Hero of Time, Vegan of Hyrule

I was surprised by how easy The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild made it to roleplay with my ethics intact — and it gave me hope

As I first awoke and made my way out of the Shrine of Resurrection and into the gorgeous land of Hyrule, veganism was the last thing on my mind. The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild had just been released in 2017. Its unstructured and emergent gameplay, set in a beautifully realized open world, had earned it universal praise. Excited to explore the world of the game for myself, I was unprepared for the moral exploration that it would inspire.

I was accustomed to a lifetime of video games in which my interactions with the world were destructive and violent. Along with many other tropes, the idea that health and sustenance should come from meat had been normalized. Sometimes it could be a potion, or a fruit, but more often than not I was consuming meat to power up.

Maybe it’s because these games exist in a world where meat eating is the cultural norm, maybe it’s an extension of the domination and consumption that are a byproduct of providing the player with a cliché video game power fantasy, but whatever the reason it left me resigned to the idea that I would need to eat meat as I interacted with the mechanics of Breath of the Wild.

What I had worried would be a chore quickly became a passion. There was so much to discover, both out in the world and at home in the kitchen. And, it turned out, while playing video games.

At the time I began to play Breath of the Wild, I was a relatively new vegan. I had been a vegetarian my entire adult life, and I had even flirted with veganism in my teens. It’s something I’d always respected and admired, but the effort to maintain the lifestyle intimidated me. Twenty years had passed since I was a kid reading Peter Singer books in my high school library, and veganism was now so accessible that I could no longer continue to eat animal products in good conscience. What I had worried would be a chore quickly became a passion. There was so much to discover, both out in the world and at home in the kitchen. And, it turned out, while playing video games.

Upon exiting the cave into the sunshine, a lush and serene world lay before me. I started down a path and picked the first plant I saw nestled under a tree: Hylian Shrooms. I plucked a few more that were growing on the rock face nearby and pulled some apples off a tree. A little way further down the path I met an old man. He taught me how to bake apples in the fire, making them tastier and more nutritious. I was less than five minutes into the game and already learning how to care for myself by cooking the plants I had foraged.

In retrospect, it’s no surprise that the verb “bake” was introduced to me, along with jump, climb, and run, as a fundamental action so early in the game. Cooking food, collecting recipes, and experimenting to discover new dishes were important aspects of gameplay. A precedent was set that discovery is core to the experience, in a way that is meaningful both mechanically and emotionally.

Everything I needed to face the world could be foraged. Power-ups for health and stealth, stamina and speed, offense and defense could all be made by baking the right plant-based ingredients into my dishes. I found out later that I could make elixers to offer similar results, but that involved an unappealing mixture of monster guts and bugs. I stuck to my Salt-Grilled Mushrooms, Simmered Fruit, and Fried Wild Greens. I experimented with every ingredient I could get my hands on, writing the good recipes down in a notebook. The amount of plants I could cook with and the seemingly endless dishes I discovered ensured that I never thought twice about meat.

A logic of in-game morality solidified more and more the longer I played. It made no sense to drink a potion I had been given; it probably had bugs in it.

On occasion, despite my best efforts, I’d end up with a dead animal. Whether a Hinox had a steak amidst its loot, an Octorok dropped a fish, or had I lifted a rock and accidentally grabbed a bug hiding underneath, I’d inevitably stumble across animal products when sorting my inventory. Every town I visited had a dog lounging around by the stable. I could feed it to the puppy and make a new friend. Merchants were always willing to buy animal products but it somehow didn’t feel right. Sometimes it was more fitting to drop it in a lake and take a moment to reflect on a life lost. Why not sell? Or give it away? A logic of in-game morality solidified more and more the longer I played. It made no sense to drink a potion I had been given; it probably had bugs in it. At one point somebody on the road rewarded me for my assistance with an Electric Herb Sauté. I was relieved when I reverse-engineered the recipe. There were no animal ingredients, just some Electric Safflina and Goron Spice.

I was occasionally prompted to cook with meat but was always able to decline. The old man asked me to make him a meal with fish and meat, and a woman in Lurelin Village asked me for a Hearty Blueshell Snail and some Goat Butter for her Seafood Paella, but that’s about as hard as I was ever pushed to kill or consume animals.

I never felt penalized by my decision to avoid animal products. This was in sharp contrast to other recent open world games I’d played, where objectifying and consuming animals was not only encouraged (in many cases required), but even glorified.

The numerous plant-focused interactions I had with people, and the environment, were far more memorable. Kakariko villagers loved their Swift Carrots and Fortified Pumpkins. Akkala Buns were a specialty of the East. Hydromelons were the pride of the Gerudo. Travelers sang the praises of the Silent Princess flower. On multiple occasions I ran into a pair of sisters who were always on the lookout for Hearty Truffles. As I roamed Hyrule, advice on how to use plants as ingredients in my meals, or to spice my dishes, was plentiful.

I never felt penalized by my decision to avoid animal products. Veganism felt approachable and utilitarian. This was in sharp contrast to other recent open world games I’d played, where objectifying and consuming animals was not only encouraged (in many cases required), but even glorified. Horizon Zero Dawn gated my progression unless I killed animals. In a game about hunting robots, my inventory was prohibitively small until I hunted real animals and used their pelts to craft a new satchel. Contrast that to Breath of the Wild, where playing hide and seek with cute little plant people rewarded me with Korok seeds that I could trade in for more equipment slots. Red Dead Redemption 2 wouldn’t even let me out of the tutorial level until I hunted and graphically skinned a deer. When the old west frontier finally did open up for me, the promise of exploration and discovery fell flat. There really wasn’t that much more to do than shoot animals.

Breath of the Wild is not without its faults. Its namesake character, Zelda, is a damsel in distress with no agency of her own. Its problems are solved with violence. Its views on gender can be at best blind to issues and at worst incredibly offensive. Video games, as a part of mainstream culture, reflect the values and assumptions of mainstream culture.

I want video games (and culture) to do better, but I’ve given up on expecting it. There’s a scenario that every vegetarian and vegan knows; when discussing diet someone inevitably mentions how difficult it must be, how they could never do it. Where most games are like the friend who will wring their hands and say how hard it is to have a vegan over for dinner, Breath of the Wild is excited to host a dinner that is accommodating for its vegan friends. Although it seems like a small thing, it means the world to me.