It is a lonely game. Most of the time, you are just riding Agro through a world that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something that never happens. Then you find one. The music shifts. The ground shakes. Shadow of the colossus colossi aren't just enemies to be checked off a list; they are living, breathing architectural puzzles that somehow make you feel like a monster for winning.
Back in 2005, Fumito Ueda and Team Ico did something that still feels like magic. They stripped away the fluff. No towns. No side quests. No NPCs babbling about ancient prophecies. Just sixteen giants. You find them, you climb them, and you kill them. But honestly, the "killing" part is where the game gets complicated. Every time one of these creatures falls, that triumphant orchestral swell dies out, replaced by a funeral dirge. It’s a gut punch. You’ve just committed an act of ecological vandalism for a goal you barely understand.
The Design Philosophy Behind the Giants
Most games treat bosses like bullet sponges. You stand in front of them, you dodge a telegraphed swing, and you chip away at a health bar until it hits zero. Shadow of the colossus colossi are different because they are environments.
Think about Gaius, the third colossus. He’s this towering knight with a sword made of stone. To a new player, he looks impossible. You can't just hack at his ankles. You have to bait him into striking a metal plate so his armor shatters, then use his own weapon as a ramp. It’s tactile. You feel the weight of his movements through the controller’s vibration. When you’re hanging onto his fur while he tries to shake you off, the stamina meter isn't just a UI element; it's your lifeline. If that blue circle runs out, you’re dead.
Ueda famously called this "design by subtraction." If a mechanic didn't serve the core feeling of the scale or the tragedy, it was cut. That's why the colossi don't have traditional "levels." Each one is a bespoke encounter. Some, like Avion the bird or Hydrus the electric eel, force you into their domain. You aren't the predator there. You’re a parasite.
Why We Still Talk About the "Missing" Colossi
There’s a reason the fandom is still obsessed with this game two decades later. It’s the mystery. For years, players scoured the Forbidden Lands looking for the 17th colossus. They climbed the Secret Garden. They tried to find glitches that would lead them to "The Dam" or "The Spider."
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The reality is actually more interesting than the myths. During development, there were actually 24 planned colossi. Then it was 20. Eventually, they settled on 16 to ensure each fight felt unique and polished. We know their names now thanks to art books and data mining: Phoenix, Kyos, Aberth. Some were cut because the PS2 hardware literally couldn't handle them. Others were cut because they just weren't fun to fight. But the fact that people spent literal years—real human lives—searching for them tells you everything you need to know about the atmosphere Team Ico created. The world feels like it should have more. It feels like a graveyard of giants.
The Emotional Weight of the Kill
Have you ever noticed how the colossi don't actually attack you first? Most of them are just... chilling.
Kuromori is scurrying around her colosseum. Pelagia is wading in a lake. They aren't "evil." They are guardians. When Wander plunges the Ancient Sword into their vitals, they scream in a way that sounds hauntingly organic. It’s not a monster roar; it’s a cry of pain.
Then there’s the black ink. Those tendrils that shoot out and enter Wander's body every time a colossus dies are a visual representation of the corruption he's inviting. You start the game looking like a hero. By the end, Wander is pale, his skin is grey, and he has tiny horns. He’s literally becoming the thing he’s hunting. It’s a brilliant bit of visual storytelling that happens without a single line of dialogue.
A Breakdown of the Most Impactful Encounters
Not all colossi are created equal. Some are tests of platforming, while others are tests of nerves.
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- Malossus (The 16th Colossus): This is the finality. He doesn't move. He’s a stationary fortress of lightning and stone. The sheer scale of Malossus is meant to make you feel insignificant. Reaching him requires a gauntlet of cover-to-cover movement that feels more like a war movie than a fantasy game.
- Phalanx (The 13th Colossus): This is arguably the peak of the game. A massive sand-dragon that doesn't even have an attack. It just flies. You have to chase it on horseback, shoot its bladders to bring it down, and then jump from a moving horse onto its fins. It is cinematic in a way that modern games with ten times the budget still can't replicate.
- Dirge (The 10th Colossus): This is the sand snake that hunts you. Most of the time, you're looking up at the colossi. With Dirge, you’re looking behind you, terrified, as those glowing eyes chase Agro through the desert. It flips the script.
The physics engine was way ahead of its time. When a colossus moves, Wander’s body reacts realistically. He stumbles. He loses his grip. He flails. This "IK" (Inverse Kinematics) system is what makes the struggle feel real. If Wander just snapped to the fur like a magnetic piece of plastic, the tension would evaporate. You have to fight for every inch of progress.
The Legacy of the Forbidden Lands
People often compare Shadow of the Colossus to Breath of the Wild or Elden Ring. You can see the DNA. That sense of "I see a mountain, I can go there" started here. But those games are full of stuff to do. Shadow is defined by what isn't there.
There’s a specific kind of melancholy in the PS4 remake by Bluepoint Games. It’s beautiful, sure. The fur rendering is incredible. But some purists argue that the stark, washed-out lighting of the PS2 original captured the "purgatory" vibe better. Regardless of which version you play, the shadow of the colossus colossi remain the gold standard for boss design because they aren't just obstacles. They are characters. They are tragedies.
When you finish the game, you aren't rewarded with a "Level Up" screen or a legendary loot drop. You’re left with a sense of loss. You saved the girl, maybe, but at what cost? You wiped out a species of magnificent, ancient beings for a promise made by a voice in a temple.
How to Approach the Game Today
If you're playing for the first time, don't rush. Don't look up a guide for every colossus. The frustration of trying to figure out how to climb Quadratus or how to flip Cenobia is the point.
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- Watch the body language. Every colossus has a "tell." If they stop moving, they’re likely preparing a shake or an attack.
- Listen to the music. Ko Otani’s score is your best hint. When the music changes to "The Opened Way," you’ve found the solution. When it slows down, you’re close to the end.
- Trust Agro. The horse has a mind of her own. If you try to micro-manage her, she'll feel clunky. If you let her pathfind around obstacles while you focus on aiming your bow, she’s the best companion in gaming history.
- Find the fruit and lizards. If you want to make the later fights easier, look for trees with hanging fruit to increase health and silver-tailed lizards at shrines to increase stamina.
The brilliance of these encounters is that they stay with you. You’ll forget the thousands of goblins you killed in other RPGs, but you will never forget the way Phalanx looked as it glided over the dunes, or the way the light caught the fur of the first giant you ever climbed.
The game doesn't need to explain why the colossi exist. Their existence is their own justification. They are the land itself, waking up to defend its silence. When you kill them, the silence just gets louder. That's the real ending of the story.
To truly understand the impact of these designs, pay attention to the environment after a colossus falls. The body stays there. It becomes a permanent part of the map. You can ride back to the site of your first battle and see the skeletal remains of Valus. It’s a grim reminder of your progress. Most games despawn enemies to save memory; Shadow of the Colossus keeps them there to haunt you. It forces you to live with what you’ve done.
Final takeaway: If you want to see how games can be high art without being pretentious, look no further than these sixteen giants. They represent a perfect marriage of mechanics and emotion that we rarely see in the AAA space anymore. Go find them. Just don't be surprised if you feel a little bit empty when the last one falls.