When the slow triumph of the Final Fantasy theme swells during the finale, I can’t help but reflect upon the masterful bookend composing this first iteration. The Warriors of Light embark upon a basic objective – rescuing a princess from a dastardly villain -- only to dispense with that not even twenty minutes later, as the story diverts into a winding tale of airships, earth-rot, and time-loops. This subversion endures all the way up until the very end, melting the barrier between player and avatar via elucidative narration. In an era where 8-bit overworlds meant to convey larger-than-life scale with their pixelated dioramas, Final Fantasy embraces its Dungeons and Dragons-inspired identity by validating our interactivity – everything from the DIY headcanons birthed by our young brains to the hard-won strategic victories over Chaos’ forces given direct agency as a living, breathing game character.

In this modern-day Pixel Remaster, it’s a message I imagine that’ll echo most with younger players and gaming historians dipping their feet into gaming’s most illustrious RPG, and I’m not saying that because the formative years of hard-as-nails difficulty and the inviting canvas of sprite graphics are no longer the standard. It’s difficult to criticize a project stitched with such reverence towards its progenitor -- in particular, I am utterly seduced by the beautiful music score – yet not matter how much goodwill this Pixel Remaster bestows, I’m left walking away asking this: when did Final Fantasy become so easy?

As indicated by the rating, I’m not so quick to dismiss this remaster. Yet while this was probably inevitable -- as a grown man, I ain’t turning down autosave when I don’t have time for losing hours of grinding and prep from a Zombie ambush – everything is an absolute cakewalk right until the final boss fight: an inexplicable escalation into double-digit HP, cure-all magic, and party-wiping spells. It’s an imbalance at odds with the game’s class system, reaping little vindication for the set-ups and strategies so carefully considered from any one party formation. Some blame the retroactive functionality of our party’s tools (series staples Hi-Potions and Phoenix Downs hadn’t existed in the original); others, the buffs bestowed upon certain classes (the White Mage’s Life Magic originally didn’t work in battle). I’m sure the ardent Final Fantasy scholar can point out other things.

Whatever the case, we’re left on autopilot throughout the duration of Square-Enix’s formative adventure, and it’s a real shame given the apparent quality of everything else. The localized script is granted as much gravitas and character as the confines of 8-bit primitivism could possibly grant, and the fusion of precise pixelation married to modern effects is a sight to behold, not the least in the sparkling waters bobbling within the assortment of cozy hamlets offering sanctuary. Some have made no secret of their distaste for these graphical remasters; be it battle screen estate or the infamous “stuttering” defect – I confess to possessing a blind eye for the latter – yet I remain enthralled with their juxtaposition to the rearranged soundtrack: an authentic symphony illustrating the full breadth of medieval fantasy. (Derelict Keep being its most breathtaking example -- an ambient soundscape featuring melancholic strings, with the occasional whisper of a tambourine keeping us alert in the murky depths.)

Is this the definitive Final Fantasy? With the decades’ worth of remakes and ports, the cynical fan has been known to proclaim there is no such thing – too many variables in graphical and audio preference, convenience, content, localized scripts, and difficulty, they say, have made such a distinction impossible for any entry, and the Pixel Remasters are now but another side of the argument. To place my stake in the game: as an audiovisual experience, the Final Fantasy Pixel Remaster is the finest of vintage wine, instilling enough enthusiasm for the sequels. (Final Fantasy VI!) As a defanged classic, it’s not particularly ideal, but it’s hardly the worst option for an aspiring traveler to don the mantle of Warrior of Light. Pack your boots, fulfill your destiny, and soak yourself into that sweet, sweet yesteryear-flavored blend of nostalgia. Just don’t expect to be challenged.

You know, it’s funny: us Kirby fans lauded 2011’s Kirby’s Return to Dream Land as a belated return to form, siphoning the best of Kirby’s Adventure and Kirby Super Star to provide a full-fledged modern adventure after years of remakes, spin-offs, and outsourced entries. Yet over a decade later, with Triple Deluxe and Planet Robobot further perfecting the formula and Forgotten Land successfully paving the way for a 3D future, I gotta admit: Return to Dream Land is rather…well, ordinary.

Not that is new criticism, mind; critics and non-fans alike wrote off Kirby’s Wii adventure as an inoffensive, if not boring, venture that rounded out the dying Wii hardware. Yet where college freshman me championed how Return to Dream Land unapologetically modeled itself into a humble 90’s side-scrolling tribute – a veritable time capsule true to its localized name, earning it the No. 1 spot as my 2011 GOTY – this commitment to tradition leaves the game spinning its wheels. Much of the boilerplate settings breed tedium in their familiarity (Grassland? Check. Beach? Um, yay. Desert? Yawn.), and while the game’s punchy combat carries it through, Return to Dream Land’s momentum doesn’t take off until the late-game stages. The Super Abilities roar with excitement, but the emphasis on Kirby leaves it ill-suited for multiplayer sessions. The Extra Mode offers little more than a souped-up challenge, with the precedent of playable secondary heroes relegated only to the Arena.

And yet despite all that, it’s all tremendously meaty, with this Deluxe edition proving itself a bona fide buffet of collectibles, mini-games, and a much-needed epilogue. Really, us Kirby lore enthusiasts could’ve simply made do that with that last one – the Shinya Kumazaki era’s drive for riveting mythology surrounding a pink marshmallow is an astonishing gift unto itself – yet Deluxe goes above and beyond in what should’ve just been a competent remaster, right down to introducing two new Copy Abilities when it didn’t need to. The forgettable motion controlled mini-games are replaced by Merry Magoland, a Best-Of selection riding the climatic high of the series’ 30th anniversary, with each game complete with their respective badge-rewarding objectives. The Magolor Epilogue, a hi-score-styled episode emphasizing thrilling combos and a peek behind may well be Kirby’s most tantalizing character.

It’s all enough, even, that I’m still chugging away two-and-a-half months later, ready to tie the ribbon on Magoland’s hidden challenges. Granted, this was also the case with the tepid Kirby’s Dream Buffet, but whereas overeating was merely the duty of a Kirby completionist, Return to Dream Land Deluxe is a delectable smorgasbord I gratefully partake upon every time. That’s gotta count for something.

