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Against the backdrop of Northern Japan, a lone designer ponders on the meaning of digital interactivity. Yuji Horii had found his footing in the detective frenzy of Portopia, with subversive rationale in its enigmatic twist, plugging the interface as the perpetrator. For all the proverbial building blocks it set down in worlds of pictorial panels, it lived off that good trick. And it was conclusively not one you perform once more. What we have here is a crossroads - between a rapidly moving games industry - and the burgeoning ideas of a young creator. Hokkaido exists as the answer to lingering design questions, twofold in the refinement of narrative adventure games to follow. The expression of its creator was to find purpose in this computerized frontier. The designer would provide the outline, but the player would be the one to fill in the sketch. Defining their own adventure and evolving as the panels shift to indicate place, with information given not only through words but the images on screen. Much like Dragon Quest and RPGs, it’s a bite-sized journey served with veritable character, wise beyond its years in its ability to tell short stories within interpersonal narrative. The adoption of a command selection system would only fortify the player's ability to piece in that connected outline, jotting vignettes down as they pass by. If there was a blueprint, this would be the one.
Building worlds of interrelated characters has long been a strength of Horii's affective philosophy. Particularly the nature of rolling storytelling that sees fit to reshape with each beat, creating a number of sparse sketches that cascade into one impression. Within that affinity we find visions of lasting space, preserved in all of its glory for architectural prosperity. This was a doorway into the chilly depths of Northern Japan, with vivid shades of early graphical tourism. Real-life settings are depicted in an earnest manner. Each screen swelling with pride: As not only a historical digital artifact but one that provides relevant diegetic information, melding the abstraction between play and investigation as one. Conversations are abundant, with details being wrapped up in small vignettes to-go. The flow of information varies depending on who you’ve spoken to, including whereabouts in the game scenario and specific actions taken by the player. Side characters feel lived in and respondent to your perspective. The game finds itself in a flux, and you’ll that no dialogue is without meaning, with red herrings to keep you alert. Information remains pertinent to to later events, either as foreshadowing or the link that binds that string of murders as one. The supporting cast and perpetrators are well defined, with genuine motivations underpinning the narrative. Subtle animations are on full display - especially in the later Famicom version where more space could be afforded. The weary eyes of the washerwoman glancing at your every move; or the sweating brow of a man who knows more than he’s letting on. There are tiny glimpses of subdued stills that make wistful use of the technology given. Make no mistake: The scenario is a standard detective mystery, but given the constraints of text space and interface, it glows with certain attraction.
The adaption of a command selection system was the big game changer, meaning verb selection was to be done on a menu instead of the conventional parser. Navigating screens became a more fluid experience, giving players keywords to choose from instead of brainstorming from scratch. Players could focus on what designers felt was critical for ADVs, fulfilling the need for brisk scenario design that provoked curiosity with minimal resistance. In Horii’s own words on the decision to change: "it was like reading a novel while doing a crossword puzzle on each page”. Now let’s take a step back: Parser games can be quite inventive, with a driving sense of player freedom and progression. But for the purpose of where the Japanese adventure game was transitioning to, it appeared to be an unorthodox dead-end, simply at odds with their ideal game structure. A game function can only be as important as to what the designer intends. The functionality of the command system would be used in the reworked home console version of Portopia, where it found immense popularity with the two-button scheme, and monumental success in the Dragon Quest series.
It’s easy to see through modern lens how we can adapt games like Ultima, Wizardry and Mystery House to a simplified scheme. But in 1984? What sort of approach do you take? How do you match the keyboard? What are these games doing right? What systems do we take? It takes a good designer to unpack conventions and approach them in meaningful ways, while keeping the original spirit intact. Hokkaido’s answer was to simplify the complexities of computer games and make them palatable for a new audience. And this rests the underlying innovation and persistent trait of Horii’s design philosophy. An entire world of software would be born out of this “edit down” approach, in that we can understand the rigorous conventions, but utilize and adapt them for our own intent. This is a rather notable contribution to Japanese game design, with many tangible applications. Overseas developers like ICOM (Déjà Vu/1985) arrived at similar conclusions with their revolutionary point and click interface that simplified the verb set.
Worth noting: These games are not strictly the first implementation, but the one that revolutionized the trend. Design is often not an isolated case, with many different viewpoints refining a functional concept, so let’s give credit to the developers who are lost to memory and/or poorly documented. The earliest known games that used the command selection system would be Tridental (Pax Softnica/1983) and Planetary Mephius (T&E Soft/1983). The first Japanese developed adventure game was Omotesando Adventure/1982, relying on the conventional parser.
PC-88 vs. Famicom.
