El Paso, Elsewhere Reminds Us Shame Is Not Godly
This column is a reprint from Unwinnable Monthly #184. If you like what you see, grab the magazine for less than ten dollars, or subscribe and get all future magazines for half price.
———
Finding digital grace.
———
Wow, this is actually happening, isn’t it? I’ve already had the privilege to write things for Unwinnable over the years that almost any other site would balk at – from interviewing a lesbian-Christian-princess-R&B artist to delving into toxic masculinity in Wolfenstein II: The New Colossus – which is what makes this column so fitting. What other place would welcome a deep dive into the incredibly messy topic of religion in games? I’m humbled at the opportunity.
For those who are unfamiliar with my past work: Hi! I am a progressive, nondenominational Protestant. Which means I’m affirming, I’m not here to judge, and I want love and safety for you, regardless of what you believe. I’ve friends from a multitude of faiths who I will also be consulting on this column as is relevant. In fact, the game we’re discussing is one a friend designed and wrote; I did briefly consult on its level design, but not its story.
It’s gonna get weird. Sometimes very philosophical. Sometimes very snarky. Probably a bit of both whenever we get to Dante’s Inferno. Yet, as with all my writing, this is an open dialogue. The aim is to inspire thought and illuminate how and why these themes can strengthen a story. Some games discussed will be failures, but this isn’t about tearing those asunder; no punching down. Which is what brings us to today’s topic.
There’s obviously a lot of baggage to deal with when it comes to religion and spirituality. What those concepts mean to people varies greatly. Which is why I ended up settling on El Paso, Elsewhere as my first game for discussion. We’re here to talk about the one thing almost everyone associates with religion: internalized guilt and shame. I know, we’re starting on such a light and happy topic, right? Stick with me here, this isn’t going where you’re likely expecting.
As a people, humanity loves to guilt and shame one another. We’ll even shame ourselves in silence. Not even specifically for heinous acts, but just things your average person is instinctively drawn to as a human being. Things we do out of normal desires, fears, how we were born and sometimes just to stay alive. It’s a topic I’ve seen modern theologians grapple with, the ordained Nadia Bolz-Weber even wrote an entire book, Shameless, about unpacking her internalized shame as a woman with sexual needs and grappling with divorce.
Often when we grapple with shame in fiction, it’s about how our actions impacted others. The need to atone. While a reasonable topic to explore, it’s not the kind typically felt with religion. El Paso, Elsewhere instead deals with a different sort of shame that I know from experience many a religious person can feel trapped in. Self-inflicted shame. The shame from when we truly disappoint and hurt only ourselves. When we fall short of who we want to be. And how we work to forgive ourselves.
James Savage, the hero of El Paso, is a troubled man. He’s a monster hunter who fell in love with a monster – Draculae, queen of the vampires. What started as a sweet romance soured into something truly horrific. She absolutely demolished him as a person, bit by bit, until walking away was the only way for him to survive. He becomes addicted to narcotics and borderline suicidal afterwards, having been driven by co-dependency for so long that his sense of shelf is in shambles. Neither is he is not what many would characterize as a “good” man, anymore. He’s crass, bitter, rageful and self-destructive.
As an openly professed Christian, the project lead, Xalavier Nelson Jr., puts so much of that internalized judgement on display. When you’re working within the perspective of there being an entity of divinity, that there is an inherent good and evil to the world, every choice is magnified. It becomes so much easier to blame yourself, to judge yourself, over the littlest things, especially when you care deeply about doing things right. It’s not a coincidence that many who suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder have religious triggers.
Yet it’s in that self-condemnation that we risk losing ourselves. Sometimes a person stops being who they truly are, closeting a whole part of themselves. They deem themselves unworthy, even though ironically, it’s fueled by a desire to be the opposite. To do good. To better ourselves and those around us. Yet self-condemnation can be almost an addiction in of itself. James blames himself for falling for Draculae. He doesn’t trust his instincts anymore. He’s forgotten who he is through the gaze of someone who only begins to understand the person she hurt until it’s too late. The pills and violence are symptoms. The disease is his self-hatred.
