by Doove71 [Loremaster Subscirber]
With HBO’s The Last of Us gearing up for its highly anticipated second season, fans are bracing for another emotional ride through a world that feels as raw and human as brutal and unforgiving. As someone who’s spent countless hours immersed in both The Last of Us games, I am less interested in seeing a direct recreation of the sequel’s events and more intrigued by where the showrunners will diverge. Season one proved that deviation can be a strength—adding depth, breathing room, and fresh perspective to a story many of us thought we already knew inside out.
The world of The Last of Us is built on pain, survival, and the flickering possibility of connection. And at the center of that is Joel—a man whose actions spark endless debate, particularly after the season one finale.
Is Joel a monster? A murderer? A tragic anti-hero?
I don’t think he’s any of those things in isolation. Joel is monstrous in certain circumstances, but that doesn’t make him a monster.
He’s a victim of the world he lives in.
When Joel lost his daughter Sarah in the opening moments of the outbreak, his entire moral compass shattered. What followed was twenty years of doing whatever it took to survive—killing, smuggling, hardening himself against connection. By the time he meets Ellie, he’s not a villain—he’s just a man who has cut away every part of his humanity that once made him decent. And yet, as their journey unfolds, something changes. Ellie forces Joel to remember who he was before the world collapsed. She pulls him back from the emotional dead zone he’s been operating in for years. What begins as a mission becomes a bond. And in rediscovering paternal love, Joel also rediscovers fear—the fear of losing someone again.
That fear ultimately drives his most controversial decision at the end of season one. Was it selfish? Absolutely. Was it understandable? Completely. When you consider everything he’s endured—losing Sarah, enduring two decades of violence and grief—it’s hard to pass judgment. Joel’s final choice isn’t just a plot point; it’s a profoundly human moment, full of contradiction, pain, and love. This kind of moral ambiguity is what makes The Last of Us so powerful, and it’s exactly what I hope season two continues to explore.
I’d love to see more of Joel’s backstory in the upcoming season—not just for exposition but to add texture to the man we’ve come to know. Season one hinted at his past: that he’d done “bad things,” that he may have killed innocents, preyed on others, or scavenged at the expense of the weak. Whether or not we see those moments in detail, providing context for how Joel deadened himself to survive would offer richer insight into people's choices in this world. It would also give even more emotional weight to his decision at the end of season one.
Of course, all of this hinges on performance—and that’s where Pedro Pascal has truly shone. I’ll admit I was skeptical at first. Like many fans of the games, I had a deep emotional connection to Troy Baker’s Joel. In my head, Josh Brolin had always been the fantasy casting choice. But Pascal has more than earned his place in this world. He captures the brokenness, the gruff exterior, and—most crucially—the quiet moments of tenderness that reveal Joel’s vulnerability. Watching Pascal’s Joel thaw emotionally, gradually embracing Ellie as a surrogate daughter, was as compelling as anything the game offered.
Season two, of course, brings a massive shift in focus—and a whole new character who will undoubtedly ignite discussion all over again: Abby. Her arrival is pivotal. In the game, she was a divisive figure, both hated and defended by fans. But for me, Abby represents one of the boldest moves in modern storytelling. Her arc forces players to reckon with their sense of justice, empathy, and revenge. She is not a villain; she’s someone whose story has run parallel to Ellie’s—and Joel’s—and collided with devastating consequences.
Translating Abby to the screen will be a challenge, mainly because of how physically imposing and emotionally layered she is in the game. Her identity is tied to her strength and survival skills, and that visual presence helps reinforce her role in the story. The actor cast as Abby doesn’t seem to have the same physically imposing presence, and with this change, will the character have that same intensity? If that is the case, the show must find other ways to deliver that same impact the character had in the game. But I trust the showrunners. They’ve already shown they’re willing to make creative decisions that serve the story's emotional core, even if it means upsetting expectations.
That leads us to the theme of revenge—central to the second game and likely the emotional heart of season two. The Last of Us Part II forced players to sit with discomfort, empathize with “the enemy,” and see the consequences of violence from multiple angles. It was a bold narrative risk that paid off in spades, at least for those open to what it was trying to say. But television is a different medium. Audiences can’t “play” both sides. They can’t be forced to embody Abby or see the world through her eyes in the same way players were. That’s a challenge for the show—and also an opportunity. With the right pacing, structure, and performances, the series could expand on these themes more effectively than the game did.
I hope the show maintains its willingness to pause. Some of the most powerful moments in season one were the quiet ones—campfire chats, shared jokes, and long silences. The world of The Last of Us is violent, but it’s also emotional. It’s about connection. Season two will need those pauses more than ever as it explores loss, trauma, and the cost of revenge.
Ultimately, I don’t want a carbon copy of the second game. I want a deeper dive. I want the show to build on what the game started—to give us more time with Joel and Ellie, show us the fallout of that final decision, and challenge us as viewers the way the game challenged players.
If The Last of Us has taught us anything, there would be no easy answers in a broken world. Just people trying to find reasons to keep going.