Smaller Every Day… Hero Core [Review]

May 21, 2010

by Eric-Jon Rössel Tairne

Somewhere in the early 1990s, the console-style adventure game got sort of codified, with Super Metroid as the main reference point. The ideal form, as wisdom had it, gradually opened up the world to the player as the player gathered new and usually tactile abilities, the better to traverse the world’s obstacles. Basically it’s a lock-and-key system, except instead of the green doors requiring green keys they demand super missiles and instead of unlocking the next section you climb or swing or blast your way there, once you’ve the right abilities.

This system is valid enough, and when done well it can be fairly invisible. You notice somewhere that you can’t go, and after trying everything in your power you remember your failure. So when you get a power that might let you past that obstacle, you race back to put it to use. The clever thing is that usually this new ability generally improves the player’s character, and slots into the existing move set naturally enough that soon the player kind of forgets that ability hadn’t been there the whole time.

This design’s appeal rests in an illusion of problem solving that makes the player feel clever and involved, when in fact the game is manipulating the whole situation, blocking off whole areas of its world until it figures the player may be growing bored of his current situation and powers.

This system — walling the player off until the game, or rather the designer, feels the player is ready, doling the game out in parcels measured both to prevent confusion and to manage enthusiasm and flow — has always bothered me. Mostly it feels transparent and mechanical. Its worst offenders, like Wind Waker with its inventory full of nearly identical items that each only is useful in one part of the game, raise too many questions. Why can’t I go down here? Because the game doesn’t want me to. Why can’t I open this? Because the game doesn’t want me to. Why can’t I just use the grapple instead of the hookshot? Because the game wasn’t designed that way.

A better way to limit progress is to put most of the onus on the player. Let the player decide when he’s ready to progress, and then be it on his own head. If he gets lost, or injured, or killed, or confused, that’s his decision. Let the player form his own rules: “Okay, the forest is too dangerous and is kind of scary; keep away for now.” And then later “Hey, I’m stronger and I have more resources; maybe I can risk the forest now.”

This is the system that you find in the original Zelda, and in Dragon Warrior. It’s what you get in Lost in Blue, and to an extent in Riven. And it’s more or less how Daniel Remar organized Hero Core.

Gameplay

The game feels great to play. As in Capcom’s Section-Z, there are just two action buttons: shoot left, and shoot right. The tiny character has a jetpack, so the directionals move him slowly in any direction. Later on, holding in a button will charge up a defensive move. Hold in both buttons to warp back to any save point you’ve passed.

The gameworld is organized in screens, rather like a Zelda dungeon. Also as in that game, often you have to kill all the monsters in a screen to progress. From a broader view, the map is a bit of a maze. The player is pretty much free to wander at will, though to lower barriers there’s the occasional power core to destroy.

The game eases the player in with the odd bit of expository or tutorial text, explaining the mechanics and the objects at hand. At first the game does wall off a few paths with special blocks, that require upgrades to bypass. The first such upgrade comes about ten or fifteen minutes in, and opens up nearly the entire map for exploration.

Although the game has an upgrade cycle, none of the enhancements are very dramatic. Shots become a bit more powerful, the player can take a bit more damage, and a defensive move becomes available. From start to end, the player’s arsenal and relationship to the gameworld is rather humble.

The effect is similar to the original Zelda, where from the start you have access to nearly all the overworld and most of the dungeons; the question is just how brave and how skilled you are. Until you gain a bit more life, and a stronger shot, maybe it’s not worth venturing into that scary new sector. Or maybe that challenge is just what you’re looking for.

Either way, death and loss are handled unusually well. When you die, anything you’ve done stays done; you just warp back to your latest save point. Likewise, the game cuts down on a bunch of backtracking. If you know where you’re going, or if you just realize you’re out of your depth, you can warp back to any point. This warping, skipping around the map, becomes a major element of the game’s design, particularly toward the end.

The end effect is a shorter, denser, more satisfying experience. All of the padding and backtracking and frustration you get in, say, a post-1997 Castlevania is gone. You can start and stop playing at will, and the moment you get a new idea you can hop to where you need to be. The game only lasts about an hour, and for its complexity that seems a little short — but really, it’s perfect in that there’s not a boring moment in there. Then when you’re done, and the Zelda-like credit and monster scroll passes by, the game presents a suite of new modes, giving you some excuse to play through again.

Style

This is one atmospheric game, full of the scratchy, grainy, crackly nervous energy that you get in Metroid II. Part of that comes from the minimalistic visuals, part of it from the ambient .XM musical score, part from the crunchy, squelchy sound effects.

The game uses just two colors — black and white — and not much in the way of dithering between the two. The character and most of the monsters are tiny. Most of the map is constructed of solid white blocks against a blank, dark background. The occasional bit of sand or water or mechanical design lends the environments a bit of spice and vibrancy.

In their movement and sounds, minor enemies call to mind Blaster Master and, sometimes, Zelda. The tougher enemies, especially bosses, seem to display a bit of a Gradius influence, particularly in the hit sounds and the “shoot the core” design. For as incidental as they seem, I’m impressed at the thought and character put into the monsters. Each has a name and unique behavior, and when placed side by side it becomes clear how few, and how distinctive, the monsters are.

The overall impression is of a nearly analog experience, a game practically patched together with wires and transistors. The game feels the way that my mind wants to remember Colecovision games, though I imagine that doesn’t really pan out in reality.

Story

There is, actually, a story, though I didn’t pay it much attention. I’m not sure that I was particularly meant to. It’s painted in a few elegant, unobtrusive cutscenes and the odd bit of incidental text along the edge of the screen.

The game is a sequel to Remar’s earlier Hero, and to the best I can tell the villain of that piece, a malevolent artificial intelligence has come back for another crack at conquering the universe. He means to accomplish this through a stable of oft rather organic-looking robotic fiends and a few powerful boss creatures. When you beat the game, it appears that the bad guy is gone for good. Nothing really important here, though it does set the scene and it otherwise keeps to its place.

Everything Else

I did once encounter a bug where I tried to warp, and then canceled the maneuver; when I returned to the main view, the hero had just… vanished. No character to be had. Not sure what happened there, but I only hit the problem the once.

As demonstrated by the offhanded premise, there’s nothing really personal or deep about Hero Core. It’s just cathartic, attractive, well-considered and well-made. It does a grand job of remixing familiar elements into a satisfying, ever so slightly exotic blend. Probably the most important and interesting thing about the game is how much it concentrates its basic experience. By cutting out or minimizing many of the time-consuming, patronizing, or otherwise annoying elements of your typical, “Miyamoto-correct” adventure game, the game offers the player a chance to soak in and appreciate everything rewarding about the form. And it does so in with such a stark presentation that it seems pretty clear where Remar’s head was.

As the best indie games do, Hero Core revels in, and demonstrates the power of, minimalism. And the best thing is, it’s free. Go on over to Daniel Remar’s site and download it. It takes only token resources, and weighs in at only about four megs. I’m guessing most of that is the music. It’s totally worth an hour of your life.