myst

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.

Game Artists’ Manifesto

  • Reading time:10 mins read

Skies of Arcadia — there’s little I did in that game that didn’t result in something rather wondrous. And little that didn’t feel important in some way. Everything about Arcadia, it’s set up to build anticipation and wonder. Even just the dungeon and town design.

Take that ruin near the beginning; the tower where the moonstone lands, just after the intro events. There’s this long walkway, above water. The camera follows behind Vyse’s shoulders. There’s a fish-eye effect, which seems to make the path stretch on forever. And way on the other end is the dungeon. As Vyse runs toward it, his feet and elbows flail back toward the camera. He seems eager to get where he’s going. And we’re following him, seeing what he sees. It’s not really that far, but there’s this buildup of tension as you approach. And — inside, it’s one of the first real 3D dungeon environments I’d encountered in a console RPG.

That is to say: it takes its third dimension into account. As it it’s a real space, with is own logic. As you progress, you begin to understand the importance of features that you didn’t more than notice before; elements of the dungeon’s structure. And eventually, you solve it like a Rubick’s cube of sorts. You’ve unlocked its secrets, and mastered some skills, and begun to own some space.

It leads you on, but it does so by trusting you to follow your intuition. And when you do that, you’re rewarded. That is what is glorious about the game. It is built to reward curiosity, and gut instinct. And it does a great job at creating that curiosity to begin with. That is its genius. Then there’s the fact that most of the elements that are required to understand are in plain view through most of the game — it’s just that you need to play the game, to understand the significance of everything in the world well enough to put it all together. It’s a real place, and you get to know it by living there.

By the end of the game, there’s this sense of great enlightenment. So that’s why the world is the way it is. And — there’s still more left to discover. It leaves one with the feeling of possibility. Like anything could be out there, if one just were to work hard enough to find it. It’s incredibly inspirational. And this is all… intentional. Maybe not fully conscious, but it’s part of the game’s design.

Part of this comes from the protagonist, Vyse. There aren’t a lot of positive models in modern videogames. Not a lot of hope. After all of this cynical angsty Squareish teenage punk nonsense, it’s refreshing to see a lead who is actually a hero. Who has some spirit. It makes me feel like… I can do things. It’s all about attitude. That is to say, what you make of your situation. I feel that he’s the condensed center of Kodama’s message to her audience: Never give up. Never look down. Be proud. There’s always a way.

It’s not just the actual events within the game — it’s the strength of the conceptual significance behind them. I mean. It’s fiction. But fiction illustrates a lot about normal life. One of the best traits of fiction is the capacity to illustrate possibiliy. Whether this is tangible possibility, or just the emotional sense for where it comes from and what it means.

This isn’t something that you honestly get from most videogames. I’ve only gotten it from a handful. The original Zelda. Phantasy Star II. Riven. Skies of Arcadia. They all have made me look at the world differently. They’ve strengthened me, personally, in one way or another. That’s a sign of pretty good literature, I’d say.

I find it really interesting that Kodama is responsible for two of the games on that list. She… well. There’s a reason why I cite her as my favourite game creator. Shenmue has a bit of that, although its clunky (if endearing) AM2-ish edges keep it at a bit of an emotional distance.

The reason why I cite these games as amongst the best I’ve played is because they aren’t content with just being videogames, as such. They carry a deeper meaning. And not a contrived one, just for the purpose of being “deep”. They… stretch outside the boundaries of their medium and do something, emotionally. They actually speak some pretty inspiring messages to their audience, if the audience is willing to listen.

Most games are too calculated. Most games are designed by programmers. Or worse, by people who want to make videogames. Kodama and Miyamoto are both artists, foremost. Miyamoto has become… entrenched in Miyamoto in recent years, unfortunately. Still, he started as a slacker art school kid who didn’t even know that the company he was joining made videogames. Kodama didn’t exactly know what Sega did either, from what she says.

Rand and Robyn Miller, behind Myst — well. They certainly didn’t set out to be game designers. And by the time they’d gone through their first rough draft (that being Myst itself), they had amassed a pretty huge trove of mythology. They just… wanted to make their own world, with its own history and logic. And all of that work came to fruition in their second game.

