75 pages • 2-hour read
The Games Gods Play
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Themes
Resistance Through Humanity
Within The Games Gods Play, the author creates a disjointed power dynamic between mortals and immortals as an integral component to her worldbuilding. Not all immortals have a significant impact on human society; monsters, for instance, aren’t shown to interfere with or manifest within human society in the few scenes wherein Abigail Owen portrays human urban settings, also known as the Overworld. Seemingly, they only appear within the context of the Crucible and/or within specific, god-administered settings, such as the Underworld. The gods, however, do interfere in human lives and often abuse their power over human lives with complete disregard for the consequences of their actions. Though they are touted as representative of divine providence by virtue of their temples, the gods have proven themselves as prone to destructive whimsy and petulant tantrums that undermine the idea of their benevolence. Lyra’s curse to be unlovable is a prime example of Zeus’s self-centered and unpredictable nature, the repercussions of which have plagued her for her entire life as she is made to “wish, for the billionth time, [that her] mother’s water hadn’t broken in Zeus’ temple the day [she] was born. The day [she] was cursed” (19). With the exception of Hades and perhaps Aphrodite, Owen suggests that the Greek gods in her narrative have a fundamentally disconnected view of their relationship with humans and, by extension, the worth of a human life.
The very premise of the Crucible has the gods seemingly choose their champions without their consent to forcibly have them participate in a brutal and fatal series of games orchestrated to solve their inner squabbles for leadership and, according to Hades, “to fulfill [their] mirth for bloodshed” (341). By treating mortals as mere pieces in their divine conflict, the gods reinforce a system in which human suffering is normalized, furthering the theme of resistance by highlighting the necessity of reclaiming agency in a world that seeks to deny it. In the face of such indifference, therefore, Owen suggests that Lyra’s greatest act of resistance isn’t her pursuit to win the Crucible but rather doing so in a way that champions the humanity of her actions. By her actions, Lyra is antithetical to the nature of the gods’ will through the Crucible: She is neither bloodthirsty despite the tempting prize of having her curse broken nor interested in the political games between the gods. Rather, despite hoping to become loveable, in the end, she will not allow the gods’ whims and fancies to corrupt her morals and thus actively chooses to work with the other champions and minimize pain and deaths, such as in this passage where she negotiates a truce among champions: “Anyone who doesn’t hurt me…or any champion…during this Labor, I’ll tell you the tip [for Aphrodite’s Labor] after we’re all out of the cave” (238). In a high-stakes situation where Dex is actively trying to gather followers to harm her, Lyra does not try to save herself exclusively. Her decision to forge alliances in an environment built on betrayal underscores the power of collective resistance—by uniting against a common enemy rather than turning on one another, the champions disrupt the gods’ expectation of violence as a default. Her push to safeguard everyone from harm is one that defies the Crucible’s premise, but unlike Dex and the others who are desperately trying to win at any cost, Lyra knows that their true opponents aren’t each other, but rather the gods that use them as proxies and have no care for their well-being. Owen presents Lyra not as a traditional warrior, but as a disruptor—her true strength lies in her ability to challenge an unjust system by valuing cooperation and empathy over brute force.
The Burden of Immortality
Though the gods in Owen’s The Games Gods Play are powerful and fantastical, the author nevertheless underlines that their immortality comes with its fair share of burdens. Specifically, Owen implies that the longevity of her divine characters affects their ability to sustain relationships in meaningful ways. Immortality, rather than granting them wisdom or enlightenment, has instead eroded their capacity for connection, leaving them in an endless cycle of grudges, betrayals, and isolation. The author often alludes to the classical Greek myths to outline a rough sketch of the relationships shared by her versions of the Greek gods: Hades, Poseidon, and Zeus remain brothers; Hades and Persephone remain the king and queen of the Underworld for the majority of the narrative; the gods still fought and won against the Titans, Cronos still ate his children, and so on. Yet the internal and, at times, incestuous relationships typical of the classical Greek myths are often cast in doubt in Owen’s versions of the tale, making the relationships between her gods all the more nebulous and vaguer in definition.
