Why I Don’t Think Kris Hates the Player – At Least in the Pacifist Route
I’ve seen a lot of people saying that Kris from Deltarune outright hates the player, that they resent us for controlling them. And I get where that idea comes from, after all, there are moments when Kris clearly pulls away from our influence. The way they rip out their soul in the opening sequence is undeniably unsettling. But personally, I don’t fully believe that Kris completely hates the player, especially if you stick to a more pacifist approach.
I think it’s too simplistic to say Kris automatically hates the soul in every scenario. If you consider that the player is essentially an outside force taking control of their body, it’s natural that Kris would be wary or uncomfortable. But being uncomfortable isn’t the same as hating. Over time, especially if you play kindly, I believe Kris at least comes to tolerate and maybe even rely on us a little.
Some of the warmest moments in the game (like when Kris quietly follows along as Susie and Ralsei bond) feel almost like they’re letting us help them navigate a world they don’t fully understand alone. It feels like a fragile partnership rather than pure hostility.
One of the little moments that shows Kris doesn’t totally resent the player happens during the quiz scene with Tenya in Deltarune Chapter 3.
It’s such a small detail, but if you pay attention, it’s very telling. When Tenya asks what Kris’s favorite food is, the possible answers include “Chocolate” and “Pie.” Most players automatically think it’s chocolate because it seems like the obvious, I mean kris like chocolate. But if you wait before selecting, Kris actually coughs softly, almost like they’re trying to get your attention.
That cough is a clue. It’s Kris’s way of subtly nudging you toward the real answer: Pie. This is what their mom, Toriel, bakes for them. It’s part of their identity and their memories.
The fact that Kris helps you here, even just by coughing, says a lot. If Kris truly despised us with no nuance, why would they bother giving any hint? Why not let us embarrass them in front of Tenya and Susie by picking the wrong answer?
I think this moment shows that Kris is willing to cooperate sometimes. They don’t want to be completely misrepresented or misunderstood. Even if they’re not thrilled about being controlled, they’d rather give a little signal than have you say something that feels wrong to them.
It’s one of those scenes that makes me think Kris’s feelings about the player are way more complicated than simple hatred.
Another moment that really shows how layered Kris’s feelings about us can be happens in the secret minigame from Chapter 3.
If you’ve played it, you know what I mean—when you enter that hidden arcade cabinet, you control a tiny pixel version of Kris inside the screen. It’s a funny, almost nostalgic moment. But when you finish the game and the little Kris sprite pops back out, something happens: Kris drops the controller.
At first, it just looks like they’re surprised. But if you don’t move right away, you’ll see their expression change. Their face loses color and goes this pale bluish tone, almost like they’re scared or sick. It feels like they’re genuinely afraid of what you’ll do nex, if you’ll make them pick the controller up again, or force them into something they don’t want, or kill them.
But here’s the detail that sticks with me: if instead of approaching Kris, you quietly walk away from the scene, Kris doesn’t go pale. They don’t back away. They just stand there, like surprise? We dont know.
It shows that Kris is always bracing themselves for the possibility that we’ll push too hard. They’re prepared to shut down or recoil if we don’t respect their space. But when we choose to step back and give them time, their fear doesn’t fully take over.
To me, this scene proves again that Kris doesn’t automatically hate us. They’re scared, yes, but their fear seems rooted in uncertainty, not just resentment. It’s like they’re waiting to see if we’ll be kind or invasive. When we respect them, we avoid making them feel that cold, trembling dread. Is like they call us for something in the begining of the game, but scared of what we will do.
Moments like this are why I think Kris’s feelings about the player are complicated. It’s not pure hostility. It’s a cautious, wary hope that maybe, if we’re gentlesharing control doesn’t have to be so frightening.
After Kris get back to taking control, assuming you didn’t walk right up to them or force them into anything, Susie comes into the room. She looks at Kris for a second and then asks, almost casual but with a hint of curiosity:
"You into these kinda games?"
If you didn’t scare Kris before, they won’t look pale or frightened now. They just stand there, calm but a little tense, waiting for what you’ll choose. It’s a big contrast to how they react if you invade their space, they don’t flinch or drop their gaze.
Then, you get a choice: you can tilt Mini-Kris’s sword cursor to “Yes” or “No.”
If you pick No (by turning the blade away) Susie shrugs, walks over, and unplugs the arcade controller herself. She says:
And the mini kris disappears.
This moment connects to something bigger: the relationship between Kris and the player. The question isn’t just what we want, it’s what Kris wants, and whether we’ll ever respect that boundary.
And this idea comes back again during the Spantom fight later on. When Spantom gets his strings cut, he collapses limp—like a puppet whose master lost interest. It feels unsettling, because it makes you wonder:
If we ever get bored of Kris, if we let go of the “controller” or decide we’re done, would they fall the same way?
Just another empty body, waiting for someone else to pull the strings.
Nobody really knows the answer. But the way the game sets up these parallels, Kris’s fear of being forced, Susie stepping in to unplug the controller, Spantom’s body hitting the floor, makes it clear that being controlled is something that haunts Kris, what if we get bored of them.
And it’s why I don’t believe Kris hates us outright. They’re scared of what happens if they lose themselves completely. They’re scared of if we complete deltarune, they will stop existing all togueter.
Maybe the scariest part of that scene—and honestly, of Deltarune as a whole—isn’t just Kris’s fear of being controlled.
It’s the fear of what happens if we stop.
When Susie unplugs the controller and tells Kris, "Then don’t play it," there’s a strange, heavy silence. For a second, it feels like Kris is relieved, like maybe they have a little more say in their own life. But right after, when you remember how Spantom falls, a worse thought creeps in:
What if Kris doesn’t only hate losing control, what if they’re terrified of having no purpose at all? Remember the boss in this secret minigame that sayed a part of kris enjoyed this?
Spantom’s body drops like a lifeless doll the moment its strings are cut. It’s not struggling. It’s not resisting. It’s just gone.
That image echoes something unsettling about Kris. If we, the player, decide to close the game, to turn away and never come back, what happens to them?
Does Kris stand there forever in a blank room, waiting for someone to move them again? Do they feel their consciousness fading like Spantom’s, becoming nothing but an empty shell? Or are they trapped in a half-dream, aware that we’re gone but unable to act?
So, in my view, while there’s always an undercurrent of tension between Kris and the player, the pacifist route suggests that a small level of trust can grow if we’re careful not to push them too far.
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