Mario

Frickin’ Fantasy XII

  • Reading time:7 mins read

It’s one of those laws. If you say anything negative about Final Fantasy, you’re just asking for trouble. To be fair, the complaints I have gotten have generally been civil. I just haven’t had much patience to reply in any helpful manner.

>I see gameplay in an RPG to be a bonus if it is really great gameplay.

If a game is designed well, it is designed well. This genre is developmentally stunted, as a whole. The reason you say this is that you have not seen what greater expressive potential would be possible, were the design philosophy intrinsic to this genre as mature in its development as it could be, at this point in the overall history of game design and in the evolution of game hardware. Pretty much anything is possible now — yet developers have not yet caught up with this potential; increased their ambitions to fit it, and find a new set of limits of expression within the medium; preferring to stay with the same limited design decisions that they have, more or less, been using since the 1980s — decisions which were instituted at the time merely because of the inherent limitations in technology and in design theory at the time.

This is a problem in all genres. It’s just that RPGs are the most prominent example. In a broad sense, they have not grown to fit their bigger shoes. Developers are more or less doing the same dumb things they always have, out of habit — or out of a lack of understanding for what these design concepts originally stood for, or why they were instituted. Or because the audience itself has not matured enough to ask for something more substantial.

You must understand that videogames are not what they could be, artistically. There are few developers at present who are actively trying to explore the expressive power of the medium; the rest are content with absentmindedly churning out reiterations of games which have already been made dozens of times in the past — games which worked, once, in a specific context. They might have even been clever for their time, for the solutions to contemporary hardware and design problems that they happened to find. What so many people fail to understand, however, is that those solutions are relevant within a specific context — timeframe, developer, hardware — alone.  The solutions that Shigeru Miyamoto found and applied within Super Mario Bros. were ingenious for that moment, for that game, for that history. They were an evolution of ideas that Miyamoto nurtured through several previous games: Donkey Kong, Donkey Kong Junior, Mario Bros. Although some of the principles that he developed in that game — such as his general concept of level design, whereby the game implicitly teaches you how to play it without ever telling you what to do, as such — will probably always be applicable in one sense or another. Others are inherent to that game, to that one man. They are his ideas. Anyone else who uses them as-such — who just takes them and sticks them into his own project, without understanding why the ideas existed to begin with — is making a big mistake. Those parts of that project will be false, because they do not come from the subject at hand. They do not grow out of what this second person is attempting to accomplish. They are an easy and proven solution, yes — yet within their context. This new person, with this new project, has created a new context. And that new context, especially with knowledge of what has come before, demands a new series of questions and demands a new series of solutions which evolve from the demands at hand.

Here. Take a look at what Toru Iwatani has to say. It’s interesting.

http://www.insertcredit.com/features/gdc2004/iwatani.html

The techniques that Yuji Horii created for Dragon Quest are great for Horii and for Dragon Quest. They are his own ideas, which suit what he is personally trying to accomplish. The gameplay choices he makes are perfect for his games. Outside Horii, the situation is different. The question has to rise: what are we trying to accomplish here, and what is the best way to realize that, given current technology and what we understand so far about the potential of game design? If, in the case of, say, a Final Fantasy game, our goal is to tell a story, then how rich a story can we tell? What kind of a story? What manner of game design would lend itself most well to what we wish to accomplish within that story? Ideally, the game design would be invisible. You would not distinguish between it and the ultimate goal of the project — because the design itself would come from that goal. It would be designed in order to facilitate that goal. The game design itself, the game play itself, would be part of that story, and the story would come from the gameplay.

It’s not like this is hard, today. Take a game like, oh, Metroid Prime. The goal in that game, really, is exploration: communication with the environment. To facilitate this, the game is set in a first-person perspective. That way, you’re left looking at the game world rather than Samus’s ass. The game has a rather profound story to tell, yet to do this it draws from the main goal of the game, and from the established gameplay decisions. It is in the process of playing the game, and of inspecting the environment, learning about the game world, that the story unfolds.

Although story is secondary or tertiary in this particular framework, and it evolves organically out of the more primary elements of design, without interfering with them, you see the structure. There is no reason why it cannot be turned on its head, such that the gameplay, the overall design, evolves from the story. If that is the primary goal. Of course, that means that the game design would depend on just what the story is; what its own focus is; what the writers hope to get across.

