Right, so I need to get something off my chest about The Last of Us telly adaptation, specifically about Henry and Sam’s storyline. Now, I’ve been gaming since the ZX Spectrum days – we’re talking 1984 here – and I can count on one hand the number of times a game has properly made me emotional. The Last of Us in 2013 was one of those rare occasions where I actually had to pause the PlayStation, put the controller down, and just… sit there for a bit. Henry and Sam’s story absolutely destroyed me back then, and I knew going into the HBO series that I was going to get my heart ripped out all over again.
What I didn’t expect was how much worse they’d make it. In the best possible way, mind you.
See, when you’ve been following gaming adaptations as long as I have – and trust me, I remember the absolute disaster that was the Super Mario Bros film in ’93 – you develop a healthy skepticism about how these things turn out. But HBO did something brilliant with Henry and Sam’s arc. They took what was already a gut-punch in the game and somehow made it even more devastating by adding layers that weren’t there originally.
In Naughty Dog’s original, Henry and Sam are decent characters, don’t get me wrong. They’re survivors from Hartford, got trapped in Pittsburgh, you understand their situation. But they’re relatively straightforward – good people in a bad situation trying to survive. The show completely transforms this by making Henry a former collaborator who worked with FEDRA. Suddenly there’s this moral complexity that wasn’t there before. He gave up Kathleen’s brother to save Sam, who’s got leukemia. Christ, that changes everything, doesn’t it?
This is where Lamar Johnson’s performance really shines through. He’s carrying this weight – months of running, hiding, keeping his brother’s spirits up while dealing with the guilt of betraying his community. When he tells Joel “I’m not a bad guy, just a good big brother,” it’s delivered without any self-pity or excuses. It’s just… fact. That’s his reality. Sam comes first, everything else is secondary. As someone who grew up with a younger brother myself, that hit different.
Now, making Sam deaf in the show might seem like a random change if you’re just thinking surface level, but it’s actually bloody brilliant storytelling. Keivonn Woodard brings this incredible innocence to the character – communicating so much through sign language and facial expressions. But think about what this means practically in their world. In a zombie apocalypse, hearing can literally mean the difference between life and death. Sam can’t hear a clicker approaching. He’s completely dependent on Henry for that kind of protection.
It also creates this immediate bond with Ellie. Both kids are outsiders in their own ways, both dealing with things that make them different. When Ellie starts learning ASL from their shared comic book obsession, teaching Sam to sign “endure and survive,” it feels genuine. Not forced, not convenient for the plot – just two kids connecting the way kids do.
The basement hideout scenes… bloody hell. Watching Sam draw superheroes on his Etch A Sketch while Henry explains they can only come out after dark because of Kathleen’s people hunting them – that’s visual storytelling done right. No exposition dumps, just showing us their constrained existence through these small, human moments. Ellie sharing her joke book, learning to communicate with Sam – this is how you build relationships that the audience actually cares about.
I’ve got to mention the sniper sequence here because it shows how clever the adaptation team were about translating gameplay into television. In the game, this bit is properly tense – you’re controlling Joel, working your way through houses to flank the sniper while Henry provides cover fire. Classic third-person shooter stuff, really well done. But you can’t just film someone playing a video game level, can you? So instead they turn it into this character moment where Joel’s military experience comes to the forefront. Henry’s forced to confront what he sees as his own inadequacy – “You’re a brute, and I’m thankful for it.” That line carries so much weight.
The infected child storyline builds differently in the show, and this is where they really twist the knife. Sam’s fears are much more concrete here. That scene where he asks Ellie if she’s afraid, then admits he’s terrified there’s “nothing” inside him that would prevent him becoming a monster – Jesus, that’s heavy for a kid to be carrying around. When he secretly puts Ellie’s blood on his wound, hoping her immunity might somehow transfer… that’s pure desperation from a frightened child grasping for any hope he can find.