This stuff, you can’t teach it. Being taught means being told “this is how to do things”. Generally speaking. Learning, on the other hand, means coming to recognize the organic patterns behind things and how to relate with them. It’s about communication. This isn’t something that can ever be pressed into you. It’s something you have to have the will to seek out on your own. The most someone can do is to set all of the right pieces before you, and to illustrate what they might mean. But it’s up to you to approach, and to add those pieces to what you’ve already collected. And to pick up the hints as to what else they might imply about you and your world.

It’s just like how you can’t tell a person how to write a novel. Or else you’ll get… a bunch of form-feed novels. The best way to learn is to simply have the right environment. To have the right materials around. To be given enough context and enough carrots to inspire you to look for meaning on your own — to care about the world, and about life. And to have someone or something you can use to reorient you, whenever you’re lost. And this is why art is so very important. That’s part of what it does — it provides some of that context. It helps to hint you in the right direction to finding your own meaning in life.

Art is actually a strange term. It’s rarely used correctly. Even I misuse it. Art is a process, more than a thing. A thing cannot Be art, in and of itself. Art comes in the process of interpretation of that thing, by the individual. It’s a way of looking at the world, really. As is science. Hamlet is not art, unto itself. It is art To Me, because I appreciate it as such. Because its meanings are strong enough, and I’m able to find something within them that has relevancy to my life. There is no objective Art. By its very nature, art is subjective. It’s when people try to put art on a pedestal that it gets… well, pretentious.

Something to think about: the only way you know the world is through your own senses, and your own understanding of the world. Whether the world really exists, you can’t know. The only basis for verification that you have is your own self. Objectivity — removal of one’s self from the picture at hand — is useful for understanding the inner workings of a system within the world that you perceive. However — whether or not thost things really exist, that you choose to be objective about, really comes down to a subjective decision. Therefore: in order to gain understanding of the world, the first step should be to search for what the world means to you. Through that, you can do anything else. You can play with your subsets of objectivity all you like. Of course — once objective understanding is established, that automatically gets kneaded back into your overall subjective understanding of life, your world, and what sense it all makes.

Science can, in a very real sense, be considered an art — inasmuch as it is a subset of the same methodology of understanding, with its own unique behaviors — just as philosophy differs from painting, differs from film direction, yet all are the same thing in the end. It’s all life, really. It’s all about understanding, and communication.

Videogames, too often, are held as objects; as important for their own sake. It’s easy to be fetishistic about them. I certainly am, at times. This is a problem of interpretation, all across the board — on the part of the “consumer” (read: the audience), as well as the critics as well as those who actually produce the games. The average videogame is no more important, artistically, than the average Hollywood explode-a-thon. Or romantic comedy, or whatever other tired formula you like. All the same.

Now. There’s something to learn from that as it is! You know what they say: there’s more to learn from bad art, than from good; from carelessness, compared to compassion. Provided that you’re willing to put in the effort to find it. However: something needs to change.

If this medium is ever going to become respectable, and to come unto its own as a form of expression — we need more people communicating through it. And using it as a medium to inspire understaning. We need to change our expectations, and stop considering videogames as important for their own sake, rather than for the the sake of the meaning they contain for us personally. And for the sake of the life which goes into them as an outlet for their creators.

Comfort is a dead end. Life is change. The moment you stop, you die. Either inside or outside. The body itself is ever changing; it’s different from one day to the next. All of the matter in your body now will be gone in seven years. You’ll technically be a completely different person. The moment that’s no longer true – it’s the same thing. It’s just the nature of life. Stasis doesn’t fit into that.

Gradually, I’m allowing more and more change into my life. And the more I let in (within my tolerance levels), the more I indeed feel that life. The more I learn to appreciate it, simply for what it is.

Videogames have the potential to convey so much meaning. And it’s not really a medium that’s been tapped well, on either end of the divide. Maybe I can help bridge the gap a bit. I don’t know. Help to give people one more outlet, to gain and express meaning for their lives. I guess… I’m pretty much doing the same thing.

Genya Arikado, indeed.

  • Reading time:5 mins read

Aria of Sorrow is good, yes?

It gets much better, once one gets past the first, false ending — although that final arrangement of souls isn’t exactly intuitive (at least, not until they’re all slotted into place). This is the third game in a row where Igarashi’s pulled an obscure trick like that. I wish he’d quit it.