If a gameplay decision does not lend itself to the ultimate goal of the project, directly or indirectly, then it probably doesn’t belong there. It’s the whole deal about too many strokes spoiling the painting. Even more so when the strokes are misjudged to begin with. Or when they are put in place just because that’s the way it’s always been done, or that’s what people expect, rather than because that’s what the painting calls for.

As long as developers continue to cram their ideas into existing, prefabricated molds — which describes most of the persistent mechanical facets that people have a tendency to associate with the RPG genre, in favor of the more integral goal of the genre (mainly, showing the personal growth of one or more people through a set of difficult trials, and what effect their actions along the way might or might not have on the world around them — thereby, with luck, expressing something meaningful about the nature of life) — they will be stuck in a creative rut. They will not grow as artists. The genre will not grow. The medium as a whole will fail to mature.

What I was trying to say, in that preview, is that Final Fantasy XII seems like it might be one big step toward pulling the genre as a whole out of its current rut. Toward making people /think/ about what constitutes an RPG — or just a videogame, in general — and what what they’re really trying to accomplish.

The rest was just a bit of passing commentary, to help explain why I said that.

Bishounen have the best firearms

  • Reading time:3 mins read

All is well. I cracked my way into the parental menu. I’m my own daddy now! I just watched A Fistfull of Dollars. Interesting how all of the elements are pretty much in place, yet Leone has not yet figured out how to mix them well enough to turn out something like he did two films later. Still not bad. The movie, on its own, comes off as far above average for the genre. It just doesn’t transcend it, making the genre irrelevent.

Speaking of such things: I just got around to playing Devil May Cry.

Jesus. I had avoided this game since long before its release, because I was annoyed with how vapid and trendy it looked — and because of the way people reacted to the game. I guess I never really learned my lesson from Kojima. Yes, the game is supremely stupid and shallow — yet consciously so. It is so over-the-top that it comes off as a lot of fun.

Also now I see just how inspired Koji Igarashi was by this game. Everything from the not-falling-over-edges-unless-you-want-to mechanic to the odd stopping-in-mid-jump-for-a-combo detail, to the zooming-into-the-character’s-back-when-he-opens-a-door effect, to the way you hold the right trigger to duck and weave and strafe around. There are the over-the-top round titles. There’s the atmosphere. There’s the jumping (although Dante has no need for a double jump; instead, he has a variable and really high normal jump, plus a wall jump — not unlike Leon’s ability to whip railings to pull himself even higher).

Thing is — Devil May Cry is so much better a game. At least, so far. It’s linear, as Lament of Innocence should have been (and I think originally was supposed to have been). There are a few invisible walls, yet mostly you can not only jump all over the scenery but you can smash it up. It doesn’t take itself seriously in the least, unlike Igarashi’s game — which is goofy, yes, though as decoration on top of a concept which struggles and does not entirely succeed to do something marginally meaningful.

So. Now I understand some of what I have heard.

I still defend some of Igarashi’s intent with Lament of Innocence, and a bit of what he accomplished. He did get a decent start down. Just, hmm. The game is even more of an unfinished doodle than I realized.

I would say that I expect his next game to be far better — yet his next game is Nanobreaker. And. Well. I have yet to write about that. It didn’t impress me a whole lot. Of the recent set of slash-slash-slash combo games, it strikes me as one of the duller. Granted, all that was available for play at E3 was some kind of a time attack mode. So I don’t know how the main game is supposed to work. Yet, I don’t know about this.

Ah well. I need to play more of both games.

Perhaps this ties in with my ICO vs. Silent Hill 2 thing. I think that Riven, Super Mario Bros., and Bionic Commando might, too. And a few other things.

This might get kind of messy.

I will know, later.

More on Ico and “World-Logic”

  • Reading time:2 mins read

Not only does a game like this at least attempt to be interesting and wonderful, but it’s failures are the kind that are going to teach us what makes gaming work, and what doesn’t. It’s going to elicit thought. In many ways, this is better than the games that get it completely right.

The only part I disagree with there is the example.

Ico…

Well, once I am done with it, I intend to write something on it and Silent Hill 2, illustrating some common problems in execution (particularly when it comes to level design and world-logic).

Why are bombs always provided in Ico‘s world, right near something that I need to blow up? Why has the castle been smashed up in just such a way as to allow me exactly one possible route through it? Why does the entire world feel like it is laid out just to take advantage of my character’s abilities?