There is something to be said about opinions fluctuating through time, or games being more than the sum of their parts, or whether such remasters are worth the $60 entry tag. True to its humble 2011 release, Return to Dream Land Deluxe didn’t spark much discussion, so I shall rise to the occasion and say I’m simply grateful it exists at all. This commitment to tradition means Masahiro Sakurai’s design ethos of prioritizing the fledgling gamer is preserved for a new generation – a lifeline for those who cannot keep up with Mario’s platforms or Sonic’s speed, buoyed by Kirby’s infinite flight and Return to Dream Land’s multiplayer teamwork. (That, and well, it’s heartening how we bookend the dawn of a new era with the blueprint of modern Kirby: a sign that its 2D roots shan’t be uprooted and disposed away…as if there was any doubt!)

Such speaks to Return to Dream Land’s beating heart: there are no grand designs at play, merely a proud mission statement enduring three decades and counting. This delicate balance in satisfying all demographics isn’t without its stumbles – a patronizing Squeak Squad misstep here, an imbalanced Dream Land 2 see-saw there – but whereas Return to Dream Land is indeed ordinary, it’d difficult to imagine the Kirby of today divorced from this pledge to the familiar. Framed within Deluxe’s personalized glee in running around with a Waddle Dee mask (the cries of “Wanya!”, as so lovingly dubbed by Japanese fans, echoing with every input) and a nostalgic send-off to yet another anniversary, this remaster is a generous package I treasure.

(That all said, I’m gonna come out and say it: you can’t just take the exaggerated proportions of Dedede’s Forgotten Land motif, forcibly jam it into a small model, and not have it look, well, hideous. There’s brand consistency, and then there’s forcing a square peg into a round hole. Blegh!)

Well, isn’t this interesting: whereas Bayonetta 3 just missed the landing (good game, mind; just missing a certain…something its predecessors lacked), I found myself quite taken by this left-field, humble spin-off starring the titular witch in her childhood. There’s none of the glitz and glamour in her adulthood years – just the pathos and doe-eyed wonder of a soul-searching child. Absent are the in-your-face sex or gratuitous gore rewarding our endless combo chains, substituted by the catharsis of a heartening coming-of-age story. It helps the plot is legible this time around: like all the best fairy tales, its storybook presentation makes us gasp and shriek with every page-turning twist, complete with a kindly narrator who, much like how your parents and teachers might’ve done for larger-than-life critters, intones a gruff, haughty growl for the Lost Demon himself.

Bayonetta Origins bears the Platinum seal of quality well – its DNA is evident in everything from secret challenges to hidden treasures to a rousing final boss fight—yet it’s a different breed from their usual fare of hi-scores and cutthroat action. Not that there’s anything wrong with experimentation, but Origins’ lethargy can sometimes be to its detriment – repetition can quickly breed in its forced encounters, and while Cheshire’s gradual new abilities are interesting, provide precious little ground for experimentation (Not that it was ever going to match the three Bayo game’s fertility on that front, mind; grafting juggling-filled combos onto the game’s the two-character control system would be a literal juggling act unto itself.)

But whatever missteps there may be, let us remember this is a different sort of Bayonetta – one substituting spectacle with a childlike wonder we may’ve lost within our own journey into adulthood, turning us bitter and cynical like Cereza’s tyrant of a teacher in Morgana. Were it not for the hair-rising monsters lurking within its depths, you’d almost never believe the mystical Avalon Forest is a realm of deadly frights: everything from Cheshire’s eye-popping transformations to the oversized fauna ferrying and bouncing our young witch along are imaginative boons for Origins’ dreamy setting: its cel-shaded graphics akin to tangible brushstrokes coming alive. Its lore is delightful as it is interesting, not the least in its ensemble of adorable, Dough Boy-esque Wisps: all lost, pitiful creatures trapped in Purgatory, complete with their respective backstories; a heart-wrenching incentive to aim for 100% completion. And we certainly can’t forget Cereza’s beautiful character arc – from subtle callbacks to Bayonetta (one particular boss being not-so-subtle, presenting a clever juxtaposition of Cereza’s growth) to all the trappings of a buddy road trip flick, the pitiful beginnings of young Cereza gradually blossom into the confident witch we’ve come to adore.

Some have questioned Origins’ branching out to a younger audience; myself, I’m grateful that, much like Cereza herself, it had the courage to try at all. Successfully forging uncharted ground for the series, it’s a spin-off that knows its boundaries, never outstaying its welcome and knowing just when to close the book. Where Bayonetta will go from here remains to be seen – I suspect the trials and tribulations surrounding Bayonetta 3 will give Platinum much pause on its future -- but in the advent of its newfound affinity for bedtime stories, I already anticipate the next chapter.

Playing Mischief Makers was much like the time when, while on the mend from reconstructive foot surgery, I was hopped up on medical drugs and experienced vivid hallucinations where I belonged to a community of mole-people that revered Lynn Johnston’s For Better or For Worse as holy gospel. At the very least, it made just as much sense: not one of the game’s many episodic narratives operate on any level of coherency, gleefully shifting from self-referential wit to non-sequitur plot beats at the drop of a hat. Mischief Makers is an arresting fever dream much as it is a deeply-committed comedy, eccentrically haphazard without any regard to the player’s sanity, not the least in cyborg protagonist Marina and her core “shaking” mechanic: an inevitable temptation into anarchy that violates friend and foe alike.

Hence why it’s difficult to get a bead on what, exactly, turned me off. It’s easy to say that Mischief Makers’ pledge to absurdity frequently smothers its sense of telegraphy: from poorly-conveyed puzzles to spontaneous visual overload with explosions and enemy swarms galore, I cannot count how many times I was forced to consult a guide, let alone utter “but why?!” in the face of its many inanities. (Even in instances I wholly enjoyed, mind; dare not spoil the circumstances behind “Blockman Rises”, as I suspect is the case among the game’s impassioned clique, but know that I shook that small child with glee and was not disappointed with the results.)