I had noticed that the Flame Demon’s power looked sort of familiar — as did Soma’s item-use pose…

I’ve still a final boss to beat (and I’m out of potions!), and there’s still another whole hunk of the main map which remains mysteriously inaccessible. And yet… yes.

The “bad” ending is… interesting, as is the manner in which it is accomplished.

I think this counts as the first major Castlevania game since SotN. HoD, it seems to me, was intended as a smaller, bridge game — both in terms of plot and development. It exists in order to fill in some gaps in the larger series. AoS is something rather new and creative, in a manner not unlike SotN.

I do wish that its music were more interesting, though. While it really shouldn’t, it does baffle me that all of the reviews I’ve seen for the game have complimented it on the drastic improvement in both its sound quality and the compositoin, over HoD. Uih? Sound quality, perhaps — although I think the low-res samples in HoD are actually quite a bit clearer and more resonant than what one tends to find here.

Amd yet: composition? The hell?

HoD has perhaps the most intelligent, well-written score in the series. The AoS soundtrack is… good, but largely unremarkable. It’s one of the most conservative scores in the series; it doesn’t attempt anything new. Its main melodies are tired, simplistic, unimaginative. The structure is as straightforward as it can get. There are a few good pieces later in the game, but in comparison to either HoD or Circle of the Moon (each of which had its own strengths) it’s… really kind of mediocre.

Less evolved, less energetic, less adventurous. It’s just… there. It sounds pleasant and Castlevania-ish.

I’ve gone into this before, rather vocally. It’s perhaps my fault for reading the mainstream reviews. It’s perhaps even more my fault for reading the somewhat more hardcore fan reviews.

Since I’m on the subject, I’ll paste here a bit of something that I recently blathered (and then subsequently forwarded, in part, to Tim).

I just noticed something with the Japanese naming schemes. None of the games in the series — not one so far (aside from Circle of the Moon — which makes… one, I suppose) — have had the same title in the US and in Japan. Even recently, they’ve changed seemingly for no reason. Aria of Sorrow was made for the US, for instance — and yet it’s getting a different name in Japan.

But if you look at the names — the US titles have rather arbitrary musical names. Most of them are just [musical form] of [something bleak] or something otherwise rather negative-sounding.

  • Symphony of the Night
  • Harmony of Dissonance
  • Aria of Sorrow
  • Lament of Innocence

In Japan, though — well, look at the pattern.

  • Nocturne in the Moonlight
  • Concerto of the Midnight Sun
  • Minuet of Dawn

Keep in mind that Castlevania Legends is originally called “Dark Night Prelude“.

With the exception of Rondo of Blood, these all have to do with time of day or other related astronomical phenomena. Further, they tend to make a bit of sense in terms of the plots of the games in question.

Minuet of Dawn (AoS) takes place about thirty years in the future, at the dawn of a new era. Dark Night Prelude — it was, indeed, a prelude to the rest of the series (even if Igarashi ignores the game now).A “Midnight Sun” or a “White Night” is a kind of a surreal experience. It’s not really night, although it should be. Things aren’t really what they seem. And indeed, in that game things are not what they seem at all. It’s night, as such, but the darkness is gone; Simon defeated it fifty years earlier.

So. The names are much more meaningful and consistent in the Japanese releases, even now. This is kind of bizarre.

To go back to Circle of the Moon, I only notice that it has perhaps the most pithy title of all, even if it doesn’t necessarily have much to do with the game’s plot. Yet another example, it seems, of something that sounds good, which Kobe just thew in for the heck of it.

It’s really a shame that they had to mess up on so many tiny details within and about this game. A game this enjoyable should certainly be part of the main continuity, rather than a weird non-canon side story. It wouldn’t have been difficult to have changed a handful of superficial details. Maybe have reworked a few of the more arbitrary abilities, in the process. Put in some more thought.

Ah well. It is what it is. At least it doesn’t take itself any more seriously than it takes the series as a whole.

…

So. Yeah. I’m curious to see where Lament of Innocence goes. I also wonder whatever happened to that intended port of Rondo of Blood to the PSX. A while back, Igarashi said that some Konami higher-ups were nixing the project on him. He asked fans to send in mail and show their support if they wanted the game to be released. Looks like they must not have gotten enough.

