As I settle into my chair, the soft glow of the screen casts shadows across my walls and the game Undertale boots up for the first time. I slip on my headphones and a strange hum starts to crescendo.

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My first playthrough took the "neutral route”: a tightrope walk between violence and peace dictated by my whims. Hidden within the towering walls of the castle was Asgore, the formidable king of the Underground. Towering before me, he exuded an intimidating aura, leading to my assumption that he must be a villain. However, as our interaction unfolded, I unearthed a multifaceted character burdened by the weight of leadership and responsibility. Conversing with Asgore challenged my initial judgments, prompting me to reconsider the nature of adversaries. For all antagonistic nature, I realized Asgore's depth and complexity, highlighting the danger of hastily labeling others. Nonetheless, despite my desire to spare him, I was locked into combat. I fought, unaware that my choices would shape the outcome of the narrative. This encounter served as a poignant lesson on the importance of empathy and understanding, urging me to delve beneath the superficial and embrace the nuances in my perceptions of others.

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Even so, curiosity, and perhaps a touch of darkness, led me down a new path on my second run-through: the “genocide route”. Here, the world warped around my violent choices. Music distorted, characters vanished, and a chilling emptiness replaced the previous vibrancy. Each kill chipped away at my sense of innocence, the weight of each fallen monster etching itself onto my soul as my LV (violence points) increased, displayed in blood-red text. As I neared the end, the game confronted me, questioned my actions, and urged me to turn back. This self-awareness, woven into the narrative, served as a powerful indictment of violence, forcing me to confront the true cost of my choices, and ask myself: was I the monster? The genocide route wasn't just a different ending; it was a descent into darkness, a stark reminder of the destructive potential that resides within us all. This epiphany brought guilt and a realization that I had chosen this path, but I had the determination to change course at my will.

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In Undertale's “pacifist route”, redemption bloomed from acts of kindness. Reaching out to Flowey, the shadow antagonist, forgiveness became my weapon against his manipulative games. Yet each defiant act to his sadistic commands fueled his rage, a chilling reflection of how perpetuating the "monster" label fuels the very violence we expect. His inability to grasp the mercy I offered resonated deeply, unveiling the complexity between forgiveness and the enduring ripples of past actions. This stark encounter wasn't just about sparing Flowey; it was a mirror reflecting my own biases, urging me to embrace empathy even for those seemingly beyond redemption.

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Flowey's existence, forever teetering on the edge of redemption yet trapped in a cycle of his own making, embodies the game's nuanced morality. It wasn't just him I confronted; it was my preconceived notions, shattered by the intricate tapestry of experiences that shape even the most monstrous-seeming individuals. True forgiveness lies not in judgment, but in recognizing the web of motivations and consequences that define each character, monster, or human.

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Undertale's choices echoed beyond the game. Each decision rippled outward, mirroring the impact of real-world actions. From diverse characters to the power of questioning beliefs, it transcended gaming, becoming a metaphor for life's complexities. But the most profound impact lay within. The game's journey became my own, forcing me to confront biases and understand the weight of my choices, not just on monsters, but on the world and myself. It wasn't just a game; it was a path to self-discovery.