Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (19th Sep. – 25th Sep., 2023).

In 2008, M2 developed a remake of Fantasy Zone II: The Tears of Opa-Opa (1987), reinterpreting the title on System16, one of Sega's arcade boards, whose only modification was the addition of some RAM. This philosophy, at the crossroads of nostalgia, authenticity and creativity born of technical limitations, is perhaps what largely informed the development of the Aleste Collection (2020). Rather limited in scope, the compilation lacks some beloved titles such as Musha Aleste (1990) and Super Aleste (1992), but perhaps the idea was to focus on the transformation the series underwent with the transition onto the Game Gear. The console's technical capabilities mechanically mellowed the series' difficulty, and it was this aspect that Manabu Namiki wanted to emulate for this unique sequel [1].

The title feels like a tribute to another era of shoot'em ups that preceded the success of the CAVE titles. Although GG Aleste 3 never achieves the extraordinary difficulty of danmaku games, the title does offer some engaging sequences thanks to its visual atmosphere and mastery of the Game Gear. The high quality of the assets almost makes it easy to forget that this is an 8-bit game, the most obvious expressions of which are the tone of the sound chip and the inevitable slowdowns caused by such a demanding title. This Game Gear spirit also accounts for the relative simplicity of the enemy patterns: the Special mode certainly requires a more cautious strategy, since the enemy fires a revenge bullet after being killed, thus neutralising some of the secondary weapons, but GG Aleste 3 never feels difficult or unfair.

Some sequences can drag on a little too long, but GG Aleste 3 makes up for it with some impressive setpieces. Wave 5 is particularly effective, with the missile's ascent and the air currents creating actual dogfights. There is something anachronistically delicious about the contrast between the soaring cinematography of this chapter and the antiquated hardware. In an interview, the creators were asked to reflect on the state of shoot'em ups in the Reiwa era. GG Aleste 3 is probably less a revolutionary contribution than a statement in favour of diversifying the concepts explored, especially when compared to independent productions. Nakimi concludes with the following observation: 'I think that freedom and breadth of action have been central concepts for shoot'em ups, but that they have been forgotten. [Nowadays] there are so many games where enemies shoot fireworks that you have to avoid, there is no reason for us to make another one – and the Game Gear would not be able to run it anyway. We were not trying to go back in time, but rather provide a variety of flavours' [2].

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[1] '『GGアレスタ』シリーズ大鼎談！ シリーズのキーマン小玉氏、並木氏、ナカシマ氏が裏話を語り尽くす', on Dengeki Online, 14th January 2021, consulted on 25th September 2023.
[2] Ibid (personal translation).

     ‘How fascinating to feel that part of oneself might, 'in a twinkling of an eye', energise by sympathetic resonance an atom... of an arbutus tree... of an amethyst... of a sea anemone... [...] and... of the galaxy of Andromeda.’
     – Daphne Oram, An Individual Note of Music, Sound and Electronics, 1972.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (20th Jun. – 26th Jun., 2023).

A year after founding the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, Daphne Oram left the radio service due to aesthetic differences and opened her own studio in Fairseat, Kent, to explore her new instrument, the Oramics. Oramics produced sounds from shapes drawn on strips of 35mm film, which were read by photoelectric cells before being converted into sound signals. From 1959, she devoted herself entirely to this artistic project, producing a powerful discography in which the exploration of music intersects with a meditation on history and human societies. Among others, 'Bird of Parallax' (1972) revisits the musical contrasts she introduced in Still Point (1948), with complex instrumentation and extensive work on timbre and rhythm, emphasising the silences and expansive spaces between notes.

In her essay An Individual Note of Music, Sound and Electronics (1972), Oram theorises her musical project and describes the importance of intermodulation. She explores musical production as a metaphysical contemplation that enables a greater understanding of both the forms of visible things and our own human condition. It is the layering of patterns that makes it possible to create novelty and music. The same project can be found in Moondust. An experimental game by Jaron Lanier, the title questions the relationship between interactivity and experimental music. Lanier was at the beginning of his career, and although he had already shown a definite interest in composition, he worked mainly with the traditional Western orchestra, to which he added world instruments. Moondust is an exploration of synthetic music, not unlike Suzanne Ciani's masterful albums such as Voices Of Packaged Souls (1970) and Seven Waves (1982), with their sometimes alarming, sometimes soothing sounds.

In Moondust, the player controls an astronaut and a series of spacecraft, tasked with spreading coloured particles as close as possible to a target in the centre of the screen. The controls are erratic, and the various figures bounce off walls and sometimes follow chaotic trajectories. Moondust takes advantage of the technical capabilities of the SID chip to create fairly rich layers of sound, although it never quite reaches the level of long, tightly composed arpeggios. Instead, the game is an explosion of textural sensations that only imperfectly translate the traces and shapes left on the screen. In 'Bird of Parallax', the first eight minutes are a rather disconcerting cacophony, with birdsong intruding into the sonic panorama, trapping the listener in a bubble cut off from time. The same sensation is found in Moondust when the title is first played. Sounds burst into one's ears, with strong contrasts in dynamics. In the closing minutes, 'Bird of Parallax' is much more structured: a melody is clearly audible, accompanied by organic pulsations, as if order is emerging from chaos.

Once the player understands the underlying mechanics of Moondust, the stars can align and the player can control the various elements with profound geometric discipline. What looked like Brownian motion becomes elegant choreography, and the music is modulated according to this newfound order. The experience becomes a sort of ethereal meditation: the screen expands into higher dimensions, and the quest to spread moondust becomes a metaphor for the expansion of life across a vast, dark universe. At this point, Moondust fully exploits the interactivity of video games to generate its music, pioneering generative music along with Brian Eno and other British musicians. As Oram pointed out in An Individual Note, the player is then in control of the method of music production, free to explore it and meditate on their own role as creator. This is perhaps the greatest lesson to be learned from Daphne Oram, Jaron Lanier and Suzanne Ciani: art is born out of chaos and is within everyone's reach, as long as they accept the exercise of introspection. In Oram's words: 'The greatest music is composed when the composer [...] [reveals] such a range of understanding that they too can say: 'this is great music for I sense, think and feel it to be so'.' [1]

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[1] Daphne Oram, An Individual Note of Music, Sound and Electronics, Galliard, London, 1972, p. 59.

     ‘If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ‘tis true that a good play needs no Epilogue. And [yet] good plays prove the better by the help of good Epilogues.’
     – Rosalind, in William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Epilogue, 4-7.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (11th Apr. – 17th Apr., 2023).

Already accustomed to paraludic experimentation with PiMania (1982), a video game that doubled as a real-world treasure hunt and foreshadowed contemporary alternate-reality games, Croucher became convinced that the ZX81 was above all a creative platform for art with unlimited potential. In 1981, Welsh women protested against the storage of nuclear missiles at Greenham Common airbase, leading to a long escalation of the movement in the months and years that followed. The establishment of the Greenham Common camp was a key event in the English protest register of the 1980s. Mel Croucher, who was close to these circles and married to one of the protesters [1], imbued his artistic project Deus Ex Machina with the typical themes of the time: the game tells the story of a man's life under a dystopian and totalitarian regime through a sensory and artistic experience.

The title must be played together with a tape containing the title's soundtrack. From the start, the player must follow the audio instructions and synchronise the two components before immersing themselves in a psychedelic universe. The music takes full inspiration from Pink Floyd and Frank Zappa, mixing sung passages with theatrical narration, while the script takes Shakespearean passages and alters them to fit a dystopian aesthetic. Deus Ex Machina, for example, quotes Jaques' 'Seven Ages of Man' monologue in As You Like It (c. 1599). Misinterpretations have seen the famous monologue as a moralising critique of Orlando's behaviour in foolishly falling in love, rather than demonstrating the moral excellence of the Duke Senior. This overlooks the fact that As You Like It is a comedy, and that the passionate winds of love blow through the play: Orlando is not a character merely in love with romance, but a complex figure driven by authentic emotions. Most of the characters in the play are also imbued with genuine personalities.