A shame; I’ve never even gotten a chance to play the thing. It’s become one of those things like Panzer Dragoon Saga and Radiant Silvergun.

It seems I am more or less rested now. I shall set out to writing, momentarily.

Riven from the world

  • Reading time:2 mins read

There’s this place on disc 3 of Riven. After one steps off of the maglev and passes through the brief frog cave, there is a long stairway that winds up a rocky hillside. The sun is warm, yet the shadows are deep. The birds are chirping. The gentle ripple of the bay, below, carries on the slight breeze. If one progresses down the stairs, one sees the easily-startled sunners lazing on their rock. Up, meanwhile, leads to a rope bridge stretching toward the forest.

I want to spend all day on that set of stairs. There is a small landing where one first emerges from the cave, about large enough for one or two people to sit, and draw.

To some extent I ache that this location doesn’t really exist, as I would so like to visit — at the very least. I would like to nap there. Curl up in the shadows when the sun became too warm; emerge into the light when a chill came over me.

I believe it is that one small location which makes Riven what it is, for me. Everything else revolves around it. Every time I pass through, I linger. I can never seem to get enough.

There are only a few games which have given me a similar sensation. The Legend of Zelda is one. Shenmue is another. Skies of Arcadia comes darned close at times.

This is how Riven succeeds. It creates a place which feels real; which rings so true that one desires to understand it better. Then, it follows through. Everything makes sense, if one gives it enough time; the only thing holding the player back is his own internal wiring. The more time one spends there, the more one pieces together. The more one understands how the world works, and the more real it becomes.

It is essentially a masterpiece of world design, unlike any other that I’ve seen. That’s all that it is; a fully-conceived world, to enter and interpret as one sees fit.

Have moved some money and files around. Have bought some new pants. Not a lot remaining to do before I leave — which is in… three days.

Oy!

Hey. I should be able to sneak into the secret press-only rooms, seeing as how I’m… y’know, press.

Brinstone, you say?

  • Reading time:2 mins read

So my GameCube came today, with its complementary copy of Metroid Prime.

My comments so far:

  1. Whoa. Damn.
  2. … I need a memory card.

Is it just me, or do Nintendo really pack their stuff well? Opening each of my GBA and my Gamecube for the first time (in their respective moments), I got a rush of nostalgia. When was the last new device I opened which seemed so lovingly, sturdily boxed? I can’t remember. My Genesis?

Opening this thing, I got the distinct impression that I was unveiling to myself something uncommonly important. Something which would stick with me and last for years.

Not a feeling one gets much from electronic devices these days.

Particularly not Sony devices.

Odd, that.

Wow, that remixed music sounds good.

Why does it make me giggle, the first time I hear Samus’s theme in any new Metroid game?

Or the item power-up theme, for that matter?

Wow, there’s a lot of text in this game. I wonder who thought up all of this background info. Does it say in the credits? I don’t want to walk downstairs for my game case. I’ll look later. Was it someone from Retro? Would NCL have given them such free license? The game does a better join tying together and explaining the Metroid universe in the first half hour than the other four do, put together.

Intelligent Systems, my hindquarters!

Yes.

You just don’t know, I tell you.

I think this is an example of how the third dimension can be used to add more than just spatial depth to a game. It’s a similar phenomenon to what I saw in Sonic Adventure, only… much more so. Much more seamless.

To mention:

This game doesn’t seem to come from anywhere. It doesn’t feel Western. It doesn’t feel distinctly Japanese. It… feels like the love child of Metroid and Myst. Only more so.

Oh god. Oh god. The nose. Must do something.

Juice me up!

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.

And yes, it’s even got the Konami code.

  • Reading time:9 mins read

Ken Burns’ Civil War series is showing on PBS this week, two episodes every night. I watched another chapter a few moments ago, but I just don’t have the patience to stick around for the second one. It’s interesting stuff, but this miniseries has perhaps the most soporific presentation I’ve ever seen. Must escape before I lapse into a coma. Sorry, Grant.

Onto other things.