As seen in this excerpt, a god’s origin isn’t well-known outside of Olympus: “There are many accounts for the reason Hephaestus’ feet are turned backwards, giving the god a distinctive gait when he walks. But the one I [Lyra] believe […] is that as a child he protected his mother […] from Zeus’ unwanted advances” (340). In this quote, Owen demonstrates how, while the classical myths might be a good blueprint to understanding the character of a god, they do not predefine their relationships. The very idea that the gods’ origins are debated implies that they are not only unreliable but also unknowable—even to each other. In fact, the gods seem to have lost what little love they bore for one another over the centuries they spent together, given how Hades’s does not view either of his brothers as part of his own family: “[Lyra] swallow[s] and stare[s] at [Hades]. ‘Are Charon and Cerberus your family?’ ‘More than my brothers’” (301). By prioritizing his bonds with the creatures of the Underworld over his supposed kin, Hades exemplifies the idea that family—whether divine or mortal—is ultimately determined by action, not blood. Likewise, Aphrodite’s admission that she has favorites among the gods (“Hades is one of my favorites” [167]) gestures toward an erosion within the family dynamics of Olympus’s gods. Rather than affirming and consolidating firm family structures, therefore, immortality in the gods’ case seems to cause disassociation and strife within their family dynamics.
Owen implies that the collected history over their extended lives leaves mostly space for grudges and anger, as indicated in Hades’s admission that “every person [he’s] ever trusted has betrayed [him]” (477). Though their immortality enables and ensures their divine status within the world, it also twists their perception of acceptable behavior within relationships—be they family in nature or otherwise. Hence, Zeus has no issue throwing Hephaestus as a child from Olympus, because he is immortal, nor do they conceive of humans as noteworthy since a human’s life is infinitesimally small compared to their unending lifespan. Their immortality has, paradoxically, rendered them emotionally stunted, incapable of learning from past mistakes because eternity denies them the urgency of growth. The conglomerated effects are gods who are effectively isolated, emotionally immature, and incapable of holding themselves accountable in the face of eternity.
The Value of Love
Owen’s choice to make one of the pivotal mainstays of her main character a curse to be unlovable immediately highlights the value of love within the narrative by creating an example of negative confirmation. In effect, the author explores the idea of a life without love through Lyra and, specifically, the absence of connection, community, and emotional fulfillment. By positioning love as something conspicuously absent from Lyra’s life, Owen emphasizes its necessity as a fundamental human experience. The tenets of Lyra’s curse in this first installment of Owen’s narrative can appear muddled: Hades, for instance, does not seem to be affected by Lyra’s curse and develops genuine feelings for her throughout the Crucible. Likewise, Boone seems to have harbored an affection for Lyra for as long as they’ve known each other, as he claims in the following scene:
‘I’ve always admired you.’ […] ‘Admiration isn’t caring.’ ‘Sure it is,’ [Boone] insists. ‘I’ve even wanted to partner with you on a few scores. […] I mean it. But you’ve always put this wall around yourself […]. You kept all the pledges at arm’s length, so no one has had a chance to get to know you. To be your friend’ (334).
By all accounts, if romantic love wasn’t available with other humans, amicable love and friendship were. It is uncertain, therefore, if the nature of Lyra’s curse was truly making her unlovable or if, perhaps, she made herself appear unlovable in a self-fulfilling prophetical turn of events. Readers have confirmation, however, that despite the evidence that would suggest otherwise and by Zeus’s own admission to Lyra—“You are the baby I cursed in my temple? The unlovable one?” (510)—Lyra was definitely cursed until she became a goddess and queen of the Underworld. This revelation reinforces the gods’ arbitrary cruelty—love, the one thing Lyra desires most, was denied to her not through any fault of her own, but through divine whim. And the effects of this curse were longstanding as Lyra faced complete ostracization and could only “[dream] of someone—[her] parents, Boone, even Felix—looking at [her] like that [with concern] [her] whole life” (230). But despite the constant despair of never feeling a loving connection, Lyra still recognizes the value of love and advocates for its importance and power—something she demonstrates in her comment to Aphrodite: “Seems to me that love can calm storms, end wars, make fools of smart people, and bridge the gap between life and death. Doesn’t that make it the most powerful?” (166). More so than any other character, therefore, Lyra is able to evaluate and weigh love as an essential component to the lived experience of both mortals and immortals, because, through her interaction with her curse, she herself has had little to no experience of it. Though gods are reportedly dismissive of love (“It’s hard enough to be taken seriously when love is up against power like storm, war, knowledge, and death” [166]), Lyra’s character is a prime example of how a dearth of love cultivates endless yearning and an absence of fulfillment in life. Her journey is not just about breaking her curse, but about proving that love—whether romantic, platonic, or familial—is what truly defines strength and survival.
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