On the contrary, Jaques is the only 'character', as he resembles the malcontents of Elizabeth I's reign, whose dissenting thoughts and potentially subversive actions are feared by the royal power. A great traveller, he is convinced that there are no universal values and that belief in anything – including love – is a sign of immaturity and folly. He shows little inclination to denigrate the foreigner, something Rosalind criticises him for – since xenophobia was a characteristic feature of English identity under the Tudors. Jaques is a counterbalance to the romanticism of the other characters in As You Like It. He is never sentimental or idealistic, preferring to wallow in cynical dilettantism. Yet Jaques, the eternal witness, is nowhere near as unpleasant as Shakespeare's other villains, far from the vile and contemptible Thersites (Troilus and Cressida, c. 1602) and Iago (Othello, c. 1603). One explanation could be that Shakespeare put himself into Jaques. Perhaps the playwright was bitter about his inability to conjure poetic magic outside the stage; Elizabethan society looked down on artists, and Jaques's tirades and his belief that the world is a stage should be seen as a self-effacing expression of artistic regret. [2]

Mel Croucher seems to have had the same creative drive, seeing potential in all forms of expression and believing that the world is indeed a playground for artistic experimentation. It is not surprising, then, that he also uses Prospero's speech in Act IV of The Tempest (c. 1610) before he decides to renounce magic. Just as the disappearance of magic in The Tempest allows Prospero to see the world more clearly, the end of the sensory experience in Deus Ex Machina invites the player to consider it in a broader context. This is not a simple video game, but a lively, vibrant and boundless artistic production, as the recommencement at the end of the title demonstrates. In Shakespeare's time, the baroque meraviglia took precedence over the supernatural miracle. In The Tempest, the idea of wonder is ever present, but it shifts from Prospero's magic to the possibility of social harmony and gentle human relationships. [3] Similarly, Croucher moves from the wonder the player can experience in Deus Ex Machina to a wonder for art in general, which is consubstantial to existence.

waverly_khitryy insisted on the transient nature of Deus Ex Machina, an analysis that I fully share. Croucher embraces the poetic and artistically curious voices of Jaques, Prospero and Shakespeare, blending them with his own experience and the cultural imagination of a protesting 1980s Britain. Orwellian accents sit alongside a veritable panorama of visual and auditive ideas: Croucher creates contrasts and uses mock interactivity to capture the player's attention. This ode to the ephemeral is above all an artistic statement whose contours are inevitably political. Because it makes no concessions, Deus Ex Machina is a unique avant-garde experience whose roughness is matched by an unusual creative exuberance.

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[1] Mel Croucher, Deus Ex Machina: The Best Game You Never Played in Your Life, Acorn Books, London, 2014, p. 45.
[2] William Shakespeare, Comédies, vol. II, ed. Jean-Michel Déprats, Gisèle Venet, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 2016, pp. 1534-1535.
[3] William Shakespeare, Comédies, vol. III, ed. Jean-Michel Déprats, Gisèle Venet, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 2016, pp. 1682-1683.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (11th Jul. – 17th Jul., 2023).

Perhaps more than any other genre, erotica and pornography can be used to educate as much as to indulge desires. The exploration of BDSM is often rooted in complex and intimate experiences, making it difficult to capture or describe all the factors that lead to the pursuit of certain practices. Its popularisation in recent decades, which accelerated sharply following the publication of Fifty Shades of Grey (2011), has led to certain practices being coded into the collective imagination, while simultaneously increasing the prevalence of toxic behaviour. In the words of its creator Anna Anthropy, quoting a review by Kieron Gillenn, Mighty Jill Off 'isn't about just that "games players are masochists". It's that "games designers are sadists", in the sense of a Master/Slave relationship. In that, it's a question of trying to punish your slave in a way which makes it a relationship' [1].

     Adapting BDSM to videogames: using repetition to stimulate obedience

There is something virtuous in this vision, emphasising the negotiated aspect of a BDSM relationship. However, Mighty Jill Off quickly sidesteps these concerns by delivering something almost cruelly sadistic. The gameplay is modelled on Mighty Bomb Jack (1986), with an emphasis on platforming and verticality. Perhaps intentionally, the controls are a little uncomfortable, and it is not uncommon for Jill to accidentally hit an enemy or a spike. Thankfully, the title mitigates the frustration by offering regular checkpoints. Jill's horizontal movement allows some interesting design ideas to be explored, especially when climbing the second tower, which requires a much tighter execution: on several occasions, for example, the player has to achieve pixel-perfect positioning to stand next to a flame without being hit.

Taken in a vacuum, these micro-challenges are effectively a way of making the player feel uncomfortable in the face of the Queen's and the game designer's sadism. Yet there is something disingenuous and heartless about the implementation. Repetition is a common motif in games exploring BDSM. Text adventure games use multiple choices to force the player to carry out a punishment: Gloss's Lost in Laminate (2019) and Stables of Cyn (2021) sometimes require the player to click on the same choice dozens of times to simulate the effort of concentration and submission required of the protagonist, occasionally using tricks like varying the length of the text to change the spot to click. Similarly, line writing, inherited from school discipline, has become a common punishment in online BDSM circles, thanks to sites that check the accuracy of the typing and can punish the submissive by giving them extra lines if they make a mistake.

     Simulating and negotiating consent in a video game

The central element of these games and practices is negotiation, or the invention of negotiation, between the parties involved. In the case of the written lines, the framework is contractually defined between the dominant and the submissive in order to adapt the rules to the needs and boundaries of each party. Stables of Cyn places considerable emphasis on the negotiated nature of the BDSM relationship between Violet and Cyn, and the title constantly comforts the protagonist and the player by regularly checking in on them and providing the necessary aftercare in the narration. A BDSM relationship is a shared affair, and submission to authority must be balanced by tokens of affection – or at least closeness – if the experience is to remain enjoyable.

Mighty Jill Off fails to create such an ecosystem. The Queen is relentlessly cold and almost ungrateful in the face of Jill's enthusiasm to please her, whose quest served to 'earn' the Mistress's presence. Jill is immediately subjected to seemingly cruel acts, such as being pushed away again despite her ascent of the tower. The endings show that she derives genuine pleasure from this, but for the player, who lacks the precise context of the relationship between the two women and what has been agreed, it feels toxic and slightly abusive – all the more so because they may identify with the protagonist. The complete lack of aftercare after enduring several minutes of precise platforming is aberrant and conjures up a fantasised idea of BDSM relationships. Punishment is not necessarily its own reward. Having never been given the opportunity to express my limits, even fictionally, I have rarely had the opportunity to feel so uncomfortable and disrespected by such a title.

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[1] Kieron Gillenn, 'Whip It: Mighty Jill Off', on Rock Paper Shotgun, 8th September 2008, consulted on 12th July 2023.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (12th Sep. – 18th Sep., 2023).

Often described as one of the best games for improving typing skills, The Typing of the Dead takes its cue from existing software, while adding a fresh twist with its rail shooter heritage and quirky humour. Although typing software has been available to the general public since the early 1980s, its form has always been fairly rigid, often using the figure of a real-life teacher – Mavis Beacon became a familiar figure in schools and among American children in the 1990s. Those aimed at a more childish audience certainly made use of well-known mascots, such as Typing is a Ball, Charlie Brown (1985), or claimed to be adventure games, such as Granny's Garden (1983). A decade later, The Typing of the Dead was a seriously addictive title that took full advantage of its arcade nature.

While the title starts off in an almost academic manner with its Training Mode, which teaches the home position to promote effective touch-typing, the game leans immediately towards the silly approach of The House of the Dead 2's (1998) script, with the voice acting as ridiculous as ever and a gothic horror that hardly takes itself seriously with the Dreamcast and keyboard equipment of the characters. The first words the player encounters are quite simple and short, but the difficulty increases until the zombies have to be felled with idioms that are about twenty characters long. The expressions chosen are reminiscent of the Phrases in Wheel of Fortune (1975) and add to the absurd atmosphere of the title. Their juxtaposition – for example, 'It's only a job', 'Surgical knife' and 'Hard luck woman' – also mimics the puns in the Japanese version, which constantly plays with homophonic kanji: for example, 愛だは for the 間は locution.

The Typing of the Dead proves to be a particularly well-honed title that is hard not to like. The difficulty curve is very accessible, but offers a real challenge on the highest difficulties, testing accuracy, reflexes and endurance – which the player can further pursue in the Drill Mode. It is a shame, however, that the selection of expressions, apart from those using special characters, is primarily a matter of translating the absurdity of Japanese puns rather than a genuine attempt to improve performance on certain parts of the keyboard: the game does identify the keys with which the player has the most difficulty, but there is no dedicated mode to improve specific areas such as using a single hand or words typed only on the upper row. Nevertheless, The Typing of the Dead is an effective, charming game that delivers exactly what its concept suggests.

     ‘There was no shouting or pushing: indeed, voices were scarcely raised above an eager whisper.’
     – Clive Barker, 'In the Hills, the Cities', in Books of Blood, vol. 1, 1984.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (Feb. 28 – Mar. 6, 2023).