Castlevania: Harmony of Dissonance has a very nice tone to it. It’s… a little harder to immediately get into and enjoy than was Circle of the Moon. It’s not as instantly agreeable, and it feels kind of… cold. But now that I’ve played a little bit, it’s opened up a lot and it’s become clear how much more well-made this game is in general than KCEK’s last effort. The control is much tighter. The level design is more interesting. And the entire thing is much more Castlevania-ey than CotM ever managed to be. It’s got that same slightly… uneasy tone that most of the main chapters have had, and which I’ve not felt for quite a while. All of the edges of the screen are crammed full of minute and curious gothic detail.

The game also has a constant sense of forward motion that was lacking in CotM. It feels like I’m going somewhere when I’m playing — like there’s a goal — rather than like I’m just puttering around randomly in an adventure game world. CotM was fun, but that was about it. A fun, Metroid-style platformer with Castlevania trimmings. HoD feels like Castlevania. You know how that map popped up between levels in the first game? You know how in level three you could see the final tower in the background as a goal? It always felt like you were making progress. And that sensation is back.

What’s more, and what is interesting — something I’ve not felt for a very long time with this series is that… old movie sensation. The first few games in the series were spattered with spoke holes in all of the title screens and menus, as if you were playing through a silent horror movie. And the games had an aesthetic and an atmosphere to match. HoD seems to bring this general feeling back. It’s not just going through the motions, it’s doing its best to do things right. Igarashi seems to really understand the heart of the series, in a way that KCEK just can’t handle.

As for the music: you’ve heard how awful it’s supposed to be. This is both entirely true and false.

To be sure, compared to what KCEK achieved with CotM just a year ago, the sound quality is a obviously lacking. A few months ago I spent an hour, one night, simply lying in bed and listening to the Catacombs theme from Circle of the Moon in a pair of headphones. Much of the music in CotM was borrowed and remixed from other games (mostly Bloodlines and Dracula’s Curse), but the music quality was higher than anything I’d heard on a handheld system before. And indeed, it was some of the best Castlevania music I’d ever heard. What’s more, the original compositions were absolutely perfect and memorable additions to the growing roster of Castlevania anthems.

This comparison is, I think, the greatest factor which initially makes the music in Hod so very startling, and for a while even a little grating. Although it might be interesting on its own right, the music is not of the same almost unreasonably high standard set both by CotM and by Castlevania in general. This just doesn’t sound like what you inevitably going to expect. Beyond its mere quality, the composition is also a bit odd.

That said, it’s not as bad as people say, and it has its own odd personality. Try to picture Darkstalkers music played on an NES. Now mix in the occasional motive from Simon’s Quest, and top it off with a few tunes from the original Gameboy games. That’s the HoD score, in a nutshell. It sounds like NES music, basically. But like Castlevania music. Only… a more recent kind of Castlevania music, played on an NES. It’s atmospheric and sprawling. As opposed to NES Castlevania music, which is more melodic and clever. Got it?

The thing is, the music here manages to set its own sort of retro tone. If you’ve played the NES games and the original Gameboy trilogy, I think it’s a lot easier to appreciate what’s been done. Try to take the music as a low-fi experiment, rather than a result of ROM budgeting. On its own level, especially in contrast to the high-budget presentation of every other aspect of the game, the music has its own interesting tone going on. If anything, I think it helps just a bit in adding to the “grainy” emotional texture of the game that I was getting at before. If there’s anything that Castlevania needs in order to retain its unsettling ambiance, it’s a certain offputting creakyness — and the music in HoD seems to do a very good job in maintaining this sensation.

Controversial? Certainly. But I think the music succeeds in its own strange way. Perhaps I’m being too forgiving, but I dig.

All of the other sound effects are great, though (further adding to the perplexing aural quality of the game). Something that strikes me: there’s a strange, startled “nAnI?!” whenever Juste is poisoned or cursed. I’m not sure if this is supposed to be Juste’s own squeak — as it doesn’t sound like the same voice who does all of the item crash screaming and the hopping grunts and so forth — or if it’s intended to come out of the monsters which are whapping him. I suppose the latter wouldn’t make much sense, so I suppose it’s kind of amusing to see a Belmont (especially as arrogant a one as Juste) lose his cool when things don’t go as he plans.

