“What Other Options Were There?” — The Rumbling and the Limits of Human Choice
Whenever I see someone ask, “What other options were there besides the Rumbling?” in relation to Attack on Titan, I catch myself wishing we'd all take a huge step back and ask ourselves if that's even the right question to be asking.
Eren didn’t initiate the Rumbling because he saw it as the optimal solution to a political crisis. He did it because he couldn’t see any solution at all. He reached a point many trauma survivors do: the urge to burn everything down and start afresh. And honestly, that's pretty normal; Armin even admits he’d thought about it, too, during their final conversation in the Paths.
The important difference is that Eren acted on it. And, crucially, he didn’t solve anything by doing so. Historia’s letter makes that painfully clear: Eren's actions didn’t bring about lasting peace. They sowed the seeds for future generations to repeat the same descent into fear, war, and destruction. The island survives, but it doesn’t heal.
And that's because Attack on Titan isn’t a story about solving crises.
It’s a story about how humans, collectively, repeat the mistakes of history — only realising too late what the cost was. For example: Kiyomi regrets her political gambit in bringing Eren and Zeke together. Commander Müller begs his soldiers and the survivors assembled at Fort Salta to vow that they’re done with mutual hatred. Everyone only sees the pattern once they’re trapped deep inside it, facing down the consequences.
You could argue that one positive consequence of Eren’s actions – though indirectly, and not through his own agency – was the resolution of the Curse of Ymir. But even that wasn’t really something Eren accomplished. He admits this himself in the Paths: “Ymir had been waiting for someone… and that person was Mikasa.” It was Mikasa’s choice, her refusal to perpetuate the cycle of violence through love in bondage, that finally empowered Ymir to let go.
And we're shown that even that resolution isn’t permanent. The very last scene with the boy and the dog approaching the tree makes it clear that history resets; the cycle begins anew. By that point, everyone who lived through the cataclysm and the children who remember them are long gone — in other words, the people who could have said “never again” with real weight behind it. All that’s left behind then are people like me: history nerds who recognise the warning signs, and try to educate, contextualise, and point out where we’re headed if we don’t change course. And yet… look at the world around you; we’ve ended up there anyway. My efforts, and the efforts of countless others like me, clearly haven’t stopped society from repeating the same patterns of fear, extremism, scapegoating, and dehumanisation.
Which is exactly the point Attack on Titan makes: even when the curse is lifted, even when the cycle should be broken, humanity has an astonishing capacity to recreate the very conditions that destroyed it.
Western storytelling sets us up to misunderstand Attack on Titan
I sincerely think that part of the problem is that popular Western narrative tradition trains us to expect stories to offer a clean resolution with a single moral; something like an Aesop’s fable ending.
Attack on Titan, to put it simply, is not that kind of story. It’s an allegory. It observes human nature, and draws on philosophy, history, theology, and mythology. It illuminates patterns, rather than prescribing solutions. It’s not trying to tell us what should be done; it’s asking us to notice how humans behave, and question what it means for us.
Ergo, a more meaningful question than “What other options were there?” might be,
“Given the world I live in, what can I reasonably do?”
Attack on Titan challenges us to think about the tension between freedom and security — symbolised by going outside the Walls versus staying within them. For some people, the ideal balance leans toward exploration and risk; for others, protection and stability. Attack on Titan isn’t telling us which one is right — it’s asking each of us to consider where our personal threshold is, and at what point we’d stand up and fight if that balance were threatened or taken away.
At the same time, it suggests that things that are outside of our control perhaps matter less than giving thoughtful consideration to the things we can realistically do something about. That meaning and purpose come from staying rooted in the present, seeking understanding rather than fearing the unknown, and valuing small moments of connection we find with others. And, maybe – just maybe – if more of us did that, instead of buying into hatred and culture wars, we’d be a more peaceful society overall.
Tl;dr — the Rumbling isn’t “the solution.” It’s an example of how bad things could get.
Ironically, I think that if Attack on Titan does have a moral, it’s probably nothing more complicated than touch grass. Which is funny to me, considering how often fans and haters alike seem to forget to do exactly that.
The “Eldian problem” framing itself is the issue
When people ask “What other options were there?”, they’re assuming that there was an inherent problem to be solved: “the Eldian problem” requiring a “final solution.” And historically, that kind of language is not only reductive — it's dangerous.
In early 20th‑century Europe, political discourse included talk of “the Jewish question.” Today, similar, dehumanising rhetoric resurfaces in discussions about other marginalised groups (e.g. “the trans debate”). Hitler’s “final solution” was genocide — the Holocaust, literally “sacrifice by fire.” The Rumbling mirrors that logic: annihilation framed as necessity.
This is why I push back on the premise. In Attack on Titan's case, the story isn’t asking us to solve anything. It’s asking us to recognise how extremism frames itself as inevitability.
Thus, Eren’s tragedy is that he became the thing he hated most.
Attack on Titan repeatedly shows that outcomes can’t be predicted
This is another reason I find the “What else could they have done?” debate to be flawed: Attack on Titan is riddled with worked examples of the impossibility of predicting outcomes. I mean, Levi’s guiding philosophy is literally, “Make the choice you think you’ll regret the least.”
In terms of what other options there might have been, to enact a small‑scale Rumbling was meant to be the plan. However, its success depended on Eren's compliance. Of course, when Eren did gain the power to act on it, he chose to enact the full-scale version instead.
But then, throughout the story, every time a best-laid plan gets compromised, it's always down to some unforeseen variable:
Erwin predicts that there are other Titan shifters besides Eren, but not the Female Titan’s ability to call other Titans (creating the diversion that allows Annie to evade capture).
Levi fails to predict Kenny’s involvement in the kidnapping of Eren and Historia.
The Scouts plan to use Eren's hardening ability to seal Wall Maria, but they fail to predict how Zeke will use the terrain and his ability to control Titans to divide and eliminate them.
Hange says something important in the anime (and Historia's letter echoes it): that outcomes affecting groups aren’t determined by any one person’s decisions, but by the collective choices of many. Fandom debates can’t replicate that condition, when they’re really just individual egos sparring.
Then what is the central thesis?
For my two pennies' worth, it's probably not: “How do we stop humans committing atrocities?”
And something more along the lines of: “How can we live, knowing we can’t control everything?”
Attack on Titan asks us to reflect on our individual choices, accept what we can’t control, and to do our best with what we can — while valuing connection, curiosity, and staying grounded in the present. And perhaps, if more people chose to live that way, atrocities like the Rumbling would be far less likely to occur in the first place.
Because peace isn’t something that simply happens — it’s something everyone has to actively work towards.