A game like Super Mario Bros. does not need to explain these things, as on the one hand the game is so clearly surreal — and yet such situations tend to make up the game’s own persistent reality.

Metroid Prime got around these questions with a rather startling bit of insight that also helped to explain and contextualize every other game in the series. Even Lament of Innocence gets away with some of its contrivances with its claim, right near the outset, that “this is all a game” to the villain; that Leon’s quest has been specially put before him for the amusement of the final boss.

Ico plays well, as a game. It is wonderfully-designed. Its world is the most intriguing I have encountered since that in Riven. The problem is, it is transparent as a game. It is too focused. In the same way that you wonder why James can’t just step over a police line in Silent Hill 2, you wonder why Ico can conveniently make his way through the levels as he does; why everything is left out for him. The two games sit on different sides of the same issue, to a similarly disconcerting effect.

There is… more.

Askew

  • Reading time:2 mins read

I just realized that most artists only really have one thing to say. If that. Everything they do is just a refinement of, or another aspect of, that single contribution that they have (that being their own selves).

I suppose this should be obvious. We’re all individuals. The more rounded individuals, perhaps, have more corners of their minds to lay bare.

All the same: Miyamoto has never really varied since his original ideas for Donkey Kong and Mario Bros. Those added up into Super Mario Bros., and then Miyamoto took things a step further to hit upon The Legend of Zelda. Since 1987, it’s all just been refinement. He doesn’t have much to say that we haven’t already heard.

Same goes for Rieko Kodama, really (as much as I enjoy her work). She’s still kind of working with the tools she devised a decade and a half ago. BioWare did a lot with their first RPG, but they haven’t done a lot since then.

Hitchcock kept whacking out variations on the same two or three themes. Most of his work involved finding people he enjoyed and allowing them to do whatever they wanted within his vague descriptions. The Beatles had a lot to say by the end, but that comes from the chemistry of five key voices (including George Martin) and all of their experiences.

Miyamoto did his part. He’s done now. Hitchcock did his part. So is he. So are the Beatles. (Really, what of great merit have any of them done since the early ’70s?) They’ve each come out of nowhere with a new perspective and pointed out untapped possibilities within their own respective contexts. And in so doing, they’ve helped the context change.

And the world keeps moving. If they don’t, they’re left as a noble milestone; as a reminder of the need for perspective. Not as a template, however. Anything else is idolatry.

And that’s where all of the problems lie.

I’ve got a headache.

‘window-shopping in an empty store’

  • Reading time:2 mins read

by [name redacted] and tim rogers

The president of Nintendo of America is named George Harrison. Somehow I had overlooked this fact up until today. Mister Harrison revealed that Donkey Kong “will remain a lovable ape” and that Mario “will never start shooting hookers”.

More intriguing, however, is the fact that Satoru Iwata speaks English. While he still needs a translator to help with more complex ideas, Iwata nevertheless manages to express himself with some appreciable degree of competence.

The Nintendo conference was comfortable, if not particularly informative. Outside of the multiplayer Pac-Man performance and the Will Wright announcement, there wasn’t much new to see. The swag wasn’t thrilling, either; just a paper sack full of press material and a ribbed tee shirt.

Since Brandon had to be elsewhere, I was given the rare opportunity to impersonate him and infiltrate the show. As it turned out, I never even needed his ID; his business card was enough. Given that Doug got in and that he wasn’t even on the list, perhaps my nefariousness was without need. Darned if I didn’t feel like a super spy, though.

A super spy eating uncommonly delicious raspberry muffins, that is to say. The buffet was… well, you really had to be there.

( Continue reading at Insert Credit )

What does a genius need with pants?

  • Reading time:10 mins read

The Metroid 2 score really gets a bad rap. Actually, Metroid 2 seems to be the whipping child of the series in general.

I think it’s worth pointing out that when the music is good, it’s really good in this game. The main tunnel theme, the Metroid battle theme, the revamped Samus and Item themes.

Where it begins to get a little controversial is in the various ruins. Once the player wanders out of the central tunnel and into any of the larger playfields, the music switches to an atmospheric pattern of bleeps. Not a lot of melody. Not a lot of rhythm in particular.

If you’re looking for Hip Tanaka’s tuneful power-ballads, I can see how it should be easy to feel let down. But the music serves a different purpose here.