This moment doesn’t exist in the game, but it feels completely authentic to the world and characters. It shows Sam’s not just passively accepting his fate – he’s actively trying to save himself using the only resource he knows might work. Makes what happens next even more crushing.
Both versions end the same way – Sam turns, Henry has to shoot his infected brother, then immediately turns the gun on himself. But the show version carries all this additional weight from everything we’ve learned about their relationship. We’ve watched Henry sacrifice everything for Sam – his community standing, months of their lives hiding in basements, his own moral compass. When he holds that gun to his head after shooting Sam, there’s no question he’s already dead inside. The trigger pull is just completing what was already finished.
As someone who’s watched his own kids grow up, the brother protection theme hits particularly hard. The parallels between Joel/Tommy and Henry/Sam become much clearer in the adaptation. Joel admits he hasn’t seen his brother in years because “I don’t know that he’d want to see me.” Two older brothers, different outcomes – Joel failed to protect Sarah but survived, Henry protected Sam at enormous cost but couldn’t save him in the end. It’s about what makes survival worthwhile and what we’ll sacrifice for family.
The aftermath gets me every time. In the game, Ellie’s withdrawal is more subtle – she references Sam later in conversation, you understand she’s affected. The show gives us that image of her leaving her joke book on Sam’s grave with “I’m sorry” written inside instead of another joke. Perfect visual representation of her growing understanding that some pain can’t be laughed away, some losses leave permanent scars.
Keivonn Woodard’s performance deserves special mention here. Making a character who primarily communicates through ASL feel fully dimensional isn’t easy, especially for a young actor. His scenes with Bella Ramsey feel like genuine friendship – two kids who, in different circumstances, might’ve just been normal playmates. When Sam reveals his bite to Ellie, Woodard conveys fear, hope, and shame without saying a word. That’s proper acting.
The morning after sequence… Christ, even knowing it’s coming doesn’t make it easier. The shift from peaceful morning routine to absolute chaos happens with that same shocking speed as the game, but our deeper connection to these characters makes it worse. Joel’s helplessness, Ellie’s terror, Henry’s split-second decision, that awful silence afterward – perfect translation of the game’s emotional impact.
What makes this work so well is how it functions as a mirror for Joel and Ellie‘s journey. Henry and Sam show us one possible outcome – total devastation. After witnessing their fate, Joel’s growing attachment to Ellie becomes even more tense. We understand what he stands to lose and why he might resist caring too much.
That “Endure and Survive” comic book motto becomes painfully ironic. Sam doesn’t survive, Henry chooses not to endure without him. But for Ellie, it becomes both memorial and personal philosophy. When she references it later during difficult moments, it connects directly back to this formative loss.
As someone who’s been following gaming adaptations since they started making them, what impressed me most was how HBO honored the original’s emotional core while finding new dimensions. Sam’s deafness, Henry’s collaboration background, their more developed personalities – none of this changes the fundamental tragedy, but it deepens the impact. This is how adaptation should work – understanding what made the source powerful and translating that power while respecting the audience.
The Last of Us consistently proves that the most heartbreaking post-apocalyptic moments aren’t about zombie attacks or civilization collapse – they’re about impossible choices made for love and the devastating consequences that follow despite best intentions. Henry and Sam’s story, in both game and show, stands as one of the most powerful expressions of this truth.
When I finished those Kansas City episodes, I found myself sitting quietly with the same hollow feeling I’d had a decade earlier with that DualShock in my hands. The fact that HBO’s adaptation could recreate and enhance that emotional impact speaks to how thoughtfully they approached the source material. Henry and Sam’s story remains what it always was – a perfect, heartbreaking example of The Last of Us‘ central message that love and loss are inseparably connected, whether in our world or any other.
Still makes me cry every bloody time.
John grew up swapping floppy disks and reading Amiga Power cover to cover. Now an IT manager in Manchester, he writes about the glory days of British computer gaming—Sensible Soccer, Speedball 2, and why the Amiga deserved more love than it ever got.
