within oppressive power structures. As a result, letting players witness Majima come down from the cabaret high engenders feelings of empathy rather than duplicity.
Unlike the archetypes both protagonists evoke, Kiryu is more often tested on personal strength rather than the convictions of his morals. The reoccurring fights against Kuze, for example, do little to challenge Kiryu’s motivations since victory is won each time under the same moral and physical principles. But contrast how Kiryu decides without hesitation to spare the lives of his Yakuza adversaries with how, for a moment, Majima considers murdering the Dojima captains for revenge. What’s presented as effortlessly honorable for Kiryu is an act of considerable restraint for Majima. The result may be the same — both men decide to spare their adversaries, but Majima’s hesitation is emblematic of an internal conflict between fealty and individualism, borne from the pressure of Yakuza higher ups since long before the game begins. While Majima’s charm is certainly endearing on its own, he’s still given room for satisfying character growth, which make his accomplishments feel genuine.
I still want to stress how much I adore Yakuza 0. It’s remarkable for a prequel to possess such warmth and accessibility to series newcomers, and it’s up there as one of the best games I’ve played all year. Games critics like James Howell have long illustrated how criticism can healthfully coexist alongside loving enthusiasm, and it’s worth identifying how Yakuza’s strengths work in spite of its weaknesses. Yakuza 0 is able to achieve narrative accessibility by transposing familiar anxieties into a world of high stakes crime and charming protagonists while buffering the drama with a pulpy, if frustrating distance from the baggage associated with our heroes’ occupation. None of this is to say that stories needs to be more violent, gritty, or realistic to be interesting, but characters tend to be more engaging when their troubles are explicitly shown and challenged. Hell, one of the most powerful scenes in the game is centered around Majima who, under emotional duress and constant threat of violence, musters the gumption to buy a hot box of takoyaki for the person he cares about. This is by no means a vast display of emotional range, but the moments when Majima’s mask of cynical masculinity is challenged are more impacting than any rote fistfight. But Kiryu’s half of the narrative hammers and recycles the scant few story beats his side of the game is comfortable with— all of which coincide with how hard Kiryu can punch people. It gets stale quick, and I’m unsure whether I care enough to see where Kiryu’s tale goes from here in the series proper.
