britbrainspill

When we see the Akademiya persecute religious minorities, artists, and desert people, we’re meant to see it as straightforwardly bad. Especially because we meet and befriend members of all these groups—Dunyarzad, Nilou, Dehya—while from the Akademiya, we only get Alhaitham, who’s sus as hell and standoffish (and later defects from the Akademiya). I’m specifying this because I’ve seen some frankly insane sinophobic takes claiming that Hoyo showing this persecution means they approve of it—because they’re Chinese, so they must be pro-religious persecution (??). Never mind that all the persecuted groups win in the end.

The point is, the corpo-Akademiya is trying to enforce homogenous obedience on its citizens, and as players, we’re set up to sympathize with everyone fighting against that.

The Samsara dream time loop—where the Traveler and the people of Sumeru get trapped—is LITERALLY corporations exploiting the dreams of common people to extract resources from them. It’s an incredibly on-the-nose metaphor. The same day repeating over and over? That’s capitalism trapping us in the hopeless, monotonous loop of routine, grinding us down with no promise of change. And just like in real life, the most vulnerable—people like Dunyarzad, who’s disabled and chronically ill—are the first to pay the price, because they don’t have the physical stamina to survive the system’s brutality.

And what breaks this corrupt, soul-crushing cycle? An artist.

Nilou, a dancer—someone whose entire existence is dismissed by the Akademiya as "frivolous" at the same time as they try to use her as foundation of their propaganda loop —is the one who shatters the illusion. Because art does that. It exposes truths that rigid systems try to bury. The Akademiya, with all its cold logic and "progress," can’t comprehend something as intangible as creativity, so they never see it coming. But when Nilou performs, she disrupts the Samsara, proving that the human spirit expressed through art can’t be fully controlled, even by the most oppressive structures.

It’s chef’s kiss storytelling. The Akademiya thinks they’ve perfected their dystopia, where everyone is a docile, productive cog in their machine. But they forget that people dream. And dreams—real ones, the messy, emotional, human kind—can’t be commodified forever.

But then it only gets better. Because breaking the Samsara loop isn’t enough to bring down the whole system. That would be too easy, too cheap. What Nilou’s rebellion does is ignite a spark—something that shakes people awake, makes them question, but doesn’t magically dismantle centuries of oppression overnight. Real change takes more than one defiant dance.

Now, let’s talk about the desert people in Sumeru.

The Akademiya built a literal fucking trump wall to keep them out. They oppress them, demonize them, and treat them like second-class citizens. And the first time we see desert people in the story, aside from Dehya? They’re religious fanatics confronting Alhaitham—which, at a glance, plays right into the most tired Western stereotype: Middle Eastern terrorists. But let’s put a pin in that.

Because then we meet Setaria, a desert woman who had to abandon her religion and heritage just to fit in. This is the Akademiya’s imperialist assimilation in action—desert people are forced to conform, no matter how brilliant they are. And Setaria is brilliant. She’s a genius, and that’s the only reason she got as far as she did in the Akademiya. But even then, she had to erase herself to survive.

Then comes the entire quest about reminding her of her roots, urging her to embrace her people again, and, most importantly, using her privilege to help them. And here’s the kicker: it’s Nahida—the Dendro Archon, a god the desert people actively oppose—who pushes Setaria to reclaim her heritage. Not out of some patronizing "enlightened savior" nonsense, but because Nahida, despite being the figurehead of the very religion that marginalizes them, values truth above dogma. Because desert ppl don't know Akademiya traps and supresses Nahida herself!

Nahida doesn’t demand Setaria convert or assimilate further; she tells her to remember who she is. Because liberation isn’t just about tearing down walls—it’s about refusing to let your identity be dictated by the people who built them.

The game doesn’t just show the oppression—it shows the way out: reclaiming your history, refusing to be pitted against your own, and leveraging your position to lift others up. And the fact that it’s Nahida of all people who facilitates this? That’s the narrative acknowledging that justice isn’t about which god you worship—it’s about whose humanity you’re willing to recognize. So accusations of Sumeru narrative somehow being pro-oppression of opposing religions is not only sinophobic, but missing the entire, very obvios point.

And then—just when you think the Akademiya couldn’t get more villain-coded—we learn their endgame: They’ve been using the energy drained from the Samsara dream cycle to build an artificial god. A corporate-made deity, designed to replace Nahida entirely. And who’s helping them? Dottore, a foreign warmonger exploiting Sumeru’s resources for his own ends.

I mean, come on. If you wanted a more blatant anti-imperialist, anti-corporate metaphor, you’d have to start handing out pamphlets in the streets. The Akademiya isn’t just content with controlling knowledge—they want to manufacture divinity itself, outsourcing the labor to a foreign power that couldn’t care less about Sumeru’s people.

And then—Nahida sacrifices herself.

After everything, after being imprisoned, erased, and treated as a figurehead, she still chooses to give up her freedom to stop Dottore from harming her people. Not because she’s a martyr, not because she’s blindly selfless—but because she understands power. She knows the Akademiya’s artificial god won’t save Sumeru; it’ll just put a new face on the same exploitation. So she takes the hit. Voluntarily.

This is where the narrative really sticks the landing. Because Nahida’s sacrifice isn’t framed as some tragic inevitability—it’s a strategic move. She’s playing the long game, proving that real leadership isn’t about control, but about knowing when to step back so others can step up. And in doing so, she forces Sumeru to confront its own complicity. The Akademiya’s downfall doesn’t come from some outside force—it comes from the people they oppressed finally rising, because she gave them the space to do it.

