The Last of Us Part II Is Not About Revenge. It’s About Learning How to Stop Hating Yourself

My introduction to The Last of Us series began with the second part — three years ago. Back then, I watched a playthrough on Jacksepticeye’s channel and was overwhelmed with emotions. The atmosphere, the lore, the story — I loved almost everything. Right after that, I went searching for like-minded people in the comments, but instead I found tons of angry criticism: about the agenda, the lazy/bad/stupid writing, illogical characters, unrealistic events, and so on. I clearly remember the sting of doubt inside me: what if the game really is bad?

Later, I watched a playthrough of the first game — and it was also incredible to me. Still, not quite as powerful as the second one. After that, I left the whole story behind.

I returned to TLoU Part II when it finally released on PC. At first, I just wanted to experience the gameplay myself: to directly interact with the world and the characters, to feel the mechanics. But very quickly, I once again plunged headfirst into the story. This time, I saw many moments differently and felt even more deeply for both Ellie’s and Abby’s stories. All my doubts disappeared.

This text was born from a desire to reply to the critics — to explain the game. But in the end, it became a personal revelation.

This is not a traditional review. This is my personal attempt to understand what this story really says about trauma, guilt, hatred, and the terrifying difficulty of healing.

Let’s begin with Joel’s death.

For many, this twist became the point of no return. And that’s understandable — expectations, especially after the trailers, didn’t align with reality. By killing Joel right at the start, the game immediately declares: “This will not be like the first part.”

Why do it this way? Why so soon? The answer is simple: Joel’s story had already been fully told in the first game. He sacrificed all of humanity to preserve his own humanity — to save Ellie. And it seemed like he could finally rest, leaving the future in her hands.

But, as the saying goes, no witcher ever died peacefully in his bed. To save Ellie, Joel slaughtered an entire hospital. It’s not surprising that Abby and the remaining Fireflies chose to seek revenge. It was Joel who first set the cycle of violence in motion — the central theme of the second game — even if he did it out of love.

Joel’s death is especially symbolic because back in the first game, Bill said: “Caring about someone in this world can only get you killed.” Joel’s death becomes the direct consequence of his choice to care for Ellie.

Many people were outraged not so much by the fact of his death, but by how it happened. They ask: how could such experienced survivors as Joel and Tommy fall into a trap so easily — even if it was largely accidental? I partially agree: they do enter the house full of armed strangers far too casually, drop their backpacks without a second thought, and make small talk. But to me, this can be explained.

Joel had begun to trust people again. He had changed. Years of peaceful life made him less paranoid and less prepared for immediate violence. And besides, he had every reason to trust Abby — he had literally just saved her life.

Tommy’s talkativeness makes sense too: he is one of Jackson’s leaders, constantly looking for new capable people to join the community. In a way, he was simply trying to recruit potential newcomers.

But for me, the main reason for their openness lies elsewhere. The night before, Ellie had taken the first step toward reconciliation. That was an enormous, almost unbelievable gift for both of them. Perhaps for Joel, it was the happiest day he had known since Sarah’s death. And in a cruel twist of fate, it became his last.

Joel’s death undoubtedly shatters the heart. But it is necessary. Necessary to close the old story and begin a new one. Necessary to once again emphasize that humanity does not live long in a world of violence — and that it makes you vulnerable. It is precisely because of this humanity that Joel dies, when he saves the life of his future killer.

As Teddy Daniels once said, it is better to die a man than to live as a monster. And Joel died a man. He died knowing that Ellie loved him. In my view, this is a достойный — a worthy — end to his story.

Now, let’s talk about Abby.

Perhaps no character in the history of video games has received as much hatred as she has.

Where to even begin… It was bold. Perhaps too bold.

At first, the game forces us to hate Abby with every fiber of our being. She doesn’t just kill a beloved character — she tortures him, unarmed and defenseless. And she does it in front of Ellie — in front of us. And should we be reminded that it was we, playing as Abby, who led Joel into the trap? The following hours of the game only fuel our hatred even more. And just as we reach the emotional climax, our heart pounding like mad, the game says: “Stop. Not so fast — I need to tell you something.”

After everything we’ve been through, we are suddenly forced to play as her again. To empathize with her. To forgive her. It seems unthinkable.

Truly, even now I sometimes laugh when I think about this — it’s such an audacious, provocative decision. And I love it for that.

They could have made Abby more “likable” as a character. They could have introduced her motives before Joel’s death. But then the emotional impact of Ellie’s revenge would have vanished. And more importantly — taking Abby’s side would not have been a real challenge.

And that challenge is essential.

The game confronts us with our own rejection. It forces us to wrestle with the hatred that it itself has created. Essentially, it invites us to undergo the same inner trials as the characters: to face hatred, to understand our own anger, to rethink our morality, and at some point, to recognize humanity where we once saw only an enemy.

When love is ripped out by the roots, hatred takes its place.

Hatred becomes the engine of Abby’s revenge. But vengeance brings her no peace — it only makes room for a new question: What now?