The control, again, is so much better and tighter and more… full-seeming than in CotM. Don’t get me wrong; I loved how Nathan felt in that game. But the control was generally pretty loose, and while Nathan always did exactly what he was told to, he didn’t seem to have much… substance to him. The entire game had that weird sort of a sensation for me, so it’s not just the control. But there was no heft. What flexibility he had felt both kind of messy and strangely contrived. Why did he suddenly get certain abilities when he did, for instance? Why was being able to push crates a special power? What the heck is that “rocket jump” special move? Where does it come from? Whenever I learned a new move with him, it felt more like it had merely been arbitrarily unlocked for me so as to allow me to progress.

Juste, in contrast, starts off feeling much more… rigid than Nathan. His dash ability is indescribably helpful, and it’s neat that he’s able to swing his whip around as in Super Castlevania IV. But he’s less of a jumping bean, he doesn’t start with a slide move, he initially can’t automatically twirl his whip as Nathan could. He’s certainly animated a hell of a lot better than Nathan, and his sprite is larger and more visible — but he’s… well, he feels more like a Belmont than a random platforming character with a whip. Just as floaty ol’ Nathan was great for soaring aimlessly around the open structures in his game, Juste has a much more satisfying kind of focus to him. What he loses in out-and-out freedom he gains in precision and, frankly, respectability.

Nothing seems to be wasted on Juste, and nothing seems to be arbitrary. His starting abilities make sense, and (at least so far) every time I’ve gotten a new one it’s been a pretty logical (and balanced) addition. Plus, if you’re missing a particular move from nearly any other Castlevania game — it’s apparently in here somewhere. Now that I’ve got a slide move and can automatically spin my whip around as Nathan did (although I could manually approximate this effect before), I feel like I’ve earned the abilities and like they’re natural extensions to what I started off with. They’re not just there.

I also like how carefully Igarashi has been to make clear the time period in which the game takes place, and exactly who the characters are in relation to the universe we know so far — from the box to the instructions to the game itself, there’s no mystery at all. It’s stated right out that fifty years have passed since Simon’s Quest and that Juste is Simon Belmont’s grandson. It says what he’s doing, what the relation of this task is to the previous game (chronologically speaking), and how uncommonly gifted he is even for a Belmont. And in the (commendably well-made) instructions, it quickly mentions that his magical abilities come from the Fernandez (Belnades) family.

I’m only about two hours in, but — as you’ve likely gathered — my impression is good so far. The game feels — again — more like a true Castlevania game than any I’ve played in a while. And there are elements I’ve seen from a bunch of other Castlevanias, here. The refereces are particularly heavy to the first two Gameboy games, to the NES trilogy, to the Dracula X series (which makes sense, seeing as how HoD can sort of be considered the third game in that subseries), to Bloodlines, even to CotM and Super Castlevania IV. And heck, the N64 games are even referenced slightly (what with the Fernandez name).

I think a few more things probably could have been done with the game, but in general I’m impressed up to this point. And I’m more confident than ever that Igarashi is the guy who should be heading this series; no one else at Konami seems to really get it the way he does. And even if the game does have its flaws, it feels real. It’s not hard to tell how much effort went into the game, and how devoted the man is both to the legacy of the series and to its fans. This isn’t something you get a whole lot in any form of art or entertainment, seemingly least of all videogames and film. And it’s exactly what was missing from Circle of the Moon. He’s got my trust for the future.

A short note: Is Ayami Kojima (Igarashi’s chosen artist since Symphony of the Night) of any relation to Hideo? They both work at Konami, after all.

Hmm…

Trilobyte

  • Reading time:3 mins read

The 11th Hour is all of the worst aspects of The 7th Guest, amplified. Where Myst and, more so, Riven create a logically-balanced world to comprehend and explore, these games give you lots of bad FMV, very arbitrary riddles (suddenly throwing in an anagram in the center of the second riddle you’re given, right near the beginning, for instance), and random puzzles which impede progress, not even a hint of context, half the time, provided as to what the point/goal is (that is, no context even within the puzzle itself, after careful and lengthy analysis) — the only way to solve several puzzles is to whack around, hoping to crack them by force. The end result of the expended effort is to, again, allow the player to, say, examine a table or open an otherwise-unblocked — or even partially open — door in a hallway on the other end of the house. Right.

