Playing a Creator God in Okami

“Okami” translates as “great god” in Japanese. It’s a title referring to your character, Amaterasu, the great white wolf goddess. The other Shinto gods in the game call her “The Mother Of Us All,” casting her as a kind of creator god.

While this Shinto concept of a creator god doesn’t parallel Christian understandings of a Creator God, some characteristics overlap. For example, when Amaterasu shows up in Nippon, it’s to heal the broken world and restore things to their created order. Perhaps creative director, Hideki Kamiya, felt that the tale of a creator god is best told as a redeemer.

The world is in sad shape when Amaterasu arrives. Curses plague the land. The trees are dying. And an eight-headed Great Dragon has returned (note: that’s one dragon-head worse than Satan in Revelation). So what’s this Great White Wolf Creator Goddess’s solution? Casting out demons, healing the sick, raising the dead (trees) and sending the Great Dragon back to hell.

Sound familiar?

Even though Amaterasu is a creator god, she seldom gets respect. Her primary companion, a flea named Issun, calls her Ammy—when he’s being “respectful.” More often she’s just “furball” to him. It almost seems inconsequential that he might be talking to the creator of the universe. This creator goddess is further inconvenienced: she has to regain all of her abilities. As she gets her powers back, she can create miracles with the celestial brush, turning the world into a parchment and drawing things into place. If a bridge is destroyed, fill in the gap with one long stroke of the brush! Draw a line through demons to strike them from existence. Is a tree withered? Draw a circle on it to make it bloom!

Every time that Ammy exorcises a major demonic stronghold or makes one of the cherry blossom saplings bloom, flowers spill through the surrounding countryside. Lush greens return to the fields and trees. Many waters flow unhindered. And creatures big and small come back to their natural habitats.

I lead Ameratsu in shaping and restoring what has already been made, but I am not actually producing anything that didn’t already exist. This posed a question in my mind: is it possible to tell the story of a god who creates from nothing?

Now let’s reverse all of that. Imagine that instead of restoring a barren cherry blossom sapling, you had to design the sapling itself. Instead of the flowers returning to the desolate fields, you had to map out the shape and identity of each one of the plants and their flowers. Imagine creating all of the creatures, big and small. And instead of just purging the waterfall of contamination, you had to shape the mountains, the flow of the water, plus the water itself. And you had to create the people who live there. And if that wasn’t enough to think about, now imagine what would happen when you had to convey all that creativity with a controller. It sounds impossible. And maybe it is.

One could take just one look at the god-game genre to find some attempts at another answer: Black & White and From Dust cast you as a god who can be either a benevolent, negligent, or tyrannical. But those games never cast you as the creator of the universe. And while they might have a sandbox quality, you’re just another god. You’re not really tasked with creating anything.

Okami’s director, Hideki Kamiya, asserts that even if you’re playing as a creator god, it’s more interesting to start without your power. You’re given time with villagers, animals, and spirits to build a relationships with over time. You complete multiple quests with them, empowering them to become key players in your story. And you get your powers back along the way. You grow together.

Many have said that the most unique quality of interactive storytelling is “emergent gameplay”—that is, players craft their own personal stories based on how they play. As Amaterasu gains new powers, helps new people, and receives praise (EXP), she is shaped by your actions. But she’s no less the “Great Amaterasu, mother of us all.”

Today we have countless survival games that celebrate the act of creation, but we all know their limitations. We’re still just the actors, working with the script we’re given. We can modify the tools and create mods. But what of full and unlimited creativity? Maybe we can only go so far? The author of Ecclesiastes asserts that, “History merely repeats itself. It has all been done before. Nothing under the sun is truly new” (Ecclesiastes 1:9 NLT). This used to bum me out—my heart filling with dread that nothing I make will ever be a wholly new creation.

But maybe it’s enough to unearth the created intent? To become like Amaterasu, drawing life back to its created order.