How Will The MCU Prevent Franklin Richards From Becoming Overpowered?

They knew he was too powerful. Even before Franklin Richards took his first breath in the MCU, Marvel Studios understood the challenge they were about to face.

In the comic books, Franklin isn’t just another mutant. He’s an Omega-level reality warper—someone who can create universes, manipulate time, and reshape the cosmos with a thought. If introduced into the Marvel Cinematic Universe without limitations, he would break the very fabric of the storytelling engine Marvel has carefully crafted for over a decade.

So, how do you contain a god in a world that thrives on grounded heroes?

It begins subtly in Fantastic Four (2025). Reed Richards and Sue Storm are introduced not just as superheroes but as deeply flawed scientists and parents-to-be. Franklin is born in the shadows of a post-Secret Wars landscape—an MCU that is already grappling with multiversal collapse. But Marvel makes a critical change: Franklin isn’t born a god.

He’s born sick.

From the moment he arrives, Reed notices anomalies in his son’s cellular makeup. It’s not a disease, per se, but an energy signature—something ancient, unstable, and cosmic. Hints are dropped: the energy within Franklin is similar to the energies used by the Celestials or the Beyonders. Reed fears it. Sue feels it. And Doctor Strange senses it from across dimensions.

Franklin doesn’t bend reality—not at first. He dreams of other universes, other versions of himself, and sometimes, objects in his nursery are found different. A teddy bear with six arms. A snow globe containing a tiny, rotating planet. But it’s all dismissed as coincidence.

Until it isn’t.

By the time Franklin is ten, the MCU has introduced its next major arc: The Mutant Genesis. Charles Xavier has established his school in Westchester. Magneto is watching carefully. The world is adjusting to mutants, and mutant children are being tested, registered, monitored.

But Franklin? He breaks the scale.

The mutant detector explodes when scanning him. Not only is he off the charts, he creates new charts. And then promptly shreds them.

Enter Nathaniel Essex—Mr. Sinister. Obsessed with genetics, he sees Franklin not as a threat, but as the final evolution. A child of two enhanced humans. A god-child. He seeks to clone him, contain him, study him. But he can’t even touch him.

Why?

Because Marvel changes the rules.

Franklin’s power, in this MCU timeline, comes at a cost: instability. Every use of his abilities ages him rapidly. His cells deteriorate. His mind fractures. The more godlike he becomes, the more he risks his humanity.

It’s the perfect limiter.

In Franklin: Riftwalker (2028), we see what happens when power runs unchecked.

Franklin accidentally tears open a rift to another universe during a nightmare. A version of Ultron from Earth-7723 escapes through it, wreaking havoc. The Avengers regroup, but they can’t contain the damage without Franklin’s help. Yet he’s scared—his nose bleeds when he concentrates. His hair has started turning white. His childhood is disappearing, second by second.

Reed, torn between protecting the world and saving his son, builds a containment suit—like Kang’s, but designed to suppress reality-warping abilities. Sue disagrees. The conflict becomes emotional and intimate. Franklin is not a plot device. He’s a child.

And the audience sees it too.

The final act of the Riftwalker saga introduces a multiversal council—variants of Franklin from other realities. One is fully evolved, celestial-like. Another is a tyrant. Another is dead. They all warn our Franklin: the more you use your power, the less human you become. One version cries, "I created paradise, but I have no one left to share it with."

Marvel’s writers do what comic writers often hesitate to: they humanize omnipotence.

In a dramatic climax, Franklin chooses not to erase Ultron from existence, though he could. Instead, he channels his energy to stabilize the rift, then willingly locks away his power—sealing it inside a cosmic relic, accessible only under specific universal conditions (a nod to the Eternity entity or Living Tribunal).

This isn’t just smart writing—it’s strategic. By placing boundaries on Franklin’s powers, Marvel avoids the Superman dilemma. The audience loves stakes. A hero who can do anything is rarely interesting. But a boy who could do anything—and chooses restraint? That’s powerful.

Moreover, Marvel plants seeds for future payoffs. In Avengers: Eternity War (2030), the sealed relic may resurface. Perhaps Kang seeks it. Perhaps the X-Men need it. But until then, Franklin remains in the background. Watching. Learning. Growing.

Because if there’s one thing the MCU has mastered, it’s the slow burn.