At first glance, Abby is a super-soldier — a weapon of war, sparing not even children. Her muscular exterior only reinforces this image. But this is not her true self. This entire identity is Isaac’s project. I see it this way: Isaac took advantage of her vulnerability, became a father figure to her, and then used her guilt to raise a loyal subordinate. This was not her own choice.

Abby does not ask us to forgive her. She asks us to listen. And to understand. /Christopher Young is playing/

Abby’s entire arc is a catastrophe of identity and a search for self. Lev becomes the ray of light that shows her the way. In this sense, her story strongly echoes Joel’s. And at some point, Abby herself becomes Joel.

Abby’s story is not an оправдание — not a justification, and not an attempt to make her “right.” It is a mirror of Ellie’s path — a line that helps the player return to themselves. To stop hating — and to begin acknowledging that this hatred exists.

In the first fight between Abby and Ellie, we fight on Abby’s side. /Cycle of Violence is playing/

Abby is unarmed, while Ellie has a full arsenal — a reflection of their different histories and roads. The game invites us to fight ourselves — to fight our hatred in the form of Ellie, whom we left behind in the first half. And in the end, playing as Abby, we choose mercy, proving that we have stepped away from the path of hatred and violence.

Abby offers us another perspective. She helps us better understand Ellie’s story and foresee where it may lead. Abby is Ellie’s mirror. Only while Ellie is still on the path of destruction, Abby has already stepped onto the path of becoming. Both stories begin with Joel’s death and converge in the final confrontation. In the end — it is one single story.

At the very end, we see that Abby, like Joel, regains her humanity. She no longer sees meaning in violence. Love, not hatred, now drives her. And it is painful that so many people still wish for her death — even outside the game. Oh God.

As for the ending, the main complaint is always the same: Ellie “should have” killed Abby. From this, people conclude that the game wants to say, “revenge is bad” — and feel disappointed. But this is a profound misunderstanding of the story’s nature. And most often, it grows from a refusal to invest in Abby’s arc. Because without Abby, it is impossible to understand Ellie. This is one story.

The entire game is a story of inner destruction and reconstruction. Revenge is only the surface. The real drama unfolds around deeper, more intimate and more devastating emotions: guilt, loss of meaning, duty, self-hatred, and the inability to live through grief.

Ellie’s hatred is not directed at Abby. It is directed inward, at herself. Abby becomes only a vessel for her inner conflict.

Ellie blames herself for failing to save Joel. For failing to forgive him earlier, for losing precious time with him. For living instead of him and destroying herself in his name. She blames herself for no longer wanting to live. And finally — for failing to save humanity.

Let’s take a short detour.

When Ellie learns that Joel “saved” her, she falls into a deep depression. He took her meaning, her purpose, from her. Dying for a vaccine was that purpose — it was her choice. In Ellie’s mind, all the suffering and deaths would not have been meaningless then — that’s what she tried to tell Joel after the giraffe scene. But Joel did not allow her to fulfill that destiny.

She experiences this even more painfully because Joel had also become the reason she lived — her family. Hatred toward Joel battles with love for him. Ellie wanted to die with purpose — and she wanted to live with Joel. She hates him for his choice and loves him for the same reason. This deep internal conflict is not easily resolved — it takes time. But just as Ellie finally feels ready to move forward — to forgive Joel — the irreparable happens: he is killed.

Abby deals a devastating blow. She doesn’t just take Joel from Ellie — she destroys the entire healing process Ellie had already gone through. Everything Ellie had struggled toward for so long collapses in an instant. In just three days, she mentally returns to the hospital — broken and empty-handed. Ellie’s journey begins as retribution but quickly turns into an attempt to numb both old and new trauma. This subtext is revealed most clearly through her dreams.

The dreams may seem like ordinary flashbacks, but they are actually a map of Ellie’s psychological collapse. The first dream is still bright, but shadowed by approaching darkness. The second is the calm before the storm — the answer already exists, it just needs confirmation. The third is the cold, empty hospital — mourning the fact that the vaccine will never be made.

Ellie is not only avenging Joel. She is avenging the stolen choice. The fact that she was supposed to die — but didn’t. The fact that her life no longer has meaning.

Obviously, Ellie doesn’t want to think about this. She tries to drown it out with revenge, with violence — just as Abby once did. But again and again, she stumbles. She cannot forget.

In the scene with Nora, Ellie asks: “You Firefly?” — and hope can be heard in that question.

The response is: “There are no Fireflies anymore.” Another reminder that her destiny has failed. And how that reminder enrages her.

Or the scene where Abby, threatening Tommy, orders Ellie to stand up and drop her weapon. Without even thinking, Ellie blurts out: “There’s no cure because of me.” “He did what he did to save me.”

Everything blurs together.

On the path of revenge for Joel, Ellie begins to hate Joel again as well — for not letting her die. She wants to give him a gift that he would hate. This is revenge for him and revenge against him — but above all, it is a desire to punish herself. The further Ellie goes, the closer she moves toward death.