The releases of Go to Hell (1985) and Soft & Cuddly (1987) were part of a turning point in British computer history. The £125 cost of the ZX Spectrum made it a cheap microcomputer for the British public, and a community had quickly formed, with many video game creators. This was a period of intense creative activity, as it coincided with the Microelectronics Education Programme (1980-1986), which aimed to popularise computers among a younger audience, while the National Development Programme in Computer Aided Learning (1973-1977) was primarily intended for tertiary education. For John George Jones, the development of his games was a way of killing time: according to the strange interview he gave to Sinclair User, he was first and foremost a disillusioned musician who wanted to amuse himself with people's reactions to the violence of his games before returning to other activities that would interest him more. [1] There was no big project behind it, no real desire to push the boundaries of video game design, just a feeling of boredom.

Just as there is a certain irony in those who claim to be Nietzscheans by agreeing with truncated passages of the philosopher – Walter Kauffman pointed out that to be a Nietzschean is not to be a Nietzschean, as Nietzsche always urged his readers never to adhere to dogmas, including his own – so the idea of a sequel to Go to Hell and Soft & Cuddly may seem contradictory. In an age of normalised violence and gore in video game production, how does one capture the spirit of games made to shock the public? Detchibe pointed out that the splatterpunk aesthetic is far less shocking today than Jones' games were. The violence of The Light at the End (1986) was shocking and innovative for its time – Stephen King was also explicit in Carrie (1974), but always stopped short of the unbearable – but it was justified by a critique of the Reagan era and the perception that the working class was incapable of rebuilding a cohesive community.

Fucker Gamer Scum Get Stabbed is at the crossroads of these aesthetic movements, more splat than punk, but it fails to evoke any emotion other than tedium. Many of the sprites are directly taken from Go to Hell, without the staging making them stand out. In Soft & Cuddly, there is a certain discomfort in seeing sickly, disfigured sprites covering the entire screen; in Go to Hell, the wide eyes staring at the player are unsettling, as they are stuck exploring a very gritty maze. Fucker Gamer Scum Get Stabbed is a short experience in which the player has no time to pause and observe and be impressed by the various scenes. There are no creative flights, no terrifying inspirations. For a few minutes, the player wanders through a pseudo-labyrinth in search of a red key, and it is enough to navigate randomly for a few more seconds to reach the exit. The protagonist is greeted in a circular room and laid on a hospital bed, surrounded by creatures created by Jones. At the top, an enemy reminds us that 'punks die'. Ironically, this echoes an interview with John Skipp in which he lamented the situation: ‘People seized on the splat, but forgot the punk. Which is to say, the subversive element. [...] I think a lot of people missed the fucking point entirely. It’s not just about how horrible you can make things. It’s about what it means. Why it matters. And what it says about us as a species.’ [2]

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[1] Sinclair User, no. 67, October 1987, p. 37
[2] ‘John Skipp & Shane Mckenzie – Talk Horror Interview’, in Splatterpunk, no. 4, November 2013.

     「電柱に登りて工夫蝉となる。」
     'Up on the hydro pole
     the electrician turns
     into a cicada.'
     – Mitsuhashi Takajo (1899-1972), in Makoto Ueda (ed.), Far Beyond the Field, 2003.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (Feb. 28 – Mar. 6, 2023).

In the 1960s, Japan experienced very strong economic growth, which translated into rapid modernisation. As the showcase of Japanese urbanisation for the world to see since the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, the city was driven into an intense building spree to keep up with the population pressure that was bursting the city centre. Even with the countless buildings constructed, demand was so overwhelming that the population eventually moved to the suburbs, where anarchic housing projects were launched. By 31st December 1968, the Setagaya district had 1,450,000 square metres of floor in reinforced concrete or steel-framed buildings [1]. One can imagine that the buildings were piling up in chaos: a first urbanisation plan had been proposed in 1956 to enclose the western part of Tokyo Bay – i.e. the Tokyo-Kawasaki-Yokohama metropolis – with green spaces and to build a residential ring beyond, but the authorities were largely overwhelmed and it was not until 1965 that the urbanisation plan for Greater Tokyo was actually adopted.

     Depicting the Japanese suburban modernisation

Setagaya, the special ward bordering the Tama River in which the game takes place, was built out of necessity as a 'garden suburb', meaning a predominantly residential area with largely privatised land and considerable influence from private railway companies. Unlike the garden cities of the late 1970s, this first wave was still inchoate, with frictions between productive spaces, factories and former housing. Kaijū ga Deru Kinyōbi is set precisely in 1971, at a moment that reveals how two different worlds interact on the cusp of forced urbanisation. The subtitle 'A Tokyo Tale', as usual in Kaz Ayabe's games, invites players to reflect on these historical elements, which give the game a special identity.

The player takes on the role of Sohta, a young boy who has just moved with his family to the Fuji no Hana neighbourhood – which means 'wisteria', a symbol of love. His parents run a dry-cleaning shop, and the first few seconds show a pre-1970s way of life, with old houses that double as shops and homes. Washing machines are stacked behind the front door, while the living room is hidden behind a thin partition. The discussion between Sohta and his parents quickly turns to Friday's Kaijus, both those on TV and those in reality. By exploring the town and talking to the NPCs, the player soon realises that this still green and unindustrialised area has been chosen by a TV studio as a location for their tokusatsu. It is obvious that the various children have not yet rationalised what a film set is and believe that monsters really exist.

In the early 1970s, although television was no longer new, access was still relatively limited. Some places had no reception, and it was not until the 1980s that cable became widely available in major cities. Setagaya is equipped, however, which is an argument for the children to be happy to live there, as they can watch their series every Friday. Kaijū ga Deru Kinyōbi captures aspects of everyday life through the eyes of children. Industrialisation is recontextualised as a great unknown, with smoke from distant factories looking like monsters. The train line running along Fuji no Hana marks the time of day with its noises and delineates the territory for the children to explore. A photograph from 1968 gives an idea of how these areas were organised and explains how an entire generation embraced the idea of the train as a sign of tranquillity, before the small peripheral tram lines disappeared. As a sign that the game evokes a bygone era, Sohta learns from Officer Kobayashi that Fuji no Hana is punctuated by railway strikes, forcing workers to walk along the lines to get to their jobs closer to central Tokyo. The routine nature of these social movements does not lead to explicit political commentary in the game, but shows that they were a normal part of Japanese life. Far from the current situation where workers no longer dare to protest, in the 1960s and 1970s there were still several thousand protests a year.

     Dreaming of a lost solidarity

In Ayabe's words, Kaijū ga Deru Kinyōbi should convey an 'admiration for the era itself and the people who lived in it, rather than a longing for the art form of the era', in particular 'their caring nature and the diligence and drive that helped Japan grow into the second largest economy in the world' [2]. Ayabe's point of view is obviously ideologically situated. Born in 1965, he grew up on the cusp of two very different eras and has a strong nostalgia for Kaettekita Urutoraman (1971-1972), the first television series he remembers. The design of Fuji no Hana thus follows these themes, exploring both the sincerity of the inhabitants of a small, close-knit community and the modernity translated into a new form of entertainment. This ambivalence helps to make Kaijū ga Deru Kinyōbi a story of growth, both from a personal and a communal perspective. As Sohta searches out answers to his questions, his adventure in Fuji no Hana is an excuse for the player to see other characters grow up. The other children try to overcome their fears and doubts, while the adults work to communicate better with each other or to fulfil their forgotten dreams so as not to live with regrets.

This emphasis on creating an idyllic community is a reaction to the gradual disappearance of solidarity in recent decades. While garden cities were originally conceived as convenient residential areas for the middle – or even working – class, in practice they have been gentrified and are now the most expensive areas in Japan. A textbook example is Den-en-chōfu in western Tokyo. The massive increase in the price of a square metre in the 1980s (over 2,500,000 yen per square metre) led to a fragmentation of property ownership, an ageing population and a transformation of the urban landscape with a withdrawal of the individual. The hedges that were the typical symbol of the neighbourhood have been replaced by large walls equipped with security cameras. [3] In contrast, Kaijū ga Deru Kinyōbi openly encourages proximity between neighbours. Houses are built next to each other, and the streets are almost like shared courtyards. While the alleys are still unpaved, signs of modernity can be seen here and there: the buildings are composite, half concrete and half wood, while the main artery is well renovated, suitable for the new cars that are appearing in the neighbourhood. New ways of working are also emerging: one of Billboard's father's clients is a supermarket, which forces him to work both day and night.

     The childlike and healing charm of tokusatsu

But these elements are not read as fatal by the various characters. Television and the kaiju series are portrayed as a source of dreams and hope, and provide life goals for each member of the Fuji no Hana community. The children learn the values of justice, while Megumi, the director, understands that inspiring such emotions in them is also a beautiful experience. The hierarchy imposed by the rules of the card game is a social contract that the children accept wholeheartedly, taking turns to be the master or servant of another, as luck would have it. The only caveat is the obligation to fall to the ground when a master casts a spell on their servant: Kaijū ga Deru Kinyōbi operates a translation of adult relationships into the world of children, attributing a positive valence to pacified relations between communicating neighbours, rather than gifts and counter-gifts involving class dynamics. Writers have as much merit as manual workers in a framework where solidarity prevails.

