The very first movie that my family got on DVD was The Matrix. My dad had gotten a G4 Macintosh that came with a DVD-ROM drive, and so what was then a new home video format had now become available to us. I had seen previews of The Matrix, but the marketing campaign for the movie cleverly kept the actual premise of the film secret, enticing viewers with its slick, stylish, mindblowing visuals (having invented "Bullet Time," a technique that put dozens of still cameras around a scene, hidden within a greenscreen environment, so that you could freeze time while the "camera" moved around the scene).
The story, of course, is well-known at this point: Neo discovers that the world he inhabits, which resembles a dreary urban 1999 with soulless office work, is actually a virtual environment operated by tyrannical machine overlords, who instead use humanity as batteries while lulling them into complacency by trapping them in this digital limbo. (My dad, ever the pedant, complained about the fact that human bodies would take far more energy to maintain than they'd put out, but I think that A: they're not a source so much as a capacitor for energy, and B: there's either an element of contempt here or a kind of "Zeroth Law" thing where the machines are technically protecting humanity by keeping them in this state.)
The movie blended a whole lot of philosophical ideas while also drawing heavily upon Anime as an inspiration at a time when the medium was far more niche in the West. After its sibling directors, the Wachowskis, both came out as trans women, though, looking back on the movie, you can see the way in which its story works as a trans allegory, a metaphor for breaking out of a rigid system of cultural expectations (including gender roles) to live as oneself - in particular, the villainous Agent Smith insistently refers to Neo as Thomas Anderson, the name that he was given at birth but not the one he chose for himself. I wouldn't learn the term Deadnaming for about two decades after seeing the movie, but this is exactly what Agent Smith is constantly doing.
Still, I don't think the movie was meant to be purely read as a trans allegory, and can be more broadly viewed as an allegory for breaking out of all manner of dehumanizing systems, from patriarchy to capitalism.
But beyond that, the central kind of fantasy of it all: that the world you know is not the real world, and that one might attain a higher level of power and wisdom by escaping into the true world beyond, is a potent one at the center of fantasy as a genre (the Matrix is obviously more sci-fi, but tonally it could be seen as a fantasy story as well).
Gnosticism is a tradition within the history of early Christianity that, of course, is a lot more complex and nuanced than I'll be able to cover here (and I'm not any authority on this anyway,) but one of the central concepts is that of the Demiurge - a being who appears to be godlike, but is actually inherently corrupt and only pretends to be the true divine creator, and the false reality that the Demiurge has created.
The Demiurge might be malicious, or might be ignorant and foolish, not even realizing that they are lying.
But the idea is that while the true creator created a pure and holy spiritual universe, that the Demiurge created physical reality, and by doing so, trapped flawless, perfect souls in profane, weak physical forms. Salvation, to the Gnostics, was achieved by discovering the truth of one's pure origins, and would allow a kind of escape from the profane physical world to ascend into the true universe beyond the material.
The Gnostics were considered heretics by the early church, but the ideas that they presented have, I think, become part of Western cultural thought, and even link up in some ways with philosophies from other parts of the world.
Surely, the world we exist in includes suffering. Quite a lot of it, in fact. Three is certainly an appeal to the idea that one could escape all of it.
But... what if they're wrong? And what if this went beyond mere philosophical speculation and into the realm of action.
To be clear, I'm not going to talk about anyone doing this in the real world, but I think we can draw some parallels once we look at two examples.
In The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, taking place centuries after the events of the previous game, we find an Empire that has been forced into a subservient position by the neighboring Aldmeri Dominion. The Dominion has within it a kind of agency called the Thalmor, who were described by the developers as a faction that, no matter where your loyalties lay in, say, the Skyrim civil war, you were meant to hate.
They are not only a kind of secret police, but also a kind of inquisition, imposing religious laws that the Dominion had forced upon the Empire that forbid the worship of Talos, the a human who had ascended to godhood.
Why do they want to do this? Well, because Talos is evidently the lynchpin that keeps the physical universe from being destroyed.
And why would they want it destroyed?
Because they are basically Gnostic fundamentalists: they believe that the elves (or "mer,") were once free spirits that roamed the cosmos in a formless state of bliss. As long as the physical world exists, they are held back from returning to this state.