I really hate this type of game design. It’s unimaginative, shallow, lazy, and just plain poor. Myst had a few “puzzles” in it, but, with only very few exceptions, the game effectively told you what to do if you merely read everything carefully and added up, analytically, everything you experienced, interrelating as much as possible. Riven was a vast step up in that it didn’t contain any of those sort of artificial roadblocks. Every difficulty in the game was based in the structure of the place. If the player couldn’t get past something or if he couldn’t figure out what the purpose was of a certain device or item or bit of architecture or writing, there was a completely rational, logical reason why not — he was an outsider, stepping into someone else’s world, filled with a culture he didn’t recognize, devices he had never used, and geography alien to him. Given enough study of his surroundings and a bit of insight, it was perfectly simple to deduce how things were, why they logically were the way they were, and, by relation, how to manage that which was encountered.

The 11th Hour is not like this in any respect. It is not for the thinker; it is for the sadomasochist and the game designers’ egos. “Hah — see anybody figure THIS out. Aren’t we clever?” It’s not clever to simply withhold every speck of information and player control within normal gameplay.

I suppose that’s the real difference between the serieses — Myst/Riven (with, as stated, a few exceptions in the first game) is based upon giving the player as much information as possible but no overt connecting threads. The player is mostly set free to explore, as the point is to internalize and interweave information until an overall comprehension is achieved. Guided understanding is more important than precise methodology. 7/11 is based upon almost the opposite concept; that series gives nothing but connecting threads. All information has to be conjured up in speculation, based upon these often completely baseless clues. The player is mostly confined, in fear that he encounter too much information and spoil the puzzles. Method is more important than comprehension.

I find this general kind of mindset to, frankly, be a combination of sad and injust. It masquerades as a test of brain power, when it more accurately a test of obedience. (I’ll not bother meticulating why this is — I’ve provided the data.) Whereas Myst and Riven compell the question “why,” The 7th Guest and 11th Hour compell the question “what?” It’s shallow and manipulative. Never trust he who actively hides his intentions.

Split Direction

  • Reading time:3 mins read

I keep seeing everywhere — in reviews for Riven — that the game is supposed to be impossible to play without a walkthrough. Everything I’ve ever read on the game instructs the reader to find a hint book or walkthrough, as the game is, otherwise, too difficult and frustrating to play. The game isn’t made to be played on one’s own ability.

What the hell? Riven’s not a difficult game. All you need is a small amount of patience and the capacity to think. It can become frustrating, yes, but that’s a part of the whole point of the thing. You’re supposed to find and follow the game’s inner logic — and not very complex logic, at that. How hard is it to realize if two objects are shaped in the same, uncommon way that they probably are somehow related? To follow tubes and turn valves to change the flow of steam? There were only two or three small things in the entire game which seriously stumped me, and those were completely my own fault; I just didn’t see something relatively obvious.

Myst, while a little easier, was a little less obvious about things, and, as such, was more annoying to play. Riven is streamlined to the point where, given a couple of weeks and some quiet time alone, a person of average intellect should have little trouble completing it. All you have to do is, to a very small extent, think. I mean, I know how some games can drive a person nuts by their complete lack of logic or near-impossible (and irrelevant) puzzles, but Riven isn’t that way at all. It has a total of one or two “puzzles” in the entire game, if you could call them that; those are solved basically just by being thorough and exploring until enough data has been collected that connections can be made and some picture begins to form.

I mean, really. The typical excuse is “well, I don’t want to spend my life playing a game — I just want to walk around and have fun.” Look — anyone who says that is completely missing the point. If you don’t have any patience and aren’t willing to think, you shouldn’t be playing a game like Riven. It’s not a hard game, but it’s not made for bumble-minded brats. That’s why they make Doom clones. Go net-play or something. If you’re going to play a game, play the fucking game. If you want to turn off clipping, fly, and shoot things, they make these games — play them. Have your fun.

A Myst Opportunity

  • Reading time:4 mins read

Myst:

Okay — done. It works fine in win98. I’ve not bothered looking at all of the endings, though. Myst is a much easier game than is Riven, though I did end up turning tail to a hint page because of stupid blunders and oversights on my part. Here they were, in total:

1 — somehow, it never dawned on me that one could walk behind the elevator shaft in the rotating tower on Myst island — a somewhat big oversight, and the same kind of problem I had that one time in Riven. Actually, I do remember walking back there when I was playing the game long, long ago, but I only remember this now, after the fact.