The emphasis on communication is found throughout the adventure, both in the characters' stories – such as Emiko getting closer to her father by explaining her marriage plans – and in the fact that the adults play along and do not stifle the children's resourceful imaginations. LordDarias mentioned elements of magical realism in some scenes, and I agree. While an adult's eye can immediately understand what is going on, there are some parts that remain unexplained, especially towards the end of the game, where nothing helps to clarify why Sohta ended up in the restaurant. But as with all works based on magical realism, the answer is of little importance. The interest lies in the message conveyed and the magic of the occasion itself. To cherish and preserve that is the strength of the game and of this small community. Similarly, there is a lovely form of communication in the post-game, where Sohta can talk to the various characters, moving from one topic to another. This sequence, which allows the player to gather knowledge from each NPC, is very similar to the exchange quests of the Zelda games, but with information instead of items. The conversations shed a little more light on each character's motivations and provide an elegant conclusion to Sohta's Saturday.

Admittedly, the card game is quite decontextualised from the rest of the narrative, and even feels disconnected from the exploration system – the player must collect small, shiny glims all over Fuji no Hana to mysteriously create playing cards – but that hardly matters. Kaijū ga Deru Kinyōbi is a brief dive into a vanished Japan, partially mythologised through Kez Ayabe's childhood memories. While the game depicts a blessed time that warrants further nuance from other experiences of everyday Japanese life, its candour and desire to portray a supportive community is endearing. Like the rest of Millennium Kitchen's works, the title is part of the iyashikei trend: for a three-hour experience, it accomplishes its purpose perfectly.

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[1] François Doumenge, ‘L'urbanisation et l'aménagement de l'espace au Japon’, in Les Cahiers d’outre-mer, no. 22-88, 1969, pp. 369-371.
[2] Andrew Vestal, ‘Interview: Kaz Ayabe & Attack of the Friday Monsters!’, on Gaming Intelligence Agency, 20th August 2013, consulted on 1st March 2023.
[3] Tomoko Kubo, Raphaël Languillon-Aussel, ‘Les cités-jardins au Japon : entre urbanisme occidental et hybridation locale’, on Géoconfluences, 30th June 2017, consulted on 1st March 2023.

     'The colour of joy has become the colour of shame.'
     – Yōzaburō Kanari, 'Yukikage Village Murder Case' (File 23), Kindaichi shōnen no jikenbo - Case Series, 1999.

The Tantei Jingūji Saburō series belonged to the first generation of Japanese detective games, whose early explorations allowed them to branch out in very varied directions; while Portopia Renzoku Satsujin Jiken (1983) and Yamamura Misa Suspense (1987) offered fairly traditional, honkaku mysteries, more atypical titles such as Sanma no Meitantei (1987) were deliberately more humorous and light-hearted. Tantei Jingūji Saburō positioned itself as a representative of hard-boiled detective fiction, which is not necessarily an obvious idea. From the 1920s to the 1950s in the United States, the genre enjoyed a very apparent surge, inspired by the social changes in the country, by sacrificing the traditional codes of detective fiction – namely the emphasis on solving the crime – for a darker portrayal of society.

     Hard-boiled crime fiction in Japan

Japanese crime fiction, which has its own codes compared to the West, did not embrace this fundamental change. The hard-boiled remained a very modest part of the genre and was reinterpreted rather late in Japanese social crime fiction (shakai), especially in women's fiction [1]. As such, Tantei Jingūji Saburō is something of a notable exception in Japanese production and serves as a convenient fulcrum for understanding the evolution of the genre over the decades. The first title, Shinjuku Chūō Kōen Satsujin Jiken, highlights the characteristic features of the franchise. At the request of Inspector Sanzō Kumano, the player must solve the murder of Momoko Takada, a hostess at Shinjuku's Bar East.

In grand Japanese tradition, the player is presented with an impossible situation, as the victim's body was found in the middle of Shinjuku chūō kōen, a park nestled among Tokyo's tall buildings and offices. The problem is that it was raining on the night of the murder and no footprints were found at the crime scene. Given this difficult premise, the player is given an extraordinary degree of freedom. While the controls are fairly traditional, with the eternal 'Ask' and 'Examine', Shinjuku Chūō Kōen Satsujin Jiken also allows the player to call out to passers-by or take photographs. More amusingly, it is possible to accuse suspects or threaten various characters, with sometimes unexpected consequences. Amidst all the possibilities, critical actions are highlighted by rather ominous musical jingles, the game's only soundtrack.

     Freedom and limits in 1980s Japanese detective games

The investigation must be carried out efficiently and quickly, as the game has an internal timer that runs out with each action taken, with the player having only a fortnight to complete the investigation. More than its predecessors, Shinjuku Chūō Kōen Satsujin Jiken has a formidable difficulty. While the initial inquiries are fairly straightforward and provide a reasonably good understanding of the relationships that bind the victim's acquaintances together, the progression of the title is tied to exploring Shinjuku Central Park. The title uses an overhead view, and identifying places to investigate is jarring, as they are not explicitly labelled and the player has to check every tile by switching to the subjective view: stopping by the local police station and examining the crime scene can be missed, preventing the discovery of clues crucial to solving the case.

Despite the capricious progression of the investigation, which requires the player to go through very specific triggers, Shinjuku Chūō Kōen Satsujin Jiken still charms with its very urban flair, which contrasts with the more picturesque cases of Misa Yamamura. The game offers a rather exotic cross-section of Shinjuku, halfway between the elegance of the offices, the nocturnal life and the end of the yakuza. The motive for the crime serves to underline the harshness of Japanese society, but the solution to the mystery is unsatisfactory. The concept of a crime scene with no footprints is a common one in crime fiction, with two possible subtypes: either there are no footprints at all, or only the victim's footprints are found.

The game falls into the first category. Meitantei Konan (1994) proposed this premise several times [2] and managed to get away with some very creative devices, but Shinjuku Chūō Kōen Satsujin Jiken fails to convince due to the improbability of the method used and its overly convenient nature. Nevertheless, the title remains an interesting and innovative take on the early investigation genre, offering much more room for manoeuvre than its contemporaries – even if it is ultimately under-exploited: the first part of the title leaves plenty of opportunity to wander between the suspects, but the second half opts for a very rigid structure that does not welcome the player taking liberties.

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[1] A chronological study shows that the 1990s saw a major restructuring in the field of Japanese detective fiction. In addition to the development of shin honkaku, women writers adopted characteristics of Anglo-Saxon hard-boiled fiction to express a different vision of society. In particular, Murano Miro, Natsuo Kirino's main protagonist, becomes a detective and gradually comes to understand the constraints of society. The novels are written in the first person and offer a completely female perspective. In Tenshi ni misuterareta yoru (1994), Miro fully exercises her independence, but is also confronted with a number of obstacles, especially as she has left the Japanese middle class. Moreover, the sexual relationships she enjoys do not serve to turn her into a woman-object: 'Kirino has created a female detective who, by virtue of her age and widowhood, escapes the normal pressure on young women to [pursue] marriage. Miro is able to have a relationship with anyone that she chooses and she also can control the outcome of her relationships. The likability of the men Miro selects is not at issue here, but rather her decision to enter and end the relationship.' (Amanda C. Seaman, Bodies of Evidence: Women, Society, and Detective Fiction in 1990s Japan, University of Hawai'i Press, Honolulu, 2004, pp. 92-93).
[2] 'Shiroi Sunahama Satsujin Jiken' (1997) uses a beach setting, while 'Kijutsu Aikōka Satsujin Jiken' (1998) features a snowy forest. In both cases, the environment is crucial in staging the murder.

     ‘You have freed the one with yearning eyes whose lot was hunger tragic.’
     – Gary Gygax, The Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth, 1982.

Players of the tournament adventure The Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth (1976) were greeted, after some exploration, by prismatic lights dancing on the walls, contrasting with the pile of dark rocks in the centre of the room. Far from being an end in itself, this hall was merely the gateway to the Greater Caverns, where countless secrets were hidden amidst strange stalactites and rock formations conjured from a demented imagination. The treasure of Iggwilv, mysterious as it may be, was only for the bravest of souls. In the 1970s, the development of PLATO, a computer system linking several thousand terminals around the world, led to the emergence of a community of creators who generally made no secret of their inspiration for the dungeon-crawling style typical of the printed RPGs of the time. These first forays set a trend. Among these, Oubliette (1977) perhaps stands out for its remarkable depth for its time: the source of inspiration was clearly Dungeons & Dragons (1974), but the inclusion of attribute tables for the different classes and races, as well as a rich magic system, placed it at the forefront of computer games.