Having stepped onto the path of self-destruction, Ellie endangers those she loves. This becomes painfully clear after another defeat at Abby’s hands. Once again, Ellie must beg her enemy for mercy. Once again, she loses those close to her. New guilt. New trauma.

Throughout her vendetta, Ellie had many chances to stop: Dina’s pregnancy, Jesse’s appearance, Dina’s illness, the chance to help Tommy. But every time, Ellie dug herself deeper. Every time, she let hatred hold the wheel.

Ellie cannot live a peaceful life on the farm. She cannot exist among reminders of old wounds and old mistakes. She suffers from PTSD and depression tinged with suicidal thoughts. Ellie wants to leave. And Tommy gives her that opportunity.

A few words about Tommy. Many are disturbed by his sharp change in this episode. But Tommy is a broken man. He lost everything: leadership, his brother, his wife, his health. Now he is no longer needed. And for what? He lost. Tommy wanted to be a hero, to do the right thing — but life broke him. He uses Ellie almost unconsciously, because he himself is emotionally unstable.

Ellie accepts this chance to leave all too willingly. She has long since lost the ability to stop.

In Santa Barbara, the paths of Ellie and Abby reach their logical conclusion.

Abby strives to begin a new life. Ellie arrives to put an end to everything. She does not seek justice — she wants closure.

The final fight is not about victory or defeat. It is about redemption.

Ellie is not fighting Abby. She is fighting the part of herself that has been gnawing at her for years: emptiness, guilt, hatred, the inability to let go. Abby, in that scene, is a symbol of trauma. And the meaning is that trauma cannot be “killed.”

So why does Ellie stop and let Abby go?

Part of the answer lies in their meeting on the beach. Ellie sees a new Abby — sees how she cares for Lev. This shocks her: this is no longer her enemy. On a subconscious level, Ellie sees not Abby and Lev, but Joel and herself. And this is what triggers the final bright memory.

Ellie feels disgust toward herself. She wants to leave — but cannot. She deliberately provokes the traumatic memory again to restart the engine of hatred. She forces Abby to fight.

Their battle is brutal, ugly, devoid of any beauty — because it embodies Ellie’s inner fracture, not her thirst for revenge.

If we think about it, most of Ellie’s decisions were dictated either by guilt and hatred, or were made for her by others. Like Abby, Ellie suffers from the tragedy of an unmade choice. Who she became and what she did was, for a long time, not fully within her control.

And now, in this key moment, when she has already “won,” when the finishing blow must be delivered — hatred recedes. At the very peak, a psychological shift occurs: hatred turns into awareness. Ellie tries once again to summon the trauma — but instead she sees a flash of light. And for the first time, she makes a choice with her heart.

Ellie does not forgive Abby. She forgives Joel. She forgives herself.

Abby’s death would not have returned meaning to her life. It would not have brought Joel back. It would not have filled the void. Moreover, her death would have brought even more suffering into this world — Lev would have been left alone. And that would be against Ellie’s own deepest desire.

The final episode is rich with biblical symbolism: crucifixion, the path to Golgotha, purification. The end of the fight becomes Ellie’s rebirth. Personally, it reminds me of Booker DeWitt.

Ever since Joel took away Ellie’s chance to save the world, she felt her life was “undeserved.” Her story is tragic: she wanted to be salvation, but became destruction. And yet, as Palahniuk once said, sometimes “you must destroy everything to start over.” By the end of her story, we feel that she is ready to live again. That she has not lost her humanity. Now the choice of how to live belongs to her.

This entire story is not about revenge. It is about overcoming trauma — trauma triggered by Joel’s choice in the first game. That choice shattered the inner worlds of both Ellie and Abby. Both of them had to reassemble themselves in order to move forward. These are the consequences of saving one’s humanity.

In the end, The Last of Us Part II is, to me, a powerful psychological experiment and a merciless mirror. This is not a story about “revenge is bad.” It is a story about the mechanics of trauma, guilt, and agonizing healing. It forces us not to judge hatred, but to live through it — to feel how it first gives meaning, and then burns the soul to ashes.

The player, like Ellie and Abby, passes through an inner hell to face the ultimate choice: to be consumed by darkness — or, having lost everything, to find the strength to stop.

In a world where the most terrifying enemy is one’s own kind, and where humanity is a fragile and vulnerable gift, the characters fight not so much for survival as for the right to remain human. Joel paid for that with his life. Ellie and Abby paid for it with their inner worlds.

And that is why the ending leaves not emptiness, but silence after the storm — a heavy, hard-earned peace.

This is a story not for everyone. Because it demands not entertainment from the player, but the courage to look into the abyss that lives inside all of us — and to admit:

to stop being an enemy to others, one must first stop being an enemy to oneself.

This is only one interpretation of this story — mine. The Last of Us Part II is painful, controversial, and deeply uncomfortable. But maybe that’s exactly why it still hurts — and still matters.

If you see this ending differently, I’d genuinely like to hear your perspective.