Yet I recall how a close friend recently elaborated upon his lifelong confusion surrounding another early N64 game – Bomberman 64, a game that’s personally never invited contempt – and I can’t help but wonder if the culprit is none other than personal taste. I make no joy in proclaiming this: I often champion such obscure games, and with how Mischief Makers has the ingredients of everything I adore – inspired mechanics, absurdist comedy, obvious anime influences, and just being so gosh-darned admirable in carrying the two-dimensional torch within 3D gaming’s advent -- I balk at the thought: shouldn’t this be a game I’d wholeheartedly embrace?

But the high’s come down, and I’m forced to confront the frustrating reality that, alas, it’s all just a little too opaque; too impenetrable in its motives. I’d never dream of calling it bad even in the face of more tangible, grounded criticism – the controls never gel, many levels end right when the momentum kicks off, and the elderly professor’s “durr hurr pervy old man lusts after own creation” shtick is painfully outdated – but much as I want to dismiss Mischief Makers’ foibles and root in the corner of Treasure’s forgotten gem, I’m reminded that you can’t force yourself to fall in love. Such is the “in-club” language of cult games like these, I suppose.

Hoo, boy. Even nearly two decades after the fact, we’re still witnessing stragglers adjusting to HD -- a growing pain undoubtedly facilitated by Nintendo’s commitment to standard definition. Not that this was a Nintendo-exclusive thing, mind – Kingdom Hearts III’s numerous delays couldn’t mask its PlayStation 2-styled environments – but even years after the Wii’s exit, Japanese developers are still discovering that, yes, high-definition gaming is more than just saturated bloom and detailed graphics. In a way, it’s interesting how this has all translated into the hubbub surrounding the underpowered Switch console; really, I can’t say I’m a graphically-inclined individual, yet the likes of Fire Emblem: Three Houses and Game Freak’s Pokémon offerings remain stunning gaps in quality among peers and predecessors alike – blocky polygons and fuzzy, stitched-together environments inducing all the cringe of an amateur 3ds Max experiment rather than the immaculately-polished products you’d expect from gaming’s biggest properties.

Of course, gameplay remains king, yet Rune Factory 5 is a sober reminder of how such stumbling blocks bleed and pervade throughout the proverbial fabric. It’s one thing to note how the graphics are only a marginal improvement over the series’ 3D debut in 2008’s Rune Factory Frontier, with its GameCube-era visuals a ghastly mesh of muddy textures and blocky compositions that rarely tap into Rune Factory’s brand of lush, pastel fantasy. Yet it’s the lethargy laced in it all – from the sluggish combat to the oversized environments to the clunky room decoration (“what do you mean the chairs have to be three feet from my dinner table?”) – that render Rune Factory 5 a frustrating exercise in dated familiarity; an uninspired facsimile of its handheld legacy’s cozy compactness.

(Heck, even the American release can’t mask all the glitches from the game’s messy Japanese launch. Character animations fidget and sputter, their heads stammering like worn-down automatons rather than the living, breathing townsfolk we’re supposed to marry.)

It's a darn shame, too, given there’s a good game underneath it all. The feedback loop so inherently addictive in Rune Factory rings true here, and the prudent farmer will quickly exploit crops and materials to hoard wealth and supplies alike. In this never-ending cycle of pastoral capitalism – one the game frequently peppers with dungeon-crawling, monster-taming, and institutional conspiracies -- do we meet Rune Factory 5’s lovable cast, their individual foibles endearing us little by little as we settle down and perhaps even sprout the seeds for love. (Lucy, an athletic go-getter who masks her perceived inadequacy with perfectionism, was my bachelorette of choice.)

Yet when thinking back to the stellar ingenuity of Rune Factory 4 Special – its fertile soil rich and plenty with abundance, yielding an impenetrable depth of options and features – the half-baked harvest of Rune Factory 5 imprints a disappointment not even the vindication of married life can banish. It’s not that it doesn’t want to tap into the malleable whimsy of, say, rolling around on an apple-shaped pet just because – it’s that it can’t, and while it never breeds overt contempt, the static direction of a turning point entry such as this raises concerns all the same. Perhaps the implications of a spin-off title might be the soul-searching Rune Factory needs?

(By the way, does the festival music have to be this obnoxious in every game? Thank goodness for Switch’s portability – I can’t imagine subjecting others to that unending cacophony.)

Perfection. Impeccable. Absolution. We could sit here and nitpick over everything from difficulty spikes to late-game fetch quests, yet like the jungle rain sliding down Samus’s visor dispelling any and all doubts on Metroid's first-person debut, all is forgiven not merely in the GameCube’s most vindicating tale – an unknown Texan studio working otherworldly magic on translating a beloved franchise into first-person 3D – but what may well remain the most immersive experience in all of gaming. The haunting beauty of a forgotten world, so beautifully elucidated in its untouched techno-orchestra score. The eerie echoes of an ancient civilization, pulsing beneath the scannable lore and screeching with abominable, spectral wrath. The pervasive wrongness of Phazon, and the twisted pirates who seek to exploit it for unspeakable experimentation. From its contaminated ecosystem to its addictive, vindicating sense of discovery, every thread weaves together into something breathing and alive; an enduring tragedy avenged through the silent visage of one Samus Aran.

While Metroid Prime’s alien world aged gracefully through the ravages of time, the rapidly evolving realm of gaming has, alas, diminished the groundbreaking sheen that stunned audiences in 2002. Here, Metroid Prime Remastered renovates the original’s assortment of low-poly assets with meticulous detail and revamped models, refurbishing the polygonal geometry into natural formations basking underneath baked lighting. (The glow of the Sap Sacs illuminating the hollow tunnels and musty hallways with a deceitful warmth being a particular favorite.)

It’s not enough to push it into “remake” territory, mind – true to its name, Metroid Prime Remastered operates under the same animation rigs, with only the occasional pop-in and dated effects slipping off its shiny new mask. Yet just as we once gasped at everything from the still snowscapes of Phendrana Drifts to the “blink and you’ll miss it” flash of Samus’s face when an explosion ignites inches before her visor, every corner of Tallon IV’s newfound fidelity demands attention, from the overgrown flora coiling around the Chozo Ruins to the abominations lurking aboard the devastated Frigate Orpheon. What was already a mesmeric audiovisual venture – a hook undoubtedly channeled from its first-person perspective -- is a dream feat on the aging Switch hardware.