     A formula based on Dungeons & Dragons rules

Unlike PLATO, mainstream computer systems did not have the same computing power and early titles could seem like a step backwards. In 1978, Robert J. Woodhead, who had already gained a small notoriety for plagiarising dnd (1975), decided to replicate the system and experience of Oubliette in his own version, promoting an original adventure. The Dungeons & Dragons system is used quite faithfully, and any veteran can create their characters without getting lost. Since multiplayer was not an option, Wizardry recommends creating a team of six characters – or less – to explore the ten underground levels that make up the adventure. As a result, by appropriating the ideas of Oubliette, the title established a canon of standard rules and codes that would have a lasting influence on the dungeon crawler genre.

The player assumes the role of several adventurers whose goal is to venture into the catacombs beneath the castle of King Trebor. Having gone mad after the wizard Werdna stole a precious amulet, he sends young mercenaries to the first floors of the complex where the wizard is hiding. He hopes to find adventurers strong enough to reach the deepest part of the catacombs to kill Werdna and recover the amulet. The tone is rather light and the adventure, though rough in its progression, is punctuated with comic messages; there is something strange about exploring Wizardry, as a light-hearted theatricality contrasts with the often serious and merciless nature of the early Dungeons & Dragons modules.

From the outset, Wizardry requires an investment from the player, who must build their team based on attributes, classes and alignments. A balanced approach is preferred, with three characters in the front attacking with melee weapons, while the backline provides defensive and offensive support with a variety of spells. Character creation oblige, it is possible to abuse the system to get the best possible scores and start with a comfortable roster; likewise, creating characters to take their money is a viable strategy, allowing the player to properly equip themselves before even entering the Proving Grounds. This freedom is reminiscent of the shenanigans possible during TTRPG sessions, and adds to the idiosyncrasy of Wizardry at the time of its release. Traditional reflexes are thus rewarded: the cautious and savvy player will exercise extreme caution, taking care to map effectively and intelligently identify any items recovered from the dungeon.

     Some diverse but often obsolete mechanics

The Famicom version, released in 1987, retains these gameplay features, but improves the title with better graphics. The port is largely faithful to the original, with the exception of some floors in the second half of the game, which have been completely redesigned. Even in the Famicom version, the player has to progress slowly and draw their own map to avoid getting lost. However, the first few floors are particularly enjoyable to explore. Wizardry opens elegantly, with Floor 1 divided into quarters, making exploration more digestible. In the first one, the player learns that opening doors is the most common way for the party to engage in combat, and only then can they find chests containing gold and sometimes equipment. Exploration feels organic and natural, with the compartmentalisation ensuring that the player is not drowned out by overly large rooms. Floor 2 follows the same logic, introducing the importance of key objects in the progression: indeed, some areas are inaccessible if the adventurer does not possess the figurines, and the game takes good care to communicate this information through its pseudo-labyrinthine design. Mapping is still fairly straightforward, but takes a bit more time to complete due to the many twists and turns.

At the same time, the player will slowly become accustomed to the combat system. While the backline is generally of no help at the start of the game, as it has no spells, it will gradually become more useful. Once characters have gained enough experience, they can rest at the inn to advance to the next level. Wizardry complicates the process, as not only can certain stats be lowered, but time spent in the inn will cause characters to age and their powers to diminish, before they eventually die. This system may come as a surprise, as it encourages the player not to use the inn excessively as a means of healing. The system does force the player to use the Cleric's spells, but the process tends to be lengthy and the menus are rather cumbersome.

Furthermore, the shop, while useful at first, quickly becomes redundant. The stock is relatively sparse, and the player will easily equip themselves with the best gear available long before exploring the floors where better weapons and armour can be obtained from the monsters. This element makes character progression heavily reliant on enemy grinding – and luck on the chests' table – but renders some mechanics obsolete. In practice, gold coins are only used to visit the temple and remove negative statuses. A similar problem exists with the promotion system: once the attribute and alignment requirements have been met, the player can change a character's class to diversify their options. The problem is that they start with the lowest stats for their race, and it is necessary to grind experience from the start to make the character viable. This emphasis on grinding is at the root of the structural problems in the second half of the game.

     Exploration abandoned in favour of grinding: an artificial approach

While the adventure up to Floor 4 remains organic and natural, with a forced encounter forming the game's first genuine obstacle, the following floors lose all interest in ergonomics and decide to take a very aggressive route. The floors become much more complex, with devious traps and frustrating hidden doors. The title introduces anti-magic zones, which severely neutralise the party's abilities – although enemies suffer the same effects. Where the backline, with its crowd control and area attacks, became paramount towards the end of Floor 4, the player is deprived of these options during exploration, making progression much rougher and more difficult. The problem is that the middle floors, 5 to 8, are completely optional. After collecting the Blue Ribbon, players can use the private lift to go directly to any floor between the fourth and ninth, which opens the way to Werdna's lair.

More specifically, the Blue Ribbon is necessary in the progression, as the ninth floor can only be reached by this particular lift. It turns out that the intermediate floors have no other purpose than to be grinding areas. Naturally, the player begins by mapping out the rooms, but when they visit the ninth floor out of curiosity, they realise that all this work is pointless. Because the grind cannot sustain its formula, especially with such a bare interface, the temptation to brute-force the last floor and fight Werdna as quickly as possible is strong. My experience was very similar to the speedrun strategy, as I decided to grind the Giants on Floor 10 to unlock the most powerful offensive spells. Once my Mage was level 13, the final challenge was to survive the gauntlet on the final floor and reach Werdna; at this point, a simple Haman to teleport the boss group ends the game with minimal fuss.

Wizardry remains a challenging title, and the strong dichotomy between the first and second halves is surprising. Could it be that the change in gameplay philosophy is the result of contrasting inspirations? Oubliette offered a fairly straightforward map that, while more open than the early stages of Proving Grounds, was natural and pleasant to explore. Here, the later floors are riddled with cruel traps, such as the three rock columns that instantly punish teleportation with Malor by killing the party with no chance of recovery. This ruthlessness must have been too much for the Japanese team working on the port, as they decided to implement their own floors, which are much more explicit about their optional nature: the hidden stairs in an infinite corridor have been removed, and it is not possible to find the stairway between Floors 7 and 8 without a deliberately creative use of Malor.

The title was an important trailblazer that inspired entire genres of video games, both in the West and in Japan. If it is still possible to experience it in 2023, it is worth remembering the extent to which Wizardry embraces game design ideas that are now considered archaic. The game does not hesitate to punish careless actions and shows no mercy towards unprepared parties, even to the point of permanently eliminating them. The emphasis on grinding, although facilitated by the lifts that allow easy access to the surface, is frustrating. Before reaching level 13, a party can suffer from an encounter that is a little too crowded with enemies, and the player is pressured to reach this threshold before attempting to fight Werdna. As in Tsojcanth, obtaining the Blue Ribbon is only the beginning of the adventure; far scarier things and devious traps await the player, but Wizardry never conjures up the poetic strangeness of these rainbow caverns where unknown and wondrous crystals glisten.

Making a sequel to the "best game ever" is a daunting task, especially when it has to be done in record time. Yet this is the crazy challenge that Aonuma is taking on, at the cost of his and his team's energy. If Ocarina of Time's approach was to create a golden standard for the series and the video game world, Majora's Mask has a more carnal and intimate feel, which is made possible by the main time loop mechanic. This allows for a smaller, but more chiseled cast of characters with their own timeline to focus on. It is the exploration of this tight world and the discovery of its inhabitants that occupies the central part of the title: admittedly, our objective is largely indicated from the start – to prevent the Moon from crashing into Termina and to retrieve Majora's Mask from the hands of Skull Kid –, but Termina acts as a gigantic social dungeon, where you have to get to know the NPCs in order to progress. The mechanics of time appear as a driving force of the playful and dramatic tension, instilling an urgency and sequencing the game phases, thanks to the owl statues. At the same time, the masks act as rewards and specific tools in the progression. The counterpart is the contraction of the number of dungeons, since there are now only four, albeit with a fairly substantial number of more or less optional mini-dungeons. This also reduces the number of non-mask items, compacting the exploration mechanics in favour of interaction with NPCs through masks. This time management and its consequences make full use of the video game medium and are difficult to transcribe elsewhere. A real social web is woven through the encounters with the inhabitants of Termina, which allows human and realistic sensibilities to come to the fore, as in the long quest of Anju and Kafei, which begins as soon as we discover the Romani ranch. Here, it should be noted that developmental angst has infused the game's atmosphere. The first hour is particularly confusing - in its gameplay and narrative. The game has a mysterious and eerie aesthetic, even if it is due to the frame-jumps of the NPCs and the inhuman expressions and movements of certain characters. Unlike Ocarina of Time, we are an adult in a child's body, as Link witnesses the absurdity of the world, which he does not necessarily understand. Majora's Mask paints a human picture of the end of the world, which echoes contemporary concerns. The spectre of death looms constantly, as does the emphasis on the remains, souls and emotions caused by death. Yet the promise of a new dawn is often apparent: the title discusses the importance of friendship, love and the cycle of life. It is in the search for a sense of existence that the game shines: with each return to time, the relationships Link has created with the inhabitants start anew, but the memories live on, as the mask seller points out in the concluding cinematic. As such, Fierce Deity Link is emblematic of Link's goodness and self-sacrifice in his quest to ease the anxieties of the inhabitants of Termina, opening the way for him to answer the simple and profound questions asked by the Moon Children. Majora's Mask is a rough, but grand and timeless game, with an unparalleled elegance in its setting. There was a before and after to Majora's Mask – if only because of Aonuma's prominence – and the Zelda franchise will be able to see new heights to climb.