Metroid 2 is by far the creepiest, most clautrophobic game in the series. It’s lonely, unnerving, frustrating, almost trance-inducing. It has a tangible atmosphere which I think is wholly fitting to the game’s setting and general purpose. (This atmosphere is most obvious when the game is played in full black-and-white, as originally intended, rather than with the upgraded Gameboy Color palette.)

The music is an important element of that formula. It exists to create and sustain a particular mood. I feel it was composed very deliberately; Ryohji Yoshitomi could have written anything, after all. But he chose to go the avant garde route.

There is a method to the music, as you can tell if you listen closely enough. It’s not random, and it’s not careless. It’s an attempt at an unsettling ambient soundscape.

The problem that Yoshitomi faces in this instance is the limited sound capacity of the original Gameboy. Melodic fare is easy. More experimental music is a bit tricker to pull off convincingly with only a few triangle and square waves at a person’s disposal.

Whether Yoshitomi succeeds in his goal or not is up to the listener. But for what it is, I think his score works very well.

Combined with the excellent quality of the more melodic portions of the soundtrack, I’d easily rank the Metroid 2 score up there amongst my favourite original Gameboy soundtracks — somewhere in the neighborhood of Gargoyle’s Quest.

On the other hand, it’s worth noting that Yoshitomi was never asked back for the future games.

The music in Prime does something odd to my head.

It all began with the theme which plays behind the game-select screen. For whatever reason it might be, that theme moves me pretty strongly.

The last time I felt this way about a videogame theme was in 1986, when I first slotted my copy of Legend of Zelda into my NES. At the time, I was struck with a profound awe and wonder. I knew that I was seeing and hearing something important. And my whole body reacted.

The Metroid Prime theme (from it’s use later in the game, I’m assuming that this is intended as the main theme to the game) has a similar, if somewhat more muted, effect on me. And the deeper I crawl into the game proper, the more impressed I am with the music in general.

In the case of the main theme, I think a large part of it is the uncommonly synchopated rhythmic pattern. Short-long, short-long, long, long, long. Another part of it is the weird, theramin-like lead instrument. But it’s just the overall weight of decisions made in the tune’s composition, arrangement, and production that make it so strange and so captivating to me.

The rest of the score seems a bit more tame — although there are more touches of experimentation, the deeper I crawl.

In my view, Kenji Yamamoto makes some very tasteful and wise decisions in terms of references to earlier themes. I particularly like his restructured Metroid and Brinstar themes.

Some of the earlier, more traditional soundtrack fare (particularly during the pre-Tallon introduction sequence) isn’t altogether interesting. And the planet-side music does take a while to build up to anything. But I’m beginning to sense a sort of a method behind the score’s evolution.

If it keeps going where it looks to me like it’s headed, this is going to be a pretty darned sensitive and impressive work. I don’t really know that it has much comparison in terms of what else is out there at the moment.

The Prime soundtrack is, so far, perhaps the most original and generally satisfying one for my tastes.

However: as for the soundtrack which I find the most memorable, well-written for its time, and which I personally enjoy the most — I’d have to go with Hip Tanaka’s original Metroid soundtrack.

There’s not a dud in the bunch. It consists of some of the best themes ever written for any videogame. And it made the game far more interesting to play than it really should have been.

I do quite like the Metroid 2 score, for what it is. Super Metroid’s music was… functional, to my mind. It was very Metroidy. To my mind Yamamoto has improved greatly since 1994, however. I don’t have much comment on the Fusion score. It, too, was Metroidy — though in a way which fit Fusion.

Return of Samus is really what comes to mind when I think of Metroid.

The first game was a bit of a fluke; the elements which make up the game don’t really cohere as well as they might. There doesn’t seem to be much of an overall vision. It was done on a pretty low budget. It seems rather random to me that it turned out to be as memorable as it was.

Metroid II was the first game where all of the elements really came together. Samus was retooled to look more or less as she does now. Her ship was introduced. The game upped the creepiness level several notches, along with a deep sense of disorientation and paranoia.

It’s perhaps the loneliest game in the series. The grainiest. And also the most wonderful.

More so than in any of the recent games, there is a sense of nigh-unlimited possibility in Return of Samus. You just don’t know what’s out there. Anything could be important. Anything could be a threat or a relief. You just don’t know where a new item will turn up. Or where the end is. Or where you’ll unexpectedly blunder into another Metroid.

I think the most important factor in so establishing RoS in my mind has to be the spider ball. The way it’s been retooled in Prime is interesting, but the item was far more flexible in RoS. (It was also probably a nightmare for the level designers, so I can see why it’s mostly been left out since then.) The way it was implemented in that game opened up a wealth of possibilities for exploration.