Both have been played to completion in their native langauge. The outline of the narrative remains the same, but storyline differences occur at various points. The FC version is less open-ended and a bit more reasonable to approach, with chapters that separate areas to ease new players to ADV conventions. Characters are more cartoon-like, with enhanced graphics and portraits from Kiyokazu Arai, a manga artist and contributor to Login Magazine. Production is lavish and a definite step up. That said, there remains appreciation for the original computer version’s suspenseful atmosphere; the way screens slowly shift like pages of novel; the dark hues of the surroundings and people; even the minimalist BGM contributes to the ambiance. There is an abstract loneliness that is difficult to define, reflecting the era and imagery Yuji Horii and co. dreamt up on their trip to Hokkaido Island.
Building worlds of interrelated characters has long been a strength of Horii's affective philosophy. Particularly the nature of rolling storytelling that sees fit to reshape with each beat, creating a number of sparse sketches that cascade into one impression. Within that affinity we find visions of lasting space, preserved in all of its glory for architectural prosperity. This was a doorway into the chilly depths of Northern Japan, with vivid shades of early graphical tourism. Real-life settings are depicted in an earnest manner. Each screen swelling with pride: As not only a historical digital artifact but one that provides relevant diegetic information, melding the abstraction between play and investigation as one. Conversations are abundant, with details being wrapped up in small vignettes to-go. The flow of information varies depending on who you’ve spoken to, including whereabouts in the game scenario and specific actions taken by the player. Side characters feel lived in and respondent to your perspective. The game finds itself in a flux, and you’ll that no dialogue is without meaning, with red herrings to keep you alert. Information remains pertinent to to later events, either as foreshadowing or the link that binds that string of murders as one. The supporting cast and perpetrators are well defined, with genuine motivations underpinning the narrative. Subtle animations are on full display - especially in the later Famicom version where more space could be afforded. The weary eyes of the washerwoman glancing at your every move; or the sweating brow of a man who knows more than he’s letting on. There are tiny glimpses of subdued stills that make wistful use of the technology given. Make no mistake: The scenario is a standard detective mystery, but given the constraints of text space and interface, it glows with certain attraction.
The adaption of a command selection system was the big game changer, meaning verb selection was to be done on a menu instead of the conventional parser. Navigating screens became a more fluid experience, giving players keywords to choose from instead of brainstorming from scratch. Players could focus on what designers felt was critical for ADVs, fulfilling the need for brisk scenario design that provoked curiosity with minimal resistance. In Horii’s own words on the decision to change: "it was like reading a novel while doing a crossword puzzle on each page”. Now let’s take a step back: Parser games can be quite inventive, with a driving sense of player freedom and progression. But for the purpose of where the Japanese adventure game was transitioning to, it appeared to be an unorthodox dead-end, simply at odds with their ideal game structure. A game function can only be as important as to what the designer intends. The functionality of the command system would be used in the reworked home console version of Portopia, where it found immense popularity with the two-button scheme, and monumental success in the Dragon Quest series.
It’s easy to see through modern lens how we can adapt games like Ultima, Wizardry and Mystery House to a simplified scheme. But in 1984? What sort of approach do you take? How do you match the keyboard? What are these games doing right? What systems do we take? It takes a good designer to unpack conventions and approach them in meaningful ways, while keeping the original spirit intact. Hokkaido’s answer was to simplify the complexities of computer games and make them palatable for a new audience. And this rests the underlying innovation and persistent trait of Horii’s design philosophy. An entire world of software would be born out of this “edit down” approach, in that we can understand the rigorous conventions, but utilize and adapt them for our own intent. This is a rather notable contribution to Japanese game design, with many tangible applications. Overseas developers like ICOM (Déjà Vu/1985) arrived at similar conclusions with their revolutionary point and click interface that simplified the verb set.
Worth noting: These games are not strictly the first implementation, but the one that revolutionized the trend. Design is often not an isolated case, with many different viewpoints refining a functional concept, so let’s give credit to the developers who are lost to memory and/or poorly documented. The earliest known games that used the command selection system would be Tridental (Pax Softnica/1983) and Planetary Mephius (T&E Soft/1983). The first Japanese developed adventure game was Omotesando Adventure/1982, relying on the conventional parser.
PC-88 vs. Famicom.
Both have been played to completion in their native langauge. The outline of the narrative remains the same, but storyline differences occur at various points. The FC version is less open-ended and a bit more reasonable to approach, with chapters that separate areas to ease new players to ADV conventions. Characters are more cartoon-like, with enhanced graphics and portraits from Kiyokazu Arai, a manga artist and contributor to Login Magazine. Production is lavish and a definite step up. That said, there remains appreciation for the original computer version’s suspenseful atmosphere; the way screens slowly shift like pages of novel; the dark hues of the surroundings and people; even the minimalist BGM contributes to the ambiance. There is an abstract loneliness that is difficult to define, reflecting the era and imagery Yuji Horii and co. dreamt up on their trip to Hokkaido Island.