The surplus of control options should also be commended, and I say this as someone who could never quite shake off my GameCube muscle memory during my playthrough (distinguishing between scans and weapon types proved a hassle; actually, I’m left wondering if that was the case back on GC!). Some write off the original’s tank controls as “outdated”; myself, the Wii-esque motion controls lifted from the lauded Metroid Prime Trilogy unnerved me with their flexibility, as if Samus’s arm cannon suddenly broke unspoken laws of movement and functionality. But far be it from me to dictate how people play; point is, no matter what control scheme you prefer, you’re covered here.

As the saying goes: “Don’t mess with perfection.” The satisfying punch of a Super Missile – blasting Space Pirates about as if ragdolls thrown about -- is as riveting as ever. The familiar choirs and garbles from Kenji Yamamoto’s soundtrack is carefully preserved. The addictive lore situates the player as an archaeologist hungry for knowledge. Switch’s best remaster doesn’t just whisper sweet promises for future remasters or the belabored Metroid Prime 4 – it’s nothing but delicate, hallowed reverence for Retro Studio’s landmark title, one I already can’t wait to replay.

Bite-sized Metal Gear ain’t my cup of Metal Gear. Yes, I know Portable Ops is meant to accommodate handheld play – compact sneaking missions operated within boring car rides and nocturnal “just-before-bed” rituals – and supposedly its sequel in Peace Walker is way better, but the objectives Naked “Big Boss” Snake undertakes in the Colombian peninsula are disposable trivialities that simply can’t compare to the living, breathing console counterparts. Sure, bombing facilities and tranquilizing enemy soldiers may seem familiar, yet when divided in piecemeal rations with none of Hideo Kojima’s ingenuity and authorship, they siphon little of the heart-pounding immersion that makes Metal Gear’s organic tissue pulse with life. (Unless you count me struggling with the chokehold commands as “immersive”; seriously, what happened there? I lost count of how many times I reset missions due to flubbed inputs.)

I know Portable Ops is a different breed of game, so this isn’t entirely fair criticism; really, it does some cool stuff – the story cleverly navigates around hardware limitations with cutscenes framed around the iconic “scratchy graphic novel” art so emblematic of Metal Gear illustrations and the collaborative team set-up with reformed soldiers is a novel approach. Yet there’s little incentive to engage with the latter -- Snake’s able enough to complete most missions by himself, and your newfound ragtag bunch are only short-lived insurances in the face of tough bosses.

Those with deep knowledge of its multiplayer or its Plus expansion may disagree, but to this casual Metal Gear fan, everything from an irrelevant stamina meter to well-worn repetition renders Portable Ops a little too small for its storied britches; a well-meaning facsimile with none of the design know-how that captivated its home console audience. A serviceable spin-off, but nothing more.

(Man, Calling to the Night, though? It has no business being associated with the bubblegum story here, but I knew it was something special when I unlocked it in Super Smash Bros. Brawl all those years ago and the strings still play my shivering spine like a, well, violin.)

A beautiful mess; a dazzling one, yes, but a mess nonetheless. As if mirroring Sonic’s inability to swim, SEGA’s poor hedgehog routinely sinks into a quagmire of mediocrity whenever he so much as steps into 3D, clunky gimmicks and unfocused design bogging down any level of competency. Now that he finally finds firm footing in Sonic Frontiers’ platforming/open-world hybrid, it’s no surprise his supersonic speed is wobbly and uneven after years of misuse, stumbling every which way from showstopper setpieces, fleeting intermezzos, and even right at the undercooked finish line. Awkward voiceless dialogue introduce us to the adorable little Cokos, and it’s never very clear which ones are collectible and which are just, uh, background props. The nighttime Starfall events are as useless as they are unnecessarily obtrusive; in fact, I died once thanks to the screen-obscuring slots covering a mini-boss’s navigable rails. The Titan boss fights come this close to cementing themselves as all-time series spotlights -- complete with the Sonic Adventure 2 buttrock hyping our inner ten-year-old – yet all are marred with finicky cameras and cumbersome parrying mechanics. (No joke, I died against Gigantos five times because I kept conflating the latter with dodging.)

All unfortunate byproducts from five years of insular development and, true to the game’s name, forging new frontiers. Apologist rhetoric, I know, but you certainly can’t deny the level of ambition on display in Frontiers’s open-world– a sorely-missed confidence not observed since Sonic’s Dreamcast days. Some find Frontiers’ haphazard assortment of suspended aerial loops and bouncy springs aimless and slap-dash; myself, I was certainly not left wanting: the moment I finished one task, three more were already waiting, and before I knew it, I’m obsessed with cleaning up the mess strewn before me, be they cleaning up robot mobs or scavenging every last floating medal to soak up some lore.

Sonic’s speed is an infamous conundrum: the Genesis games and his more lauded 3D efforts balance an unparalleled level of momentum and control; addictive sequences of breakneck acrobatics that actively demand mastery kindled from white-hot adrenaline. Yet it’s that same lightspeed that, much like witnessing the Blue Blur himself, can only constitute blink-and-you’ll-miss-it completion times, hence the abundance of Objectively Bad Ideas in werehogs and swords and guns and what-have-you propping his 3D adventures as faulty crutches. Having wisely tossed those out, SEGA’s take on Breath of the Wild plants their mascot into a freeform canvas where he’s free to run about as he pleases. There are bad ideas present, yes, but as we’re handed the keys to witness how the fastest thing alive might spend a day of do-goodery, we find ourselves lost much as we were in the jungles of Mystic Ruins and the streets of Station Square. Why fast travel when I can see what happens when I boost off that ramp or grind those rails? What happens if I Cyloop here, or perhaps there? Haphazard or not, the islands of Sonic Frontiers are veritable playgrounds in service to Sonic’s trademark appeal.

