THE EPIC THAT OPENED UP A FRANCHISE
Although a long time has passed, I still remember the hype surrounding Final Fantasy XII in 2006. After the controversial decision to turn Final Fantasy XI into an online multiplayer RPG, expectations were high for Square Enix’s next single-player entry. For me, it was the first new Final Fantasy released after I had discovered the series through Final Fantasy X—a game that unexpectedly became one of my favorite experiences of the PS2 era.
In other words, Final Fantasy XII carried a heavy burden. Did it deliver, and does it hold up today? For a long stretch, the answer is yes. When the game focuses on political intrigue, mature themes, and world-building, it remains a compelling and ambitious RPG. Unfortunately, those strengths gradually give way to a far less inspired second half.
This opening is unusually grim for a Final Fantasy game. Where earlier entries often leaned toward fairy-tale melodrama, Final Fantasy XII embraces political ambiguity and moral complexity. It feels like a conscious attempt to speak to an older audience—or to players who had grown up alongside the series.
Years later, the perspective shifts to Vaan, a young thief scraping by in occupied Rabanastre. He serves as the player’s entry point into Ivalice, introducing the combat systems and the game’s unusually open structure. At the time, I had never experienced such freedom in a Final Fantasy title. The world felt expansive, interconnected, and alive in a way the series had never attempted before.
For a while, the story echoes Star Wars: A New Hope. Vaan is a dreamer gazing at airships in the sky, longing for adventure and revenge against the empire that killed his brother. This influence works surprisingly well, lending the narrative momentum and charm. Political maneuvering, clashing ideologies, and carefully written dialogue—delivered with a refined, almost theatrical cadence—give the early game a sense of gravitas rarely seen in the franchise.
Exploration is one of Final Fantasy XII’s greatest achievements. The deserts surrounding Rabanastre form vast, interconnected zones filled with enemies, secrets, and treasures—some deliberately too dangerous for early-game players. This design philosophy carries through the entire adventure. Maps branch endlessly, optional bosses appear under specific conditions, and hunt quests lead you to forgotten corners of the world. Ivalice rewards curiosity in a way few JRPGs ever have.
Combat departs radically from tradition through the Gambit system, a simple yet powerful AI-programming mechanic. Party members can be instructed to respond automatically to almost any situation, turning battles into elegant, flowing encounters. While initially intimidating, investing time in Gambits pays off enormously, especially when combined with the remaster’s speed-up options. Manual control is always available, but the system’s real triumph is how efficiently it handles routine encounters.
As companions join Vaan, it becomes increasingly clear that he is not the most compelling character in the cast. Balthier, the charismatic sky pirate, and Fran, his enigmatic partner, steal nearly every scene they appear in. Vaan and Penelo ultimately function more as audience surrogates—observers rather than drivers of the plot. Several characters wrestle with familial conflicts, but these struggles exist more to move the story forward than to deepen characterization.
Unfortunately, as the game progresses, its narrative focus erodes. The nuanced political drama gives way to a familiar Final Fantasy trope: crystal hunting. Character development stalls, motivations blur, and the story collapses into a vague struggle involving ancient magic and nethicite. The contrast with the game’s strong opening is stark, and the sense of squandered potential is hard to ignore.
At this point, progression systems carry much of the engagement. The Zodiac Age significantly improves the original release by introducing a structured job system. Each character can adopt two distinct jobs, opening up deep customization and strategic variety. While the permanence of these choices initially feels intimidating, the system ultimately provides a satisfying sense of growth—arguably compensating for the narrative’s loss of momentum.
Final Fantasy XII may not represent the series at its most iconic, and the Gambit system can be a barrier for newcomers. But for long-time fans weary of repetition, it marked an important evolution. Familiar elements—Chocobos, airships, Cid, and crystals—remain, even as the game experiments with structure and pacing.
The soundtrack may lack instantly memorable melodies, but its orchestration perfectly supports the game’s tone. Visually, despite PS2-era limitations, Ivalice is richly realized. Cities feel inhabited, landscapes feel ancient, and lore permeates every corner of the world. For the first time in the series, exploration feels genuinely holistic.
My opinion of Final Fantasy XII has not changed much over the years. It begins as the promise of a masterpiece and ends as a near-miss. Troubled development—including changes in leadership and shifting narrative priorities—is evident throughout. Moral ambiguity fades, villains become simpler, and the gray areas that once defined the story give way to black-and-white conclusions.
Still, its ambition deserves recognition. Final Fantasy XII pushed the franchise forward at a moment when it risked stagnation. Its open design, systemic experimentation, and mature tone helped keep the series alive—even if imperfectly so.
It may not have fulfilled all its promises. But like A New Hope, it pointed toward a future that was at least worth believing in.
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