Was it a sin for him to love someone that made mistakes in the past, and then did him wrong? That led him astray into a life he grew to loathe? Where does his fault end and Draculae’s begin? It’s a question El Paso, Elsewhere quietly asks before you’ve realized it’s whispered into your ear.
It’s a question James answers, eventually. “Thanks for believing.” It’s even an achievement title, ironically the one for reaching the bad ending, which requires callously murdering the victims Draculae is holding hostage for her ritual to remake the world. If you stick with James as he turns into a monster, he breaks the fourth wall and assumes you must believe better of him than he does. It’s a much more somber, sympathetic self-condemnation than a similar finale in the similarly introspective action game, Spec Ops: The Line.
The Line, over time, reveals it hates you and wants you to suffer. It forces you to engage with its most infamous moments. There is no way to choose to truly forgive yourself. Which is where El Paso differs; James’ fate doesn’t have to be anywhere near as dire, as is made evident in the aptly titled Scars Fade ending. Draculae, defeated and on the edge of her immortal life finally coming to an end, realizes and tries to apologize for the wrong she’s done. She can’t atone for it all. She can’t undo the damage. Neither of them can change the past. So instead, she makes her last moments offer a different future, saving James’ life with some of her blood. Now he’s immortal, something he’s not keen on . . . but he’s given the chance to make new choices. He has a future beyond the cycle.
Ignoring the supernatural melodrama, it’s an effective metaphor for a chance to start over. The scars remain, and James isn’t quite the person he was before the damage, but he’s also not the man with the gaping wounds of a horrible, toxic, abusive relationship. Not all of us get the chance to rebuild ourselves, especially when someone we trusted hurts us so deeply.
We live in a world of so many uncertainties. It feels like everyone is playing a shell game. And though many will cite the old proverb “the road to Hell was paved with good intentions,” the Bible actually has another verse that is just as relevant, but rarely brought up:
“Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven. Whose sins are covered. Blessed is the one whose sin the Lord does not count against them, and in whose spirit is no deceit.” – Psalm 32:1-2
Which is to say, your heart and intentions do matter, as well as your response. You recognize the mistake you made, ask for forgiveness both from above and from within, and move forward. James did not set out with any malicious aims. That they were twisted and subverted is a wound inflicted by Draculae, one that in theory James could’ve stopped but didn’t realize was happening until too late. Yet looking backwards is only keeping him trapped in that moment. His choices now are what matter. How he moves forward is what’s important. There are consequences for actions and reparations to be made for when we err, especially if we harm anyone else, but when the only victim is yourself? That means forgiving yourself. That means having compassion for yourself. You don’t have to approve, but you have to remember that you’re human. Which for some reason is always easier for us to do for anyone other than ourselves.
Self-care in general is something that’s only just now truly becoming a conscious decision in our daily world. Regardless of your spiritual leanings, it’s fundamentally an act of love. In Christian teachings, Satan is the antithesis of this, a petty rebel seeking to reject what he can’t control. So, despite many churches relying on shame as a building block of the past century, as renewed assessments of scripture take this into account, the faithful are faced with the same contradiction as James. To recognize their mistakes, but also to have the grace of the God they preach to others, both for their fellow man and themselves.
The scars will fade. They never go away completely, but the past is over now. We can free ourselves from it. We can choose to learn and grow from it. It’s a powerful message for a throwback action game to lean on, and pointedly says even more given it’s inspired by the likes of the inherently nihilistic Max Payne series. Where Max just always ends up worse for wear, James can start to heal. He isn’t the man he used to be, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. He’s seen the darkness in this world for what it is, and can stand amongst it like a beacon of hope. And in doing that, he can ensure others aren’t hurt like he was, or if they are, he can reach them in ways others can’t.
This world may be awful to us, but how we respond? What we carry in our heart? That’s what defines us. Whatever you do or don’t believe, try to give yourself a little grace. As Bolz-Weber once put it, “Never forgiving yourself isn’t a virtue.” and “Be brave, friends. But also, be gentle. We’re all new at this part.”
———
Elijah Beahm is an author for Lost in Cult that Unwinnable graciously lets ramble about progressive religion and obscure media. When not consulting on indie games, he can be found on BlueSky and YouTube. He is still waiting for Dead Space 4.