Paired with a story that actively gives a damn about continuity and character development, and we’re left with a respectable, if not deeply flawed, roadmap for the future. It could certainly stand to be better – one can only imagine how a refined product might deliver a true modern classic -- but for once, Sonic’s future isn’t paved with helixes and loop-de-loops leading nowhere, running the motions on worn hamster wheels. And for now, that might just be enough. Take it for what it’s worth.

(Assuming, of course, that for the next game SEGA doesn’t go dumpster diving for whatever unfathomable reason. You know how it is.)

Heart-pounding stealth, dirty backstabbing, and complex commentaries on nuclear warfare and child soldiers in my 8-bit video game? Well, it’s not the first time Konami and Hideo Kojima fostered such ambition: the original Metal Gear was an impressive attempt on that front in fusing classic war movie pulp with all the clever interactive agency only a video game could provide – a tad basic for those raised on the series’ patented monologues and multi-layered gameplay depth, yet one with a deserved legacy all the same. Its sequel here in Solid Snake is much more familiar: stealth scenarios forcing every option in our arsenal (the ol’ “tapping on the walls to distract soldiers” trick had its start here), complex antagonists picking at our war-sheltered brains, and clever foreshadowing threaded throughout that, once tied together, delivers a brutal CQC punch right in the gut.

…a little too familiar, perhaps. It’s a common observation that Solid Snake’s something of a proto-Metal Gear Solid, and it’s indeed eerie how many set-pieces and story beats here are lifted straight into the PS1 classic. Solid Snake’s greatest sin lies in there being too many backtracking sequences to count – complete with the occasional 8-bit patented “how was I supposed to figure that out?” puzzle – but I’ve come to think of it as Kojima vindicating his favorite ideas for the PlayStation’s wider audience. The melding of mind-melting plot twists and unprecedented player agency hadn’t quite cemented yet, but the gestation begins here.

(No, really, did anyone else do a double-take when they saw those NPCs? Sorry, I know I’m being vague, but it’s one of those gaming moments where something contextually alien dangles a carrot and, before you know it, you’re hooked in deciphering its purpose. Perhaps the first stellar example of Kojima subversion at work.)

As a property enduring three decades and counting, Sonic the Hedgehog’s been buoyed by a rebellious cast married to bright, identifiable colors and a dizzying commitment to speed (the rate of motion, not the substance). Yet for how our favorite blue hedgehog’s “too cool for school” ‘tude guises his constant modern blunders, he didn’t earn it for nothing: the original Sega Genesis titles remain the stuff of legend, wherein navigating the delicate placement of signature springs, loop-de-loops, and collapsing cliffs turns Sonic’s escapades into veritable Rube Goldberg Machines. Indeed, an uninterrupted Sonic is the best Sonic: mastering the games’ twists and turns instills the death-defying daredevilry imprinted by the red-hot shoes of Sonic himself – for he is, indeed, too cool for any force of nature, and he cannot be stopped. (Barring, of course, whenever Tails steals your underwater air bubble at the last second. Little bastard.)

Never has that model been more perfected than Sonic 3 and Knuckles – the true form of Sonic the Hedgehog 3: a game that, despite its highs, was cut short by ROM limitations and an impending McDonald’s deal; an unfortunate series of circumstances paving the road to a low-key climax, complete with the unsatisfying dispatch of Sonic’s new arch-rival in Knuckles the Echidna. Yet thanks to the wizardry of Lock-On Technology, its other half in Sonic and Knuckles restores its original vision of an epic. The classic trio in Sonic, Knuckles, and Tails are all available for solo play: dashing, climbing, and gliding across a dozen-plus stages. Each sprawling zone isn’t just jam-packed with secrets and alternate route with their carefully-braided twists and turns: all operate to the cast’s silent traversal over Freytag’s Pyramid through interconnected pantomime – a riveting tale of pursuit, misconceptions, and unexpected camaraderie, all enacted through our sleek, black Genesis controllers. (Or, in my case, a simple Wii Remote.)

Really, from the moment the giant CGI Sonic leaps onto the screen, the original promise of Sonic the Hedgehog 3 finally delivers: it’s here, it’s massive, and it’s not just ready to consume your whole day: it’s going to rock your world.

Not that any of that would mean anything without a firm base for Sonic and the gang to perform their mind-bending marathons. Hydrocity Zone’s first-act cooldown is but a deceit, its gradual introduction of underwater turbulence, automated Speed Gloves, and timed conveyers the perfect segue for its beloved second-act: an exhilarating rush of twisty slides and water-dashing deftly juxtaposed with its cultivated sense of meticulous timing – a masterful balance representing the peak of Sonic 3’s early-game confidence. Mushroom Hill Zone is an exhilarating display of acrobatics and wide, open exploration: the perfect playground for new Sonic and Knuckles players to sink their hardened echidna gloves into. Ice Cap Zone remains a gripping penultimate chapter, the chilly adrenaline of Sonic’s makeshift snowboarding cooled down by a reflective moodiness; a foreboding anticipation conceived in no small part due to its legendary BGM. (A tune, alas, banished to the ether thanks to legal issues; truthfully, I can live without most of you-know-who’s contributions, but its unforgivable absence remains the lone deal-breaker for future rereleases.)

The flaws from the original halves, and perhaps even in this very fusion, occasionally worm their way throughout -- Carnival Night Zone is an infamous (if not endearingly dumb) bust, the Glowing Sphere bonus stage is an impenetrable mess of intuition and control, and the acceleration in the true final boss fight isn’t immediately clear and tricks the player into a stressful, protracted state of conservation – yet it’s the culmination of three years’ worth of development that allow Sonic to continue running unimpeded. It’s not just about the framing of Sonic’s marathons – be it running up hollow trees, riding tops, or navigating wind turbines -- or being wowed by the faux-3D traversal of the Special Stages: it’s the perfected knowledge of inertia and momentum that continually reward us; that endorphin surge of earned confidence when we take that leap of faith off that oft-practiced slope, or carefully memorize the hypnotic mazes of blue and red rather than blame dizzyingly-abstract randomness and Tails-induced lag for our failures.

