Final Fantasy XV was my “happy” object from the beginning of the semester. I decided to take a closer look at how it functions as an object.

Game cases have two main functions: to attract potential players, and to protect the delicate contents inside. Square Enix, the publisher of the game, is pretty good at the former: the art on the color is lovely and holographic, and there’s a sleeker, sophisticated inner black cover. It’s worth nothing that the North American version of the cover is much less sentimental than the Japanese version of the cover, which has the four friends featured in a much warmer, more brotherly pose.

As much as I tried looking through the little pamphlets and fine print on the case and disc, I was unable to find any information on the manufacturing of the physical disc and case itself. Presumably, it was made in a factory somewhere, stamped in a mold in translucent blue plastic. The disc was made in a factory too, and branded and coded. Everything about this item was made to be mass-marketed; the quality of the case, the contents inside, even the game code itself. It’s not meant to be unique, or anything other than a container for the story coded onto the disc. From the factory, it was then shipped by plane or boat or car to the store where it was purchased. From there, it was then taken to my house. I did not lay hands on the object from the moment of its creation until it was given to me as a gift.

This adheres to the Marxist idea that workers and purchasers are alienated from the items that they buy. Something like this was most likely made by a person in a foreign country for starvation wages; its design, while artful, is meant to be uniform to all the other copies of the game. I find this ironic, because one of the main aspects of the game is connecting with your friends on an adventure.

With the advent of digital technology, a gamer doesn’t even need to buy the physical copy of the game in order to experience it. There is no disc to protect; the code is transmitted right to their system. Soon, the physical disc will cease to exist, and these will most likely become strange curious, or occasionally, the odd drink coaster.

In a strange way this leads to the alienation of art from people, too. If a piece of art is not necessarily physical, does it affect us the same way? Of course, one could argue that, by looking at a TV or holding a controller, there’s still a tactility to it. I do find it unsettling that, despite the thousands of hours poured into creating this game, the most covert artists of it are hidden from existence.