And so, of course, in the next act, we move to the desert—where the narrative flips the script entirely.

We meet Alhaitham, who’s already defected from the Akademiya. Then we confront Cyno—and this is critical: people misread him as a "cop," but he’s not. The actual cops of Sumeru are the Corps of Thirty; the Mahamatra (Cyno’s former role) are the corporate enforcers, the Akademiya’s private security. And here’s the thing: Cyno was *promised* justice, but when he tried to audit the Akademiya’s artificial god project, they shut him down.

And what did he do? He didn’t comply. He defected.

This isn’t just a character beat—it’s a thematic one. Cyno’s entire arc is about choosing justice over institutional loyalty, even when the institution claims to serve justice. The game wants you to question who the "law" really works for.

Then we arrive at Aaru Village, where we meet Candace and the other desert people—all portrayed as good, kind, and suffering under Akademiya oppression. And in a lesser story, this would be the endpoint: "See? Not all brown people are evil terrorists! Some are noble victims!" (Which, admittedly, is still more nuance than most Western media manages.)

But Sumeru’s narrative isn’t satisfied with that. It doesn’t just want to humanize the desert people—it wants to contextualize their resistance. Because the next step isn’t just proving they’re "good." It’s asking: What made the Eremites into ‘fanatics’ in the first place?

And that’s where the story gets really bold.

t doesn’t just tell you the desert people are oppressed—it forces you to confront their reality. They have no chances. No fair trial, no voice, no future under Akademiya rule. And when Dehya—a desert-born warrior who’s spent her life caught between worlds - risks everything to broker peace, the game doesn’t give you a choice. You have to negotiate with them. No "both sides" compromise, no patronizing "maybe if they just assimilated harder." The narrative makes you stand with them.

And then—the revelation.

Deshret, the god of the desert people, was never Rukkhadevata’s enemy. They were friends. Allies. And when disaster struck, Rukkhadevata—the very goddess the Akademiya claims as their own sacrificed herself to save the desert people from extinction. The history the Akademiya taught was a lie.

And the narrative never walks this back. Later world quests double down: Deshret wasn’t some mad tyrant. He was a beloved, fair ruler. His people’s faith isn’t some backwards fanaticism—it’s legitimate, as sacred as Nahida’s. The game refuses to frame desert culture as something that needs to be "fixed" or abandoned.

This isn’t just subversion—it’s narrative justice.

And the entire Sumeru finale is about exactly that.

It’s not a lone hero’s journey. It’s not a divine miracle. It’s every marginalized group—artists, desert people, religious minorities, Akademiya defectors—coming together to overthrow their oppressors. The narrative makes this collective struggle the centerpiece. Azar, the Grand Sage, is a deliberately bland villain because he doesn’t matter. He’s not some complex tyrant—he’s just another greedy man at the top of a corrupt system. The real story isn’t about him. It’s about who rises against him.

And at the heart of it all is Nahida—not as a traditional archon dispensing wisdom from on high, but as a child god who connects people. Her power isn’t in domination; it’s in unity. She doesn’t command an army—she links minds, letting Sumeru’s people see each other’s struggles, dreams, and defiance.

This is the ultimate rebuttal to the Akademiya’s ideology. They believed in hierarchy, in control, in a world where only the "worthy" (read: those they approved of) had a voice. But Nahida proves true wisdom isn’t hoarded—it’s shared. And when she breaks free, she doesn’t just liberate herself, she gives Sumeru back to its people.

And crucially? They couldn’t have won without the desert.

The desert people weren’t just "allowed" to help—they were essential. Their knowledge, their strength, their history became part of the resistance. The narrative doesn’t frame them as "redeemed outsiders" joining the "real" fight—it says their fight was always legitimate, and Sumeru’s freedom depended on them.

The finale of Sumeru’s arc isn’t just a victory—it’s a reckoning.

The wall dividing the desert and the rainforest crumbles. The Akasha—the internet turned tool of control—shuts down forever. The narrative makes it clear: technology should connect and empower people, but when it’s weaponized against them, it deserves to die. And Sumeru doesn’t mourn its loss, because freedom is worth more than convenience.

But the real triumph isn’t in what’s destroyed, it’s in what’s rebuilt. Desert people are welcomed, not as tolerated outsiders, but as equals. The Akademiya’s chokehold on knowledge is broken. Artists, scholars, outcasts, and visionaries—all of them—have a voice now.

This is the core message: No one fights alone. Corpo tyranny falls when the oppressed stop competing for scraps and stand together. Not out of charity, not out of pity, but because liberation is collective or it’s nothing.

This is why Sumeru storyline rings true.

Yes, it’s simplified. It’s a fantasy, not a political manifesto. But the core idea is real, and that’s what matters.

Sumeru’s revolution works because it understands something fundamental: Oppression isn’t defeated by lone heroes or divine intervention. It’s defeated when the people no longer accept their own erasure. When artists, outcasts, racial minorities, and even disillusioned enforcers realize they’re stronger together than they ever were apart.

The Akademiya thought they could control truth by rewriting history. They thought they could commodify dreams, exploit faith, and wall off the "undesirables." But in the end? They underestimated the one thing they couldn’t algorithmize: solidarity.