As the one successful challenger to Mario’s platforming throne, the early Sonic games understand the vindication found within the genre’s blank canvas: it’s not enough to have our avatars jump around, bop some heads and reach the goal; nay, the best platformers encourage handing their physics-based keys to the player, gleefully encourage them to bend the rules and perform feats never thought possible by their architects. We can debate all week over which Sonic game exemplifies this ideal best – most, at the very least, will agree only Sonic the Hedgehog 2 and Sonic Mania are worthy competitors – but in this Sega Genesis neophyte’s eyes, Sonic 3 and Knuckles is nothing less than quintessential gaming, its well-earned prestige having immortalized our cool blue hedgehog into the video game pantheon, rain or shine.

The mission of the gaming tech demo is to convince the anticipative player of the next-gen hardware’s capabilities; a proof of concept, if you will. With how often the term’s lobbed as a dismissive pejorative, I find this descriptor something of a disservice to the Pilotwings games, what with how all three games still endure in players’ memories. In the case of the original, it’s not hard to see why: the Super Nintendo’s Mode 7 innovation is the perfect playground for aviation, as rotating maps masterfully craft the illusion of three-dimensional movement in our planes and hang gliders swirling around overwhelming landmasses and oceans. The stitched 16-bit steams have long since eroded with the industry’s evolution, but even now, as the sky-diver’s helicopter slowly ascends aloft over their landing grounds – anticipation funneling chills down our spines at the shrinking, pixelated earth below, awaiting our latest aerial stunt -- does the wistful enchantment of "how did they do that?” still escape our lips.

This isn’t to play revisionist history and depict Pilotwings as a visionary title inventing a new form of play -- flight sims were well already a thing in the 80’s, not the least in the ever-popular Microsoft Flight Simulator – yet it’s the application of Nintendo’s Golden Rule that makes it soar: anyone can gravitate towards its visuals and concept, but everyone will conform to Pilotwings’ demands of knifepoint precision. The pressure of achieving a good landing is as stressful as it is addictive, for woe is the player that undoes all their hard work with a crash landing. (Those revisiting it via Nintendo Switch Online will thank their lucky stars for the rewind feature)

Even so, Pilotwings is careful not to betray its serene nature. Yes, not every vehicle is intuitive -- impressive as it may be, I still can’t figure out the flux and motion behind skydiving – but the game’s scoring system allows enough wiggle worm for players to focus on their respective strengths; a subtle, innate form of encouragement symbolic of the treasured flexibility in Nintendo’s best offerings.

(It helps that Nintendo laced a fun layer of character beating beneath Pilotwings’ threadbare context – the exaggerated exasperations of your flight instructors are a hard-won achievement, yet the non-sequitur absurdity of the post-mission mini-games are as delightful as they are befuddling.)

Flown to the tune of Soyo Oka’s soundtrack – some of her finest during her Nintendo tenure, what with its combination of airy nostalgia and groovy jazz (as Smash Bros. has proven, the Light Plane theme is an underrated masterpiece) – and you have a launch game that earns its stripes. This progenitor may lack the freedom of its successors, but as players watch our planes take off into the wild blue rotary yonder, we realize we’re witnessing the maiden flight of Nintendo’s most legendary console.

Americanization’s a funny little thing; for instance, Ace Attorney’s blatant entrenchment within Japanese culture with its spirit mediums and yokai creatures stand in stark contrast with its Westernized anglicism. Yet the NES generation was certainly none the wiser when it came to “River City Ransom”, the third installment of Kunio-kun: a hot-blooded brawler series starring muscly, googly-eyed Japanese delinquents cordially pleasant with local businessfolk and mercilessly unrepentant with rival gangs. Any momentary culture shocks in nude bathhouses are quickly smoothed over with how it seamlessly clicks into the 80’s cultural template, what with the wide crop of teen romance and martial arts films filling video stores everywhere with cheesy pulp. (The clunky localized script trivializing the whole escapade with “Ryan’s girlfriend was rescued just in the time to finish shopping” says it all.)

Turns out addictive gameplay speaks to all languages – I dub River City Ransom’s appeal as something resembling “comedic density”: a flexible gameplay loop appealing to knee-slapping humor. The combat frequently escalates with all the subtlety of a slapstick cartoon, as our high school protagonists graduate from knocking out thugs to picking up their unconscious bodies and swinging them around like wrestling chairs. The co-op mode has Alex (Kunio) and Ryan engage in unavoidable friendly fire – deadly accidents that’ve surely ruined countless thought-out plans. Every enemy gang member, no matter who they are, are individualized members of the various gangs littered across River City’s streets, squealing charismatic one-liners upon defeat.

It’s funny, it’s wild, it’s absolutely infectious, and it comes alive in a traversable world where we prowl the open streets for cash, build up EXP, and shop for food and trinkets. “Ahead of its time” is a frequent descriptor for this classic beat ‘em up, and I readily join that chorus: River City Ransom becomes as much of a personalized, grindable unit-builder as it is a delicate exercise in money-management, wherein we scrap up every last coin scavenged from felled thugs to save up for HP-boosting rock music or a copy of Stone Hands – a how-to in unleashing rapid-fire punches. (Did I mention the satisfaction of pounding through an enemy’s guard? I’m not exaggerating when I say these fistfights rival Dragon Ball in their intensity.)

Like the finest of 8-bit classics, most any stumblings are owed to an absent equilibrium: the difficulty ramps up a steep learning curve early on, the economy’s prices get jacked up, and it’s easy to cheese late-game once you know what purchases to prioritize. (Oh, and jumping? An absolutely dreadful affair.) Yet this magnetism to gut-busting anarchy, shattering any pretense of balance, may perhaps be its greatest strength – paired with its unique ambitions, and River City Ransom remains a remarkably confident piece of software over three decades later. Wherever co-director Mitsuhiro Yoshida may be, he can rest easy knowing this is Kunio-kun’s most seminal adventure.

(Not to ruin the post-mortem, but I confess I wasn’t particularly conscious of “Barf!” during my multiple playthroughs -- an undeniable influence of Millennial America’s fascination with gross-out humor, but I suppose its enduring legacy throughout the years showcases the power of River City Ransom for you.)