     'So to Celephaïs he must go, far distant from the isle of Oriab, and in such parts as would take him back to Dylath-Leen and up the Skai to the bridge by Nir.'
     – H. P. Lovecraft, The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath, 1943.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (27th Jun. – 3rd Jul., 2023).

The late 1980s and early 1990s are generally credited with the introduction of a hybrid concept combining action, platforming and RPG elements, but the exploration of this genre took different paths depending on the platforms on which the games were released. Computer titles emphasised the formulas Falcom invented with Xanadu (1985) and Ys (1987), namely the dungeon-crawler aspect and the very labyrinthine dungeons. Other developers, such as Game Arts and Renovation Game, came up with Zeliard (1987) and XZR: Hakai no Gōzō (1988), both featuring a side view inside the dungeons. XZR also adopted the idea of a top-down perspective when moving around the overworld.

     The vibrant tradition of Japanese action RPGs in the 1980s

This tradition undoubtedly contrasts with that of arcade and console games, which favoured accessibility and shorter experiences. Contrary to popular belief, the history of this genre is far more complex than the well-known attempts of Zelda II: Adventure of Link (1987) and Castlevania II: Simon's Quest (1987). These titles were part of a movement that had been underway for a number of years, most notably since Dragon Buster (1985). The genre cemented its place in the Japanese collective imagination, to the point where Hudson decided to copy the formula for the surprising port of Xanadu, Faxanadu (1987), which embraced the action side while retaining only a few RPG elements.

Cadash should be seen as a melting pot of ideas from all these pre-existing influences and experiments. Players are sent by King Dilsarl to rescue his daughter, Princess Salasa, who has been kidnapped by the sorcerer Baarogue. As in Gauntlet (1985), each player can choose one of the four available archetypes, each with their own set of abilities. Cadash immediately seems to be a thematic continuation of Taito's earlier game Rastan (1987). The magical skills of the Mage and Priestess are also reminiscent of the spells used in Zeliard, as are some of the bosses they face. The title is packed with references in a strange synthesis of Western high fantasy aesthetics, tropes from previous JRPGs and writing similar to Adventure of Link. Among other things, the slightly unsettling absurdity of the Gnomes' 'horses', whose appearance is ultimately that of featherless chocobos, is quite amusing.

     A heap of borrowed ideas

This chaotic collision of ideas is reflected in both the progression and the gameplay. While the PC Engine port is to blame for the particularly rigid controls, Cadash remains clumsy throughout. Using magic is awkward because the player has to hold down the attack button to cycle through the various spells, wasting vital time as the action becomes frenetic. The game fails to communicate its intentions effectively, and the various stages exemplify this shortcoming. Some sequences are oddly labyrinthine and particularly uncomfortable with the arcade version's timer, while others are unduly linear. The Underground Forest, for example, offers several winding paths, but Cadash Castle is a dull succession of small chambers that disguise the linearity of the progression.

Similarly, the RPG elements seem superfluous. Money is handled in an inconsistent manner: equipment is very inexpensive, but the prices soar for certain key items and stays in inns – this aspect is limited in the console versions, where all prices are somewhat standardised. As a result, Cadash sends out odd signals, putting players in a stressful situation by constantly asking them whether or not they should save some money for a potential key item by avoiding spending the night at an inn, which is the only consistent way to recover hit points. Cadash is still quite enjoyable to play, as the title is very short, but this artificial tension, although it may serve the purpose of immersion, is largely antithetical to the title's exploratory intentions conveyed through its narrative.

     Unsteady narrative temptations

Indeed, Cadash has a surprising narrative structure that stands above the average console title and is closer to the writing style of computer RPGs. Each stage is wrapped in a narrative arc involving the inhabitants of the various regions. There is something touching about Marinade's quest, even if the title never lives up to its potential: the dialogue in the town remains the same even after the young girl sacrificed to the Kraken has been rescued. The vibrant, believable quality of the world invites exploration, but this urge is constantly thwarted by the rather unpleasant combat system. Occasionally, the title – or at least its Western localisation – abandons its serious tone for no reason at all, name-dropping The Ghost Busters (1975) or Carl Sagan. These contrasting moods add to the game's volatile aspect.

The game's title, though probably unrelated, invites a comparison between Taito's approach and that of H. P. Lovecraft's The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath (1943). The novella explicitly relies on a persistent and subtle reference to the stylistic materiality of Lord Dunsany's works. In particular, Randolph Carter's feverish, oneiric quest to find Kadath is imbued with the macabre and the spectre of the Great Old Ones. Peter Goodrich points out that '[Lovecraft's] "forbidden knowledge" is the dark side of the equally common "further wonders waiting" topos that Burleson properly identifies as one of Dunsanian features' [1]. In other words, Lovecraft mobilises the wonder of Dunsanian mythology and transmutes it to express the tormented existence of Randolph Carter. Cadash plays to some extent with the same referential framework, but the proposal struggles to establish coherence between all the ideas and remains hollow; by contrast, the strength of Adventure of Link and Castlevania II was precisely the deliberate interplay of contrasts with the previous episode.

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[1] Peter Goodrich, 'Mannerism and the Macabre in H. P. Lovecraft's Dunsanian "Dream-Quest"', in Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts, vol. 15, no. 1, 2004, p. 46.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (19th Sep. – 25th Sep., 2023).

The 1980s and 1990s saw a significant evolution in the practice of climbing in Japan, with the newfound popularity of free climbing correlating with environmental concerns. It was the widespread construction of climbing gyms at the end of the century that cemented this development, compensating for the poor rock durability of Japan's mountain ranges – Osaka's City Rock Gym was the first to be established in 1989. The practice of free climbing spread throughout Japanese society, creating a veritable subculture with its own codes, traditions and rituals [1], while Japanese sports institutions promoted the discipline in various competitions [2]. This has culminated in the inclusion of sport climbing in the Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games.

Cultural production followed suit: the first high-profile production was Baku Yumemakura's Kamigami no itadaki (1997) and its manga adaptation in 2000. Shinichi Ishizuka's Gaku: Minna no yama (2003) and Shinichi Sakamoto's Kōko no hito (2007) followed in its wake, before the more adolescent slice-of-life works of recent years. Burabura Donkey seems to fit into this trend: Atsushi Kaneko explained that it was the most natural concept for him to experiment with the use of the GBA's L and R buttons [3]. The project was originally intended to use 3D assets and original characters, but Nintendo pushed for 2D and the inclusion of the Donkey Kong characters. The project was consistent with Nintendo's experimental philosophy regarding its hardware and its desire to create a tangible link between the player and the gaming experience.

Burabura Donkey demonstrates the strength of the climbing concept, but also the limitations of such a system. The title does not quite manage to balance out its difficulty due to some uninspired level design. While the physics of spinning and throwing are well recreated, the game is rather cumbersome when the player is facing enemies, and there are times when they can be caught off guard by erratic movements and permissive hitboxes. Burabura Donkey leans heavily towards the arcade variety, with timed challenges to collect Crystal Coconuts and missions in the bonus mode adding to the difficulty of the title. Nevertheless, the Adventure mode provides a good opportunity for players to familiarise themselves with Donkey Kong's movements, a necessity as the title tends to be rather painful on the fingers as the buttons have to be held down for long periods of time.