Super Metroid was certainly enjoyable. But it was a bit over-polished and conservative for my tastes. It was engineered to please as wide an audience as possible, while feeding fans exactly what they wanted (rather than what they didn’t *know* they wanted). Sort of like Phantasy Star: End of the Millennium. It didn’t really do very much new; all it did was take the best of the first two games and make it all a lot more palatable.

Basically — the first game establishes the concept of Metroid. The second game begins with that template, and then goes on an introspective search for identity. The third game takes most of the new ground blazed in the second game, combines it with the charm and trappings of the first game, and puts as much shine on it as the SNES can muster.

Fusion tries to be a very different kind of a game, and I respect it for that. What’s more, I think it succeeds quite well in its attempts to reinvent Metroid as a tense action-oriented game. I feel the level design is severely lacking, though; I’m not all that fond of some of its lazy logistical constructs. The game comes off almost feeling like Super Mario World in terms of how special moves and blocks are used.

Prime, I really like a lot so far. I didn’t honestly expect it to be as good as it is. I can’t comment very well on it until I’ve finished the game, though — as it seems there’s still a lot of odd stuff coming up that could effect my evaluation.

I think it could be interesting if the next game were set somewhere after Fusion. That game sets up a ton of change for the Metroid universe, and it would be intersting to see how Retro might follow through on it.

On the other hand, I tend to see the main linear series as Intelligent Systems’ duty. If there’s to be an out-and-out Metroid 5, it would make more sense to me if it came from the original Metroid team.

What seems to be Retro’s duty is to fill in the cracks and to attempt to explain all of the peculiarities introduced in the main series. To dig deeper into the groundwork set by Intelligent Systems.

And on that note, I think a Metroid Zero of sorts (as someone mentioned above) would make a lot of sense.

In early interviews, it was suggested that Prime was going to be set before the original Metroid. I think they chose wisely, in their decision to instead make it a direct follow-up to the first game — but that still leaves the backstory concept to fulfill.

In terms of bonuses, I agree that it would be keen to include Super Metroid — and for exactly this reason:

That way, every single Metroid game would be playable on the Gamecube.

Metroid 1 is included with Prime.
Metroid 2, you can play with the Gamecube Gameboy Player.
Metroid 3 would be included with this sequel to Prime.
Metroid 4 would again work with the Gameboy Player.

Kind of keen to have everything in one place, y’know?

I would also like to see the ability to turn power-ups on and off, as in Super Metroid.

Honestly, I’d just like to be able to take the Varia suit off every now and then. Those oversized shoulderpads just keey getting more ridiculous with every game; I much prefer how her raw Power Suit looks.

Also, it would be nice to be able to combine the various beam weapons (as in the third and fourth games).

I’d like to see young Samus, somehow. As a child, in a flashback, perhaps.

I want those Chozo statues back again, for holding power-ups.

And I want Retro to feel free to try out some more radical, experimental ideas that I would probably never think of on my own. I want to be surprised, above all else.

* * *

Regarding the spiky, butch hairdo from the concept art: Yes. That impressed the hell out of me. And it seems to match my interpretation of Samus’ personality, really well.

And honestly, doesn’t it make a lot more sense to have short hair if you’re going to be wearing a suit like that? Imagine it getting caught in the helmet. Yowtch.

Adventure theory

  • Reading time:8 mins read

I love all of these pop-up ads. “Is PORNOGRAPHY saved on your PC? Stop wondering and check now!”

Like I really need help to figure out where my porn is.

Here’s the value of the impression of near-infinite possibilities in a game world or system (“world” being a generalized term from here on out) — they give the impression that there is more to the world at hand than what the player is directly being fed; that something exists outside of whatever specific tasks lie in the player’s path. This creates a sense of place, and of being within that place.

As a result, the player becomes more involved and atached to his or her actions — and those actions become more enjoyable and interesting. The game becomes more personal due to this sense of being; you can say that the game world has a deeper personality — that it is greater than a simple reach of understanding. Just as a character becomes more interesting and “real” as his or her personality becomes more complex. Just as either complexity or near complete mystery make a character more fascinating. Either way, it’s difficult to entirely pigeonhole the character.

Next topic.