Like girders and concrete coalescing into a historic building, the foundation for Super Mario was built surely but steadily from the early 1980’s. From a hapless carpenter rescuing his girlfriend from an oversized ape (Donkey Kong) to a plumber fending off subterranean pests (Mario Bros.), Mario’s blue-collar odd-jobs career didn’t just pave the way for the iconic platforming that’d captivate the world, but was a handy template to explore various game concepts – a philosophy echoed today in every Mario spin-off under the sun. Hence the interesting blueprints for 1984’s Wrecking Crew, which follow a unique blend of the two: here, Mario and Luigi are hammer-wielding construction workers in this action-puzzler, under siege from their evil foreman as they demolish one construction site after another.

I say “blend” in how that the game situates its goal – destroying most every relevant structure – across a series of platforms, yet Wrecking Crew instead substitutes physicality in favor of puzzle-solving. We’re placed in direct control of the brothers, yet there’s no acrobatics involved – both are glued to the floor, left only to use their wits to discern layouts and solutions while dodging eggplant men. As a game emphasizing brain power, the lessons of consequences and moderation are innate; for instance, we’re naturally inclined to the chain reaction of dynamite – the satisfaction of explosive audiovisual feedback and blowing away enemies needs no elaboration – yet impulsive, premature demolition will quickly doom us to failure.

Rather, the catharsis of blowing stuff up is earned: with its assortment of switches, oil drums, and bombs, skilled Wrecking Crew play operates akin to a quick-thinking Rube Goldberg machine. Echoing Pac-Man in its relentless assortment of villains, I've used the term "Nintendo cartoon" before to illustrate the physicality and comedy of 80's Nintendo, and that's never more present here than the undeniable vindication in outmaneuvering the likes of Foreman Spike – an agent of chaos all too likely to ruin your delicate set-ups and knock poor Mario down – and trapping pursuant wrenches via drums and inescapable pits. In our master plans of unleashing explosions and exploiting devious traps, success in Wrecking Crew is hard-fought and hard-won as any other 8-bit classic.

One, alas, never inducted among the fabled pantheon of NES classics. Accessibility may well be the culprit – the likes of Donkey Kong, Super Mario Bros., and Excitebike are immediately understood, and while one does not master those games by turning your brain off, anyone can have a good time jumping over barrels, kicking Koopa shells and pulling off wheelies. The gaming enthusiast can pride themselves in perfecting Wrecking Crew, but well designed as its puzzles may be, can the casual player approach it with the same mindset? Anyone can engage Galaga with the thrill of shooting down aliens, but Wrecking Crew expects a sequential order of operations that demands commitment; a brain teaser enforcing active intellect rather than instinct and muscle memory. With such design naturally inviting repetition and frustration, the designers exhibited caution in including an instant abort-to-menu button should the player trap themselves, but it remains little wonder that it’s absent of the “one more game” mentality so emblematic of its addictive peers.

There are other cracks in Wrecking Crew’s foundation -- the steps to obtain the Golden Hammer, the game’s secret weapon, are simply far too opaque – but nothing that earns contempt. A firm stepping stone for Yoshio Sakamoto’s career, that Wrecking Crew silently plugs away as background construction noise does not diminish its standing in early Nintendo history – let its representation via Sebastian Maniscalco’s role in the upcoming Mario movie be proof of that.

For perhaps as long as the gaming medium has graced us, there’s existed an enduring analogy framing us gaming faithful as gods, “controlling” the lives of our digital avatars in Mario, Sonic, and whatever you named your Dragon Quest hero over their respective treks over Freytag’s Pyramid -- a feat achieved only through our divine hand. ActRaiser, the earliest champion of Super Nintendo’s treasured third-party library, takes this interpretation to its literal extreme by situating us as a literal god, slaying demons and managing towns in a unique fusion of action-packed side-scrolling and a life sim stripped straight out of SimCity.

A bizarre marriage, yet one with undeniable appeal: there’s been much said over gaming’s broad appeal to immersion – ranging from the hours of Zen-induced concentration to the sadistic glee gleaned from inconsequential mass murder – and ActRaiser’s simulator sections supply the best sort of escapism. Our angel avatar juggles everything from land construction to playing guard duty against monsters – a round-the-clock gameplay loop forging a perfect balance of stress and gratification as we field one prayer after the other. (That is, if the never-ending deluge of villager requests don’t compel a murderous divine disaster; mind you, I’d never dream of assuming the role of such a capricious god, but Game Center CX’s Shinya Arino had other, more hilarious ideas.)

It’s all never particularly deep, yet addiction’s innate in simulators such as these, and grafting an episodic narrative upon it all demanded my full attention. It’s not enough that I rescue little Teddy from a monster’s lair; no, I simply must develop every square inch of every single town until they’re bursting at the seams. It’s never necessary, but I am a fallen god recovering from a millennia-long slumber, damn it, and I shall reward my devout people for their enduring faith. What sort of benevolent entity would I be otherwise? That I’m this absorbed into ActRaiser’s world speaks to its quality.

Alas, it’s a level of commitment that I wish the action setpieces could inspire. It’s not as if our godly knight needs Super Mario World’s acrobatics or Super Castlevania IV’s flexible whip – sometimes less can be more -- but while Yuzo Koshiro’s masterful symphonies remain some of the most rousing and melancholic SNES tunes today, they’re the only qualities elevating these awkward expeditions into anything but just that. It’s true that ActRaiser’s brisk pacing ensures neither segment wears out their welcome – that our mighty knight undergoes the ever-familiar feedback loop of perks and buffs ensures a synergy between the two -- but even that can’t dispel how the stiff controls echo your average bargain-bin platformer, and much of your magic arsenal trivializes boss encounters. It’s a shortcoming I imagine the game’s hidden hard mode would solve, but sadly, I’ve already had my fill of gods.

There are those who consider ActRaiser a 16-bit masterpiece, chugging away at their villages and dwelling upon the narrative's religious allegories; myself, I’d happily consider myself among their number if it proved itself a more focused package. Sadly, Enix’s disinterest in perfecting this formula was evident as far back as its obscure sequel – in a move undoubtedly fueled by both marketability and development priorities, it omitted the god sim in favor of a full-fledged side-scrolling focused game. Perhaps that’s crystalized ActRaiser’s uniqueness over the years, but with ActRaiser Renaissance’s sudden debut last fall, might our appeals to Go-, erm, “Master” bless us with the sequel of our dreams?

