When Abby burst onto the scene in The Last of Us Part II, she didn't just challenge players’ expectations. She split the fandom like a lightning strike through storm clouds. For some, she was a bold narrative move. For others, a hard pill to swallow. But love her or loathe her, Abby is one of the most layered characters Naughty Dog has ever written.

This isn’t a puff piece or a character roast. It’s a thoughtful breakdown of who Abby is, what drives her, and why her story matters.

Abigail "Abby" Anderson is introduced in The Last of Us Part II as a soldier in the WLF (Washington Liberation Front). But that’s just the surface. Beneath the tactical gear and hardened attitude is a person shaped by trauma, vengeance, and—eventually—growth.

Her father, Jerry Anderson, was the Firefly surgeon Joel killed at the end of The Last of Us Part I. That single moment—one player-controlled, devastating act—sets her path into motion.

Abby is not simply Joel's killer. She's someone consumed by the same emotion that once drove Joel: the desperation to save family, to avenge them, and to feel whole again.

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Abby’s muscular build became a lightning rod online. Critics questioned its realism. Supporters praised its accuracy for someone trained in combat, molded by survival, and emotionally fueled by revenge.

Her body is a direct result of her obsession. It becomes her armor, both physically and psychologically. She trains to cope, to prepare, and to distract herself. In a world stripped of luxuries, strength is a choice—and hers is earned.

When Naughty Dog gave players control of Abby, it wasn’t an accident. It was a gamble—a narrative flip that forced empathy into a story rooted in vengeance.

By walking in Abby’s shoes, literally, players get a front-row seat to her world. Her relationships with characters like Owen, Mel, Manny, and Lev create depth, texture, and, crucially, contrast to Ellie’s journey.

Instead of a hero-villain binary, the game shows a mirrored descent. Ellie and Abby are reflections of each other, circling the same emotional drain.

Lev is the catalyst for Abby's redemption. Their bond evolves from mission partnership to genuine kinship. For the first time in years, Abby chooses to protect rather than punish. Their dynamic brings softness to a character who had long since closed herself off.

Lev’s outsider status, strength, and courage reflect traits Abby admires—and that remind her of who she could be if she lets go of the past.

Their journey to Santa Barbara, harrowing and bittersweet, reinforces Abby's humanity. She isn't the same person who swung the golf club in Jackson. She's scarred, smaller, more weathered—but also freer.

In the final act, Abby is captured by a new enemy faction: the Rattlers. Starved and broken, she bears little resemblance to the imposing soldier from earlier in the game.

When Ellie finds her, both women are shells of their former selves. What happens next isn’t a showdown—it’s a decision.

Ellie lets Abby go. And in that moment, the cycle ends. Not with a death, but with mercy.

That choice speaks louder than violence. It signals growth, healing, and the possibility of something beyond revenge.

Abby isn’t a side note. She’s one-half of a dual protagonist structure. Without her, The Last of Us Part II isn’t a story—it’s a revenge fantasy. Her presence turns it into a question: What does revenge really cost?

The shift from Ellie to Abby forces players to reconsider their biases. It’s bold storytelling, not because it's shocking, but because it's human.

Abby challenges the player to feel uncomfortable. And in doing so, she elevates the narrative from something entertaining to something unforgettable.

Abby Anderson isn’t meant to be liked. She’s meant to be understood. Her journey in The Last of Us Part II flips the script on traditional video game narratives and asks something rare of its players: empathy.

She’s a character built not to please, but to challenge. And in that, she represents something rare—a story not afraid to dig into discomfort to find something truthful underneath.

Whether you walked away loving her, hating her, or unsure how to feel, Abby left a mark. And like the scar on her face, that mark isn’t going anywhere.

Would you have made the same choices? Let us know your thoughts.