Is it just me, or are Nintendo’s major games starting to all feel very similar? I got this when playing Metroid. I realized at some point that it feels like Super Mario World, or Zelda 3. They’re starting to mush together now. Distinct and interesting characters and slightly different mechanics are about all that separate them. Same concept almost exactly; made out of the same elements. Super Bomb and Speed Boost blocks are exactly the same as bricks and Question Mark Blocks and Exclamation Blocks and… it goes on. Castlevania, although it lately tries hard to mimic the Nintendo style of design, still manages to feel a little different. Not necessarily better, but at least it still kind of works on its own rule set. It ends up at about the same place, but through a slightly different combination of elements.

To step on a tangent here: the recent games are obviously inspired by Nintendo’s style as much as they are by the earlier action-based Castlevania. The games are a little less refined and focused, however. There is a wide variety of items which serve no really useful and special purpose (even for the sake of collection, which is itself becoming a tiresome goal). The level design is good, but disorganized. New weapons and abilities are often neglected outside of a few specialized situations. There’s a lot of clutter, put to little use. And yet, they are competent (Igarashi’s more so than those of They Who One Were Kobe). In the case of HoD, even somewhat organic.

I don’t think I’m going to include many more items than will be actually be useful, in my own game.

Next topic.

PC-style adventure games work on more or less the same set of concepts as the console-style adventure, only the setbacks are of a different nature. Less action-oriented problem solving. In the Lucasfilm/Sierra games, puzzles tend to be item- and riddle-based. In the Myst style, they tend to be wholly environmental and logical in nature. There is no real inventory, as in the other styles of game. One’s tools are all in one’s own mind, and in what mental devices one is able to cobble together from the enironment at hand.

The Lucas-type, character-based adventures are a little more clumsy and less pure, in a sense; they rely on physical items as the machines, or often merely as the keys to other machines. They lay everything out for the player, and all one is expected to do is figure out what goes where, and how (logically or not). Bring item x to locatino y in order to open door z. The more interesting mechanics tend to be a little more sophisticated; they involve deciphering the use of certain machines, either within the inventory or the environment.

Occasionally there is the element of deciding what action to take with these machines, upping the player’s involvement, but also the potential frustration if the game isn’t designed well enough to deal with its own system. This is a carry-over from the Infocom and Zork days.

The console-style adventure has more of a tendency to be action-based. Environmental and mechanical logic puzzles are rare, although inventory-based “key” puzzles are not uncommon. Often, however, the “keys” are integrated into the character. Rather than existing as random icons, they become facets of the character or additions to its moveset.

The “doors” which are opened (machines operated) with these keys often — at least in the Nintendo system — are in the obvious default shape of blocks. All manner of blocks! A relatively pure example of this mechanic is Mario. A combination of this concept with an inventory would be Zelda. A halfway point is Metroid — where items are gradually accumulated, but add directly to the character mechanics rather than an inventory.

Biohazard is an incoherent amalgam of the inventory-based Lucasfism-style game with a second mechanism, that links resource management with an awkward battle system. Where this becomes frustrating is in the combination of action and scarcity. The game does not control very well, and is based around surprising the player with difficult-to-manage situations. Due to much earlier errors and indiscretions, it is not at all uncommon to become stuck in a stalmate of sorts where the player has no recourse but failure. The player can become trapped in a very real way, causing all of his or her dedication and patience to come to nothing.

This is poor design. There should always be a mechanism for escape and eventual progress. This is similar to the flaws in a powerup-based shooter like Gradius; one mistake, and it can be next to impossible to recovr. The difference is, in Gradius it is usually possible — if incredibly difficult — to build one’s self back up to where one used to be. In a well-balanced fighting game, a player with little remaining health should still be capable of winning, given enough skill. This isn’t always the case with Biohazard.

What makes a game like Mario or Zelda or Metroid so satisfying, conceptually, is the variety in its callenges, and in how ineffably they blend togeter as pieces of a larger coherent whole. That is, the integral elements of each system all tie into a common scope of reference, making each independent system merely one aspect of interaction with the game world given.

If simple exploration on its own isn’t enough in Metroid, one has a gradually-expanding set of character based “keys” to use, and one knows that related “doors” might potentially be anywhere. If none of these abilities are enough, there is an implicit trust between the player and the game that a later ability will solve the problem. If there are no more abilities to be gotten, then the solution must be something that the player has overlooked.