Although the concept is fresh, Burabura Donkey suffers from contradictory ideas. The presence of enemies and bosses serves to mimic the progression of Donkey Kong Country, but is sometimes superfluous or contrived. The bosses all explore different ideas, attempting to use the various concepts introduced in previous levels – the boulders Donkey Kong can grab or the bombs he can throw – but the execution is often rather awkward: the fight against Davy Bones is particularly slow and suffers greatly from the complexity of the controls. Paon's concept is solid, however, and despite disappointing sales in Japan – Burabura Donkey was a GBA exclusive – Nintendo seems to have been satisfied enough to commission Donkey Kong: Jungle Climber (2007) for the DS.

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[1] On the success of free climbing and the creation of a homosocial and hierarchical subculture, see Wolfram Manzenreiter, 'No pain, no gain: embodied masculinities and lifestyle sport in Japan', in Contemporary Japan, vol. 25, no. 2, 2013, pp. 215-236.
[2] In particular, following the announcement in 2016 of the inclusion of climbing in the 2020 Olympic Games, the joint work of the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology (Monbu-kagaku-shō), the Japan Sport Council (Nihon supōtsu shinkō sentā), and the Japan Mountaineering and Sport Climbing Association (Nihon sangaku supōtsukuraimingu kyōkai), has led to the inclusion of climbing in high-level sports curricula, as well as the construction and renovation of facilities needed to prepare athletes. On the topic, see Ruizhi Chen, Yuan Li, 'Development and Revelation of Japanese Sport Climbing', in Advances in Social Science, Education and Humanities Research, vol. 571, 2021, pp. 873-878.
[3] '『ぶらぶらドンキー』開発スタッフインタビュー', on nintendo.co.jp, consulted on 11th June 2007.

     'For practice, she started keeping big, American-style chunks of beef in the refrigerator, making steaks every night and serving them with lectures on "rare" and "medium" like some overzealous hotel waiter.'
     – Akiyuki Nosaka, Amerika hijiki, 1968 (tr. Jay Rubin).

Played in preparation for my upcoming video essay on the Sumida River and urban watercourses.

The policies of the MacArthur administration during the occupation of Japan (1945-1952) were the driving force behind a lasting trauma in the Japanese collective unconscious, contrasting the wealth of the Americans with the difficult years of deprivation for the local population. By the end of the 1940s, Japan had become a key ally for the American regime, which was keen to establish an outpost in East Asia. Political tensions between the two countries culminated in 1959-1960 with the Anpo protests (Anpo tōsō), which split activist movements and reinforced anti-Americanism as a marker of identity [1]. More precisely, opposition to the United States was not limited to a rejection of Japanese foreign policy, but was a radical programme based on emotional and identity-based reactions. As Americanisation has transformed everyday life in Japan, the various artistic productions emphasise the creation of an in-between cultural space – neither fully American nor fully Japanese – as a result of the friction between the two cultures, something that Haruki Murakami's novels illustrate perfectly.

     Anti-Americanism and socio-cultural hybridity in Japan

Although Yokohama-kō Renzoku Satsujin Jiken retains the same hard-boiled aesthetic as Shinjuku Chūō Kōen Satsujin Jiken (1987), the second title in the Tantei Jingūji Saburō series turns out to be more concerned with the presence of foreigners on Japanese soil [2]. The titular detective is assigned to investigate the disappearance of Eva Christina, who works in the consulate of the fictional Baraka. Jingūji is soon confronted with a series of murders and realises that these incidents are linked to a smuggling operation taking place in Yokohama. The different environments underline the exotic nature of the case, alternating between Western-style buildings, Japanese neo-urbanity and traditional memorials. Yokohama vibrates as a tourist city, a quality that the pixel art successfully conveys. The player is caught between views of the stadium, Chinatown and temples, all flanked by tall modern buildings.

Yokohama-kō Renzoku Satsujin Jiken follows the hard-boiled formula more closely, with the investigation refusing to be a honkaku mystery: the plot is linear and poses few significant problems, as the suspects are clear from the outset; the title rather emphasises the cultural and urban representation of Yokohama as it rapidly becomes westernised. At the end of the 1980s, the city was indeed restructured with a new business district, Minato Mirai 21, whose skyline mimics those of US East Coast cities. Remarkably, one of the central questions in the investigation revolves around a blue Mercedes-Benz, a telling sign of Western modernity – and it should also be noted that Consul Robert K. Busk speaks only in katakana.

     An artificial thriller

While Yokohama-kō Renzoku Satsujin Jiken reflects a concern regarding the West and the difficult relationship maintained with Taiwan, the script is relatively unremarkable. The game seems forced to build itself around a series of murders to justify the 'renzoku' of its title. The suspense is pretty underwhelming, except for a few action scenes: Yokohama-kō Renzoku Satsujin Jiken more broadly embraces a cinematic approach, by lowering the difficulty compared to the previous episode. Having dispensed with its overhead-view and impromptu 'game over', the game is also more generous with clues; while it is still unlikely to complete the title by brute-forcing interactions, the mystery is straightforward enough to ensure that the player will not get overly confused.

The game also puts much more emphasis on its secondary characters, which perhaps explains some questionable narrative choices, although the dialogue feels much more natural. Yoko Gyoen is much more active, demonstrating excellent detective instincts; as a polyglot, she also acts as an interpreter when dealing with foreign characters. Although Yokohama-kō Renzoku Satsujin Jiken allows the player to choose their assistant, there is little reason to select Hinode Hitoshi, as Yoko proves to be far more capable and a welcome representation of women.

Yokohama-kō Renzoku Satsujin Jiken feels very complementary to its predecessor, offering a radically different progression and story. While the script is more coherent and avoids an implausible twist at the end, the ensemble is comparatively weaker. Similarly, the plot is simplified, but lacks the mysterious tension of the first episode – the title boasts a jazzier OST, but abandons the musical jingles for the critical clues that drive the investigation. Instead, the focus seems to be on the portrayal of Yokohama, the interference of Westerners in modern Japan, and the inability of the local authorities to act. As such, Yokohama-kō Renzoku Satsujin Jiken is a vivid illustration of Japan's conflicted relationship with the United States, halfway between fascination and loathing.

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[1] Students who lived through the waves of protest in the 1960s and 1970s were particularly affected by these events, whose political and aesthetic reverberations are both numerous and complex. On the topic, see Nick Kapur, Japan at the Crossroads: Conflict and Compromise after Anpo, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 2018 and Gavin Walker (ed.), The Red Years: Theory, Politics, and Aesthetics in the Japanese '68, Verso, London, 2020.
[2] Unlike countries like Taiwan, where US domination has been essentially institutional, Japan is marked by its physical presence, hence the – sometimes misguided – ever-present metaphor of Japan as a prostitute. Margaret Hillebrand writes: 'Female sexual labor, organized crime, drug and alcohol abuse, inter-racial violence, and the McDonaldization of cultural life dominate the thematic plane, [...] all depict US influence as a virus that infects and destroys its host' (Margaret Hillebrand, Literature, Modernity and the Practice of Resistance: Japanese and Taiwanese Fiction (1960-1990), Brill, Leiden, 2007, p. 132).

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (3rd Oct. – 9th Oct., 2023).

Between the 1960s and the 1980s, audiovisual horror production gradually tended towards family films and series. Such an approach was not necessarily obvious, as horror – and its iconic figures – were mainly used in fantastical, comic or didactic productions, without any explicit desire to frighten the viewer. Even in late-night series aimed at adults, such as Alfred Hitchcock Presents (1955), The Twilight Zone (1958) or Night Gallery (1970), horror was largely mixed with detective stories or speculative genres. The emergence of true children's television horror in the late 1980s can be explained by a number of factors: the publication of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark (1981) by Alvin Schwartz frightened generations of American children with his gruesome reinterpretation of folk tales and urban legends. In particular, Stephen Gammell's disturbing, misshapen illustrations imposed a lasting aesthetic style, to the point where it became one of the books to provoke the most petitions for its withdrawal from libraries and schools [1]. Similar controversies arose when Gremlins (1984) and Robert L. Stine's Goosebumps (1992) were published.

At the same time, the development of cable television, much harder to regulate, created new problems. The television adaptation of Goosebumps (1995) was undoubtedly a product of the audiovisual capitalism of the 1990s, the aim of which was to sell books and various merchandise by creating visceral reactions in children – in other words, by genuinely scaring them. In contrast, Donald J. MacHale's Are You Afraid of the Dark? series (1990) deliberately employed the directorial codes popularised by Hitchcock – suspense rather than gore – and embedded its stories in a buffer zone. The diegetic existence of a Midnight Society, made up of imperfect American teenagers, serves to dilute the horror and cast the protagonists as heroes overcoming their fears [2].