2 — I was a little too jumpy. I had the time and numbers for the clock code on Myst Island, again, written down, I knew that the clock was probably tied to the gears, and I knew it was the last puzzle on the island. I had been trying to figure out what was the correct time to which to set the clock ever since I saw the damned thing the for the first time, but, for whatever reason, something in my brain didn’t click for a few moments and I went back to the hint guide prematurely. The dumb thing is, I actually knew what I was looking up; I knew where to rotate the tower — my brain was just fuzzy.

3 — I scoured Channelwood about eight times over, trying to figure out how the hell to get onto the spiral staircase and how to operate the elevator right next to it, knowing that the two were probably intertwined. I also couldn’t find the red and blue pages in that age and knew they were probably on the upper-upper level which I couldn’t get to without using the staircase. blah, blah. Ends up that, somewhere in that mess of huts on the upper level, there was a lever which opened the door/gate which had been blocking my way. I walked by it (the lever) a hundred times, and I would have walked by it a hundred more. There’s no possible way I would ever have seen the lever, no matter what state of mind I might have been in. I was supposed to spot one unnotable stick amongst thousands and know it to be of signifigance?

4 — I did, early in my progress, notice the left half of the note which told how to obtain the final page of Atrus’ Myst linking book, but didn’t immediately know what it was and told myself to remember it for later, knowing I’d come across the second half at some point in the future. Ends up the second half was in Channelwood — in a drawer under a bed in the same location as the red and blue pages. I was just so annoyed and impatient about not seeing the previously-mentioned lever that I walked right by the note, grabbing the pages and getting out of there in frustration. I’d wasted enough time in that place. If the lever were more obvious or I’d otherwise just seen the damned thing in the first place, I’d have been more cautious, as I usually am. But I was irritated and I ran in and out, barely looking at anything. Later, when Atrus told me to find the missing white page to his book, I had no clue what to do. I thought it was dreadfully unfair of the game to just randomly tell me to find something which could be anywhere in the game with no clues at all. By this time, I’d been irritated enough that I forgot all about the half-note I made sure to remember for later. So, after dinking around and pouting for a while, I looked up the hint guide once again. Oh. That’s right — the note. Oh. Channelwood? Sigh. And it was in the one room in the game which I didn’t scour mercilessly.

Anyway, I think those were pretty reasonable hints I took; mostly my own fault and (with the exception of the frustration-related blunders) basically the same mistakes I made in Riven. Thing is, in Riven there were about five ways to do everything, so when I overlooked a few details, the game just made it a bit more difficult for me rather than blocking progress completely.

The ending of Myst is. . .well, strange. After Playing Riven, it’s a perfect intro to the second game, and it doesn’t annoy me very much because I know what comes next. I can imagine, however, if Riven didn’t exist or I’d never played it, that the ending could be disappointing, as I’d heard it rather was.

The Darkness Between the Pixels

  • Reading time:2 mins read

I think what’s so attractive about old nes games is, it’s just popped out to me, how dark they all feel — just a little surreal and a little mysterious. Blaster Master and Simon’s Quest and Zelda and Metroid — there’s so much which can’t be seen — you don’t know what anything is, and have to fill it in for yourself. All of the creatures in Blaster Master are a flat gray. The colors in Zelda are completely two-dimentional blobs; it has indistinct sound effects and rocks which look like turtles. Metroid is all black and empty, as is Blaster Master — and, actually, lots of Zelda and Simon’s Quest, really. They feel. . .unexplored. There could be anything in any niche. It’s like a dream. . .

With today’s games, you see everything and you know where and what everything is. The jellyfish in Blaster Master Look like the Metroids. Goonies II — well, that’s a strange one. It sort of overproves the point.

Life Force and Gradius. . .

The games which were hardest to play, I think, were the darkest ones — Gradius and Metroid and Castlevania 1; all great, but all kind of depressing. The games of today are… Microsoft/Apple spawn. They don’t feel real because they’re made to feel too real. Old NES games are like a dark fantasy — they feel so unreal that the mind makes them more real and alive than anything today could strive to be. And they’re mostly smaller than this text. . .