Where Metroid Fusion failsm ir at least pushes its luck, is by either breaking or stretching that trust which has been built up through three previous games as well as by the inherent makeup of Fusion itself. The player is often trapped through the course of the game, occasionally in a precarious situation, with only one unobvious, difficult-to-detect, means of escape — either to safety or simply to further progress. The game is somewhat redeemed by allowing that escape, but such frustration is trying on the player. After a few situations like this, it becomes obvious that something is just not right with what the game is asking of the player. It’s abusive.

Ultimately, the game can be beaten by anyone with the perseverence, and every item can be obtained — a crucial point of Metroid’s appeal — however the game doesn’t always play fair.

Beyond this, the puzzles have become terribly overt and incongruous. They’re clever, sure, but obviously contrived to fill a formula. The entire body of the game carries this mark of contrivance. Fusion feels like Nintendo By Numbers; pieced together by a design team either rushed, lazy, inexperienced with a game of this sort (and yet observant of its obvious qualities).

The game is clever; not creative. The surrounding elements and the game concept are creative (in terms of the new elements introduced, and the elegant reinvention that they necessitated). This is part of what makes the game so confusing, for me.

And I’m tired. And my copy of Phantasy Star Collection has actually moved from its resting spot in New Orleans, where its’ been for over a week. Now it’s been sitting in Portland since last night. They didn’t bother to bring it over today, for whatever reason. Hm.

Note to Intelligent Systems

  • Reading time:4 mins read

Turning off Save Points — for any length of time — IS A PAIN IN THE ASS. Especially in the vicinity of the toughest boss yet so far. Especially when you follow it up almost directly with another appearance of the SA-X. Now, I don’t mind replaying a section a few times. I think I’ve pretty much learned this boss’ patterns by now. But come ON! This isn’t freakin’ MDK2. Is the tension you’re trying to build really worth the annoyance factor? I appreciate the attempt to use the environment in unexpected ways, but… GOD.

Okay, I’m a little more than halfway through with this thing. I just took a six-hour nap or so, following an important telephone call that I actually made — clearly, directly, with no matter of stammering and no blanking-out. Take THAT, Nynex. Or whatever your name is now.

Also, I got a great image in my just-waking head, of Fay holding the brim of her tricorn as she scampers quickly forward, her poise broken. There’s a lot which can be done with the animations when it comes down to it.

Samus’ new suit and replacement powerups are starting to make the old Samus feel clunky and outdated by comparison. Having to toggle missiles on and off, ice beam instead of ice missiles. Having to choose between one missile type and another. A slower, less precise jumping mechanic. Having to go after separate (and random) refills for each type of weapon, as well as one’s energy — rather than just absorbing bacteria after every enemy killed.

I want my spider ball. I realize what hell this addition must be for the level designers, but dammit. That’s one of the big reasons why (unlike nearly everyone else in the universe) Metroid II strikes me as my favourite game in the series. There’s just so much more to explore in that game than anywhere else, and it’s so mysterious. Plus, it introduced to us the newer and updated version of Samus (as well as her mega-shouldered Varia suit), the way her arm cannon opens and closes in order to shoot missiles, the ability to duck and to shoot downward, a whole bunch of quirky new upgrades (only the most obvious of which have made a return appearance so far), Samus’ ship, and an interesting break from form. (Fmor! Romf!)

Super Metroid is the Super Mario Bros. 3 to Metroid II‘s Wrath of Khan Metroid II did almost everything better than the first game, despite the limitations of the Gameboy hardware. And the inventions that the team used to get around the inherent problems of the platform were hugely important refinements to the building Metroid aesthetic. The only problems are that most of the music generally isn’t as melodious and memorable as Hip Tanaka’s score from the original (though I dig what there is), and that the control is a little floatier than in any of the other Metroid games. Okay, and perhaps the backgrounds lack a lot of variety. But hey, again — this it the original Gameboy. What do you want? If the game comes off feeling like a B-picture as a result, then all the better.

The third game is the ultimate refinement, really, revisiting and polishing the original game’s format while borrowing most of the interesting suggestions from the sequel. A few moments are a bit too traditionally SNES-like for me (you know, the blatant hardware abuse more for the sake of making things look cool for the players who can’t see through the gimmicks than because it adds anything to the game experience), but all in all it’s unquestionably one of the best-designed and best-executed games ever made. The thing is, I tend to retreat from that kind of polish. There’s just not a lot to say. Yes, it’s a great game. Moving on.

Where does Fusion fit in? Where, indeed. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.