The video game adaptation The Tale of Orpheo's Curse follows a similar spirit. Unlike titles like Phantasmagoria (1995) or Harvester (1996), the game is closer to Myst (1993) and The 7th Guest (1993). The player becomes the narrator of the story and is asked to make the right decisions to save Terry and Alex from the curse of the Orpheo Theatre. The setting is vast and it is easy to get lost between the various objectives: the horror comes from the time the player spends in slightly threatening environments, while being surveilled by the awkward eyes of wax statues. However, The Tale of Orpheo's Curse mitigates this aspect by allowing the player to interrupt the story and return to the Midnight Society's campfire, where various clues are given to the player. As in the series, this is a place to unwind, confirming the title's effective atmosphere and friendly disposition towards a relatively young audience.

There is something about the staging that always maintains the illusion of the story without resorting to violence or gore. The comic book-style visuals hide a lack of budget, but also serve to remind the player that this is fiction. These sequences, however, contrast with the chase scenes, which dramatically shifts the tempo of the exploration. While the premise is interesting, The Tale of Orpheo's Curse may be a little intimidating for younger audiences due to the cryptic nature of some of the puzzles – although they can be solved without too much difficulty thanks to the diegetic die-and-retry. The title even becomes a didactic tale: the Midnight Society points out that the story is a little too anti-climactic if the player manages to escape the theatre too quickly. In terms of creativity and narrative experimentation in an adventure game, The Tale of Orpheo's Curse, despite certain stylistic flaws, would have been well suited to the 3DO, alongside games like Psychic Detective (1995) or Lost Eden (1995), offering a unique and intelligent experience. Disappointingly, the title never received a sequel due to its poor commercial performance.

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[1] '100 most frequently challenged books: 1990-1999', on American Library Association, consulted on 6th October 2023.
[2] Jessica Balanzategui, 'Are You Afraid of the Dark?: Children’s Horror Anthology Series in the 1990s', in Adrian Schober, Debbie Olson (ed.), Children, Youth, and American Television, Routledge, London, 2018, pp. 208-211.

I believe that considering Dragon Quest, as MudkipTheGodly does, as the Ur-JRPG is a fundamental mistake, which distorts greatly the interpretation that one can have of the game. An approach that makes Dragon Quest a precursor of the genre neglects the earlier titles, with their already well-defined mechanics and even years ago, while giving a teleological value to the progression of JRPGs. To the modern eye, Dragon Quest and Final Fantasy may represent the essence of the genre, but this sidesteps the question of what characterises a JRPG and how it defines itself in relation to other adventure game traditions.

I have already mentioned this in my review of Hydlide (1984), but JRPGs are tributary to an old history, largely connected with the Western tradition of role-playing games. Its emergence is linked to the Wizardry and Ultima series, which largely fuelled the Japanese passion for dungeon crawlers. Many games have been inspired by this approach and Hydlide is one of these titles, serving as a transition for Japanese game design. A year before the release of Dragon Quest, Enix had already released their first RPG, Chikyuu Senshi Rayieza (1985), whose mechanics may seem archaic, but are inherited from the turn-based tradition initiated by the West. The same year, Cosmic Soldier (1985) also offered a formula very close to Wizardry, but with the possibility of recruiting opponents during the fighting by talking to them. The Screamer (1985) was inspired by the same series. As for Ultima, there are many games modelled on it, such as Seiken Densetsu (1983) – not the Square series – or Ken to Mahou (1983), illustrating a real vitality for the genre in Japan, especially on PC.

My argument is that Dragon Quest came within a context that was already punctuated by role-playing games. Its uniqueness, however, lies in the approach of Yuji Horii, who had made his mark on investigative games, notably Portopia Renzoku Satsujin Jiken (1983) and Karuizawa Yūkai Annai (1985), the latter featuring some Ultima-like sequences. A joint interview with Rika Suzuki reveals Horii's emphasis on story and guided progression in an adventure game. He stands in opposition to the very cryptic and overwhelming approach of Western RPGs, where the difficulty is very high and the levels are extremely long, often with no short term goals provided to the player. This philosophy infuses the development of Dragon Quest, which, like Hydlide, attempts to offer an adventure that is accessible to neophytes. Similarly, disliking the command system in text-based adventure games, he proposed a menu system for possible actions: this has become the hallmark of JRPGs – the idea is not new, but he provides a strong synthesis of it. It seems to me that these elements must be kept in mind to understand the flow of this first title.

The player is the descendant of the hero Roto, who once saved the continent of Alefgard from destruction. The appearance of the Dragonlord has led many adventurers to follow in his footsteps, but it is up to the descendant to triumph over this evil and save Laura, the daughter of King Lars, who has been kidnapped by the Dragonlord to be his wife. The story doesn't take much longer to present its stakes and the player is dropped into the vast world of Alefgard. While the land may seem vast, progression is limited by the enemies, who grow exponentially more powerful the further the protagonist gets from Ladatorm Castle. Unlike Hydlide, it is not possible to freely explore the entire map, since encounters are random: venturing too far is like signing one's death warrant, especially since running away from battles to progress is not a very viable option.

On the other hand, the progression of the main quest is conditioned by the resolution of small mysteries that the player must solve. Talking to different NPCs reveals crucial information to locate an object or perform an action. The player is strongly encouraged to take note of all relevant information so that they can retrieve it when the time comes, whether it is the whereabouts of an item or its use. Since the clues take the form of rumours circulating throughout the kingdom, the game forces the player to go back and forth between different locations – which also allows them to gain experience along the way – to access secrets hidden in places they have already visited. Several critics have criticised the linear nature of the title, claiming that it hides behind a veneer of freedom. It seems to me that this is a misunderstanding, considering Horii's interview. The goal is not the same as in Metroid (1986), where it is indeed possible to explore quite freely. Here, the placement of clues creates a natural sense of progression, which keeps the player interested in the immediate future.

For Horii, the combat system fulfils the same function. Even when the player is lost, they can fight enemies to pass the time. This system is unfortunately quite rudimentary. While the hero can attack or use magic, defending himself is not possible, and there is little use for items in general – except in very specific cases. Compared to the novelties of earlier games and the formula popularised by Wizardry, this is a step backwards. All encounters look the same: attacking with the weapon is generally good enough and only magic-users change this approach a little, whereby spells can be used to silence them. While this makes the experience very accessible, such an approach creates an extreme redundancy in the gameplay loop, especially since the experience grind is mandatory and tedious in its length. It is indeed possible to increase the hero's power through equipment, but it is equally necessary to reach level 20 to have a concrete chance of clearing the last dungeon and facing the Dragonlord.

This is where the title shows its weaknesses. By virtue of simplifying its design, it loses what made the charm of previous games, which could keep the player's interest for a longer period of time because of their brutal nature. Horii wanted to shift the focus to exploration and puzzle solving, but these are only minor parts of the game time. The dungeons are enjoyable sections, making good use of the darkness mechanic, but they are a far cry from the extremely complex and trap-filled floors found in Wizardry. In some ways, this may be for the better, but it makes for consistently too short experiences. Encounters with unique enemies remain memorable, but can be counted on two fingers – this includes Merkido's guardian or Domdora's hidden fight.

Nevertheless, the game manages to charm with its atmosphere. Although it is based on the western fantasy setting, Dragon Quest brings a freshness through its humour. Akira Toriyama's design still works, with expressive and easily recognisable enemies. The game also has a cheerful soundtrack, with baroque and classical accents. As a side note, the composer, Kōichi Sugiyama, is known for his far-right nationalism and historical revisionism: on this point, it is difficult to have a clear answer on where to stand. Just as Wagner is an antisemite whose work is culturally important, Sugiyama popularised erudite music in video game soundtracks. The money he made working on the franchise was reinvested in far-right propaganda, and no matter what ethical solution one chooses, this is something to keep in mind. Incidentally, Dragon Quest's soundtrack accompanies the game's sense of heroic and faux-naive exploration. The Overworld theme has a contemplative and romantic quality, which is underlined by the symphonic version with strings that swell freely in complex layers. This very innocent side is contrasted by the Castle theme, composed in a very baroque and serious style. These emotional outbursts give character to a game that may seem simplistic in its narration. As such, the discovery of the city of Domdora has a tragic feel to it, although the game never really conveys this explicitly.

Dragon Quest certainly set new standards, although it was not the earliest precursor to JRPGs. Its success in Japan, thanks to its accessibility, made it a classic title, widely imitated thereafter. However, it is a title that suffers from certain design choices. While exploring and discovering the world, through puzzles and discussions, is still very enjoyable, the game breaks its own rhythm through the experience grind. The title is far from unpleasant and has some really clever moments, where the player can feel a real sense of accomplishment, when a secret is discovered. But these euphoria are too scattered and drowned in a rather ponderous monotony. Nevertheless, it is still easy to recommend the title to someone who would like to discover some early JRPGs without having to deal with a title that is impossible to finish, due to a decidedly too intense difficulty.