Which... makes things a bit complicated. After all, if they're right, might it actually be better to allow for this collapse of reality as we know it? The High Elves (Aldmeri) view Lorkhan, the Demiurge-like figure who helped create the world, as a villainous monster who imprisoned their souls. But humanity, or at least the Nords, revere him as the god Shor, who led humanity to fight off oppression and tyrants (notably, the elves).
The Thalmor are pretty universally hatable. It is their imposition of these religious laws upon the Empire that leads to the civil war in Skyrim. And in a modern, tolerant, secular view of the world (one that I certainly hold but is clearly not universal) it seems pretty clearly villainous to undercut the core of another peoples' culture. But the Thalmor believe that the end - in this case the end of the world - justifies the means, and that this apocalyptic fate would actually be better for everyone, and not in a "mercy kill the universe" way but a "usher in an endless golden age of spiritual freedom" way.
I think a similar concept is at work in Elden Ring.
Of all the dangerous threats in the Lands Between, the most mysterious and horror-coded is the Frenzied Flame. There's no one single demigod or faction associated with it - it wasn't until the Shadow of the Erdtree DLC that we got a proper boss aligned with the Flame.
But if we follow the path that leads to the Three Fingers, and we get Hyetta to serve as our Finger Maiden for them (even if we wind up using Miquella's Needle to cleanse ourselves of it and thus have our cake and eat it too - too bad Melina never shows up again to let us explain how we accomplished this,) she explains that the belief associated with the Frenzied Flame is that, at the beginning of time, there was the One Great, but that the One Great divided itself, no longer held together in wholeness and allowing for different things to emerge from the fractured whole.
Hyetta claims this was a mistake, and that all suffering and pain has been a result from this fracturing. The Flame of Frenzy, though, will melt everything down, ridding the world of all that divides and distinguishes, and restore the One Great to its original, undifferentiated form.
I think that this idea runs parallel to that Gnostic idea. In this case, the One Great is sort of both divine creator and demiurge, but we might say that the part of the One Great that remained in a position of divine authority, the Greater Will, is really playing this role of Demiurge.
So, the Frenzied Flame is this force that works toward the reconstitution of that original One Great. But... it does so in a manner of pure horror.
One of the things that I've always felt was really fascinating about the Flame is that we don't really see a lot of people talking about it. It seems to arise in places of despair - the tomb of the wandering merchants is where the Three Fingers can be found, but we also see how Midra's Manor was once a beautiful place that was burned by the Hornsent Inquisition, its master impaled with a truly horrifying torture implement (how is he not dead with that thing going directly through his brain?) But even little minor places, like the village on the Weeping Peninsula (not sure what they're despairing about, but the name of the landmass doesn't imply it's the happiest place) or the Leyndell soldiers trapped on the slopes of Mt. Gelmir, resorting to cannibalism as they're cut off from reinforcements and supplies - these are all places where the Frenzied Flame has power. (Oh, I forgot the place up on the Consecrated Snowfield. No clue what is going on there, actually.)
But the point is, there are these weird parallels with the Golden Order. One might even see how the Shamans' ability to amalgamate with others' bodies might be viewed in this manner. The Law of Regression - is that a little hidden nod to the Frenzied Flame within the Golden Order?
What is interesting is that in all of these cases, there is this feeling of a crime or mistake that has ruined things - that the imposition of a physical world was an evil act.
And this goes in pretty stark contrast with the more widespread and popular conceptions of creation - that the world's birth was a good thing, and that the fact that everything exists is good, even if there are flaws in it. And likewise, isn't the classic heroic fantasy narrative about saving the world from destruction?
When Melina makes her last plea to the Tarnished not to take on the Frenzied Flame, she speaks specifically of how it will prevent "births," which I find pretty interesting given that it's not a word we hear elsewhere in the game, as far as I know. What she specifically means is, of course, open for debate (this is FromSoft, so everything's always open for debate). But I think this is an appeal to the idea that the physical world allows for new possibilities, for new ideas and things and people to arise.
There's something appealing, certainly, to an endless and eternal state of perpetual bliss. But by complicating things, by making a world of texture and color and distinctions, we actually have something - we have meaning.