For as much as I’ve previously acclaimed Kirby Super Star, the enduring fan favorite of the series (not the least in yours truly, albeit swapping places with the DS remake on any given day), I confess an air of nostalgia may cloud my judgement. I mean this with no disrespect: Masahiro Sakurai’s genesis with the series in this, Kirby’s Adventure, and Kirby’s Dream Land remain some of the most beloved “beginners’ first” experiences in gaming for a reason, what with the ingenious duality of Kirby’s infinite floatiness and transformative Copy Abilities balanced for even the most hopeless player to reach the ending. Proudly championing the value of accessibility in the notoriously unforgiving realm of video games, it’s a design philosophy that I treasure more than anything else: a welcoming balancing act championing the fledgling gamer and enticing the veteran expert with hard-as-nails challenges and self-imposed handicaps.

But for as much as Super Star vindicates us, there’s an undeniable sense of rudimentary design pulsing throughout. This isn’t to say Kirby’s finest SNES venture has even one patronizing bone within its brilliant “sub-game” omnibus, wherein the nine various games flex rules and genre shifts on a dime. Yet for all its ambition it remains, by a significant margin, one of the most fleeting, effortless inductees within the puffball pantheon. It is one thing for the opening Spring Breeze sub-game to segue us via an abridged remake of the already brief Kirby’s Dream Land, yet even today I still have little use for Gourmet Race: what should be a subversive romp in its food-munching marathon is but the most frivolous of exercises, clocking in at just over two minutes before we scratch our heads and move on to the next game in line.

So then why all the praise? Context, for one: Super Star would remain a unique visionary within its own series not merely in its episodic composition but in its brawler-inspired movesets, fleshing out Kirby and his one-and-done magic tricks into something of a veritable fighting game character; a mix of Mario and Street Fighter’s Ryu, if you will, rampaging through Dream Land with all the practiced flux and movement such a combination would demand. It’s a system that the modern Shinya Kumazaki era has wisely retained and iterated upon, yet for all the strengths and even improvements those games possess, Super Star remains, to my mind, the snappiest and weightiest of all Kirby – every attack has impact, punctuated by loud snaps and punchy combos as you pummel hapless, cuddly cherubs into dust.

Factor in two-player co-op – furbished with the aesthetical appeal of playing as one of Dream Land’s many lovable denizens – and the sub-game omnibus endowing Super Star with brisk, dynamic vignettes, and it’s little wonder how, true to the woodburned Japanese packing, the game’s etched itself into the memories of Kirby veterans as something special; an unsurmountable peak only challenged by the highs of the past decade. Obviously designed with replayability in mind, each game’s unique direction provides a delectable buffet of savory sugar rushes (Dyna Blade, Spring Breeze) to thrilling popcorn capers (Revenge of Meta Knight) to meaty collectathons (The Great Cave Offensive). To a carefree child, it’s an irresistible smorgasbord of Kirby’s greatest adventures; to an adult bagged with responsibilities, all are perfectly adaptable to ten-minute breaks or hour-long couch gaming sessions.

Even the distinction between the two time-wasters in Megaton Punch and Samurai Kirby presents a fascinating duality: both games operate on different conceptions of timing -- the former following the Rule of Three in timed visual aides, the latter a heart-pounding showdown offering only the tiniest window to strike. In terms of solo play, Megaton Punch is a cakewalk: fun planet-busting imagery aside, its sequences of gauges and meters ensure only the youngest of gamers will derive any challenge or accomplishment; on the other hand, the cutthroat reflexes of Samurai Kirby remains Super Star’s greatest challenge: even now, the nail-biting suspense induces cold feet and twitchy fingers, ensuring my inability to clear its highest difficulty.

Indeed, its thanks to its grand alchemy of gorgeous aesthetics and sound that forges something of a paradox wherein the game still feels “bigger” than it really is. The Donkey Kong Country-inspired CGI remains, to my money, some of the alluring graphical work on the SNES with its plush cast and dreamy backgrounds. The latter, especially: the blend of Playskool grasslands, starry Lite-Brite skies, and luminescent crystal caverns backgrounds are breathtaking works of childhood reverie brought to life by an orchestral score conducted by series veteran Jun Ishikawa and the one-and-done Dan Miyakawa. Through swelling symphonies do we reenact legendary action-figure fantasies within Revenge Meta Knight and Vs. Marx; in the veritable lullabies of Bubbly Clouds and even the Game Over themes, do we encounter an enchanting appeal of soothing encouragement that’s never not arrested me amidst all the hyperactivity; a repose compelling me just to stop and stare. (A recurring marvel culminating in its soaring credits theme – an all-time great that, were it not for the gracious surprise at the very end, I’d say would only be rivalled by EarthBound’s Smiles and Tears in its bittersweet goodbye.)

I have previously described Kirby Super Star as magic on the grounds that something so small continues to surprise me. It’s a phenomenon that’s mystified me since youth, when Kirby would spontaneously hop at random intervals – unique animation and sound and all. The cause unknown, it was a little secret I cherished; one known only to me amidst all the background daydreams and relentless action. Time and age would eventually recognize it as a footstool jump function, but other discoveries would take its place: one playthrough would yield a hidden route in a Dynablade stage; others would unveil obscure mechanic of certain abilities. My latest playthrough exploited my neutrality towards the Ninja ability with an unfamiliar counterattack-- true to its covert theme, Kirby can briefly disappear just before an enemy makes contact and retaliate with an explosion. (Oh, and those vines the final boss grows? You can destroy those.)

Surely, at one point, Kirby’s finest game will run out of tricks, and I’ll be left to stew over that sobering fact. And yet like a fleeting dream, the faintest whisper of nostalgia, Kirby Super Star continues enchanting me just as soon as it says hello. Even now, as I peer out the windows of The Great Cave Offensive’s rest huts, gazing into a lakeside forest to the dreamy hypnosis of the save theme, it’s an earnest form of make-believe I continue to treasure.