When Violence Serves Story: The Brave Narrative Choices of The Last of Us

I watched it happen last night.

After two years of anticipation, I sat in my living room as one of gaming's most controversial moments made its transition to television. The pivotal scene from The Last of Us Part II where Joel meets his brutal death at the hands of Abby played out. A moment that divided the gaming community in 2020 now tees up the road ahead for a new audience.

My wife, who couldn't care less about The Last of Us lore, turned to me during the infected chase scene with genuine confusion.

"Is this The Last of Us or a scene from Game of Thrones?" she asked. "Are they White Walkers? I don't get it."

This broke me. Hours of play and enjoyment shared with someone who couldn't give two sh*ts. "You're a geek, Peter." I am, I am indeed.

The scene with the bloater was particularly great.

By that time she was hooked. Screaming at me, "How is Tommy going to escape?", whilst those of us who've played and invested ourselves deep into the game know what's in store for Tommy—and no giant flaming bloater was going to get in the way of that.

The Calculated Creative Risk

There were bits in the episode I thought were questionable—for example, the scene when Abby was forced to squeeze through a wire-meshed fence in a space that didn't feel at all possible vs the scene in the game —but this is beside the point. I loved it.

There's something profoundly captivating about content that connects deeply. We watch the show, we play the game, we go for a run and tune into the podcast.

These interconnected threads of narrative create what Simon Pulman and I discussed at length in our recent podcast: a constellation of touch points that's essential in today's oversaturated content landscape. These threads of interconnected storytelling keep our engagement focused and drive anticipation for the next episode.

The Weather Outside and In

I deeply appreciated the literal storm raging through the episode, which serves as the perfect metaphor for what the creative team is doing narratively.

While traditional entertainment increasingly builds artificial shelter from creative risk, The Last of Us ventures into the storm to discover what a story is truly capable of.

We all remember as players, experiencing Part II for the first time—that state of righteousness or hate we all felt when Joel was killed.

It felt wrong to lose someone we cared about so deeply. But creatively it was the right choice to develop Ellie's redemption arc and build our complicated empathy for Abby following the loss of her father in Part I.

The thing about writing, in any form, is that we have to care. We can all share insights, but the words that truly matter on any page, in any context, come when we tie narrative to emotion—when we see, feel, and experience deep-rooted emotional resonance.

The creative team had to ensure newcomers felt the emotional weight of Joel's death while simultaneously setting up the parallel journeys that game players already understand. It's a delicate balancing act that requires tremendous confidence in your audience's emotional intelligence.

Episode 2 was perfect in that regard. It teed up the evolution of characters and protagonists in a way that allowed those who hadn't grown with these characters through the legendary games to feel emotionally invested.

My wife Sophie went from death-scrolling Instagram for the first five minutes to putting her phone down and becoming fully invested by the time Tommy was flamethrowing his way to survival.

The Battle for Attention

To return to Simon's and my discussion from a few days back about the challenges around content and shared attention: Hollywood has really had to wrestle with this notion, particularly over the past five to ten years, that you very seldom have somebody's undivided attention.

We often watch whilst scrolling the internet or playing a game. Sometimes we watch with subtitles on while listening to a podcast or audiobook. We've evolved into a viewing audience that needs to be captivated to care, and honestly, as evidenced by my wife's response last night—the placing down of her phone—this episode succeeded brilliantly.

Was it as good as Season 1's Bill and Frank episode? No, but it didn't need to be.

This episode was about framing: framing the road ahead, framing the evolution of character, framing the rationale as to why the audience should care, and framing what we as gamers know is to come next.

The Scaffolding for Emotional Truth

What fascinated me as I watched the episode and reflected on my gaming experiences is how technical excellence ultimately becomes the scaffold supporting our emotional investment.

In the game, we have time to play, to build and nurture character development. Yet in the HBO series, which is new to many viewers, the pacing must be quicker while still paying homage to the game to connect with both audience types. As a consequence, it's hardly surprising that on IMDb, The Last of Us Season 2, Episode 2 holds 9.5 stars out of 10 based on 13,000 reviews, making it the highest-rated episode of the entire series as of writing.

The Parallel Lives of Characters

What ultimately emerges from this creative approach is something often lacking in traditional entertainment: meaningful connection with characters that transcends a single instalment.

Viewers will start seeing the parallels between Abby and Ellie. Abby lost her dad, and now she has inadvertently created those same nightmares for another character.

This mirroring creates narratives that are deeper and more complex than the typical arcs of love, loss, and redemption. They need to be, because we as people—as audiences—are more complex and have higher expectations when it comes to content that truly connects.

The choices these characters make and the consequences they face create moral complexity that forces viewers to confront their own reactions. When we cheer for Ellie's vengeance while condemning Abby's, what does that reveal about us?

Actions with Consequences

In a landscape increasingly dominated by consequence-free narrative worlds where characters remain fundamentally unchanged, pristine, so they can appear in sequel after sequel after sequel, The Last of Us dares to let actions have permanent, irreversible consequences. And that, to me, is a good thing—both for the series ahead and for the evolution of content as a whole.

Too many stories reset after each episode or instalment, but life doesn't work that way, and neither should meaningful storytelling.

When Joel dies, he stays dead. When Ellie loses fingers, they don't grow back. When relationships fracture, the cracks remain even after reconciliation. This permanent consequence creates stakes that matter and emotional impact that lingers long after the credits roll.

I knew that Joel was going to die from playing the game all those years ago. I knew it was coming... yet as we who've played the game know, the story moves forward not despite the emotional impact but because of it.

The scene's power, both in the game and in the HBO adaptation, comes precisely from its ability to make us feel deeply, even when those feelings are uncomfortable.

Long-term Resonance

What ultimately will distinguish The Last of Us's approach from other transmedia adaptations is its willingness to risk short-term comfort for long-term resonance, much like how Part II, despite initial backlash, has come to stand, in my view, as one of the greatest sequels in gaming.

Rarely is a sequel better than the original, with the exception of Red Dead Redemption 2—another game crying out for the transmedia, constellation narrative treatment. We all remember Arthur's sad passing: heartbreaking but etched into memory as all great stories should be.

Until next Friday,

Peter

Before 5 on Friday is Peter Bell's weekly deep dive into the evolving landscape of leadership, innovation, and cultural transformation in business and entertainment. If you enjoyed this, forward it to someone who might appreciate a fresh perspective.