Saying that hope is a running theme in the Mass Effect series is about as dull of a statement as saying the sun is warm; it's so obvious it's barely worth commenting on. Or rather, it would be if you were to look at the series as a whole and only consider it in the context of the greater narrative. The last ditch, desperate grasp at something far more noble, far more powerful and far more painful than petty victory. The vain hope for survival despite the cold, unshakeable certain that there can be none.

The idea is powerful, that much is undeniable, but still nothing of any great significance as a subject to explore on its own merit. It’s better suited to being part of a greater analysis of hope as a storytelling device in narratives in general, as opposed to just a part of Mass Effect itself. But, see, this is not the only example of hope throughout the series. It is the most obvious, yes, and the most dramatic certainly, but it is far and away from being the most powerful representation that BioWare wove into the rich tapestry of their sci-fi epic.

See, everything Shepard does, because they are the lynchpin here, every action, every decision, every interaction brings its own kind of hope. The multitude of seemingly insignificant scenes that play out through the series, each and every one of them, has its own dreams of much greater things built up around it. The writing staff at BioWare have crafted such a finely tuned narrative, constantly reinforcing this sense of “Shepard being able to affect destiny or inspire acts of greatness,” that when you really sit and think about it, suddenly everything doesn't seem so lost after all.

Even this, you can argue, is not something particularly obtuse in the greater narrative. The second game, after all, opens with Shepard’s death and subsequent revival by Cerberus; an action taken in the certainty that only they can have a great enough impact on the galaxy to turn a near-unwinnable war around. But it is also in this that we see the first overt indications that there is more to it than simply Shepard themselves. The Illusive Man touches on it, seemingly as a minor comment intended only to assuage Miranda's doubts. Shepard affects people in a way that most others cannot, swaying them to align with something greater.

Consider that for a moment. It has far more layers to it than are first apparent. The obvious, the next level, is the crew the player engages along the way. Some in an obvious way, such as giving Wrex back that romantic idea of genuinely uniting the warlike Krogan into a cohesive, co-operative entity for the betterment of their entire species; to rise above their base instincts to kill and be killed for the sheer, pure barbaric honour of it. Or Garrus, with his disdain for C-Sec and its miles of redtape that, he felt, were preventing him from doing real good in the universe.

Others are more nebulous. Miranda, for example, is inspired on a far more personal level: to stop thinking of herself as an asset, as a weapon and tool, and finally accept that, regardless of her origins, she is still a living soul like any other. She wishes to be capable of making choices on their own merit, or choosing a path for herself and having value not only to those around her. Even Legion, the cold, emotionless machine, is given an irrational, but logical hope for reunification between the Geth and the separatist element that sided with Saren and the Reapers.

But even those examples are still barely scratching the surface. There are other characters, far less obviously relevant yet still influenced, characters filled with the vigor of certainty that nothing is ever truly lost. Take Anderson: ready to retire, to live out the last of his days as a tired old warhorse, stepping aside to let the new generation carry the torch. His day has come, gone, and been lost, yet somehow come again. Not because it was required of him, not because he had to, but because he was reminded that he still had it within himself to rise up and take it for himself. Culminating, of course, in him staying behind to lead the defence of Earth. Something he does with unshakeable resolve against a threat to which there should never have been any defence to begin with.

Even Udina, a constant thorn in Shepard's side, is inadvertently affected for the better. He makes some very difficult, appallingly immoral decisions, for which he is very rightly scorned, and yet, at the same time, it's hard to deny the cold logic behind his choices. In a very real way, he sacrifices something of himself for the greater good in the long term. Taking the stain on himself, so to speak, both morally and societally, so that others can do things they must when the impossible is asked of them. He paves the way, making it just a tiny bit more bearable; making the impossible, the unreachable, suddenly just this side of insurmountable.

Even deeper than that, there are a plethora of other, throwaway, characters affected just as powerfully even if we never see the full results. The racist barman, who poisons alien visitors. The young man who wants to be a mercenary because he sees no other way to distinguish himself. Rank and file soldiers, everyday citizens, snatches of conversation overheard as you wander the Citadel. People facing the certainty of destruction, yet still daring to hope that there is some impossible, miraculous way for everything to end in that one, perfect possible future. All of this, all of it, is because of Shepard.

And that, my friends, is why I say hope is such an integral part of the Mass Effect series, something which pervades every level of the narrative, the game design, the very concept. It permeates every level, every facet of the series, and does so powerfully; masterfully employed, in such subtle ways that we miss much of its true gravity on a conscious level; it seeped in throughout, playing a key role in drawing us all into the tale, making everyone seem so much more real, despite some of the more cringeworthy dialogue and laughably hollow 'romance' arcs. Because, through it all, there remains that grain of hopeful abandon. The grain that reminds us, sometimes, we should just stop worrying and go with the flow. That we should enjoy the ride and trust, and hope that everything will turn out okay.