Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (8th Aug. – 14th Aug., 2023).

In his memoirs, Sid Meier points out that SimGolf was conceived as an organic fusion of the spirit of Tycoon games and Will Wright's latest hit, The Sims (2000). Unlike the Civilization and SimCity series, SimGolf is intended to be a highly accessible title that hides easy rewards behind artificial complexity. In the words of Jeff Briggs: 'You want [the hole] to look hard, but still play easy' [1]. This gameplay philosophy is not surprising, as it is at the heart of most video games. What makes SimGolf so elegant is the degree to which the game pushes the boundaries of so-called complexity, when in fact everything is remarkably intuitive and requires minimal effort, giving free rein to the player's ideas.

To some extent, this approach to design should be contrasted with the colder, more mathematical approach of SimCity. The latter is built around a set of ideologically driven axioms, presented in Christopher Alexander's A City is Not a Tree (1965) and Jay Forrester's Urban Dynamics (1969), that have a lasting impact on the way players use the tools at their disposal. The use of taxes, for example, responds to strong neo-liberal beliefs that low taxation promotes economic growth, while high taxation necessarily increases the risk of collapse and recession. On the other hand, the title does not take into account recent developments in urban social science on very specific issues such as public lighting, the colours of the city or light mobilities. SimCity is an ideological creation whose rules are sometimes confusing and have prompted the drafting of guides to circumvent them, leading to the emergence of a completely new game through its reception by the public.

The great strength of SimGolf is that it understands the flexibility of simulators and builds its entire design around it. Meier and Briggs' very permissive philosophy leaves all the keys in the hands of the player. Even more than with the other Tycoon games, the creative process is rooted in what the player wants. It is less about creating a course to precise standards - although at a certain point it is preferable to offer a good variety of holes, with layouts that encourage creativity without being too difficult - and more about trusting the player's intuition. A hole that pleases them will undoubtedly please all golfers visiting the resort. This balance is achieved by constantly involving the player's avatar in the design of the golf club. Periodically, they are invited to take part in an open competition within their own structure, a perfect opportunity to empirically assess whether the overall design is effective, in addition to the rather cold financial statistics and volume of critical feedback. As Sid Meier sums it up, the absence of competition pushes back the need for design optimisation and allows the player to focus on other creative aspects [2].

There's something very tangible and personal about SimGolf, whose technique benefits from the graphics engine that would later be used in SimCity 4 (2002), with real 3D models. The game has an almost touching softness, and the low number of visitors compared to other Tycoon games encourages greater contemplation. Even when the course comes under pressure around the creation of a thirteenth hole, due to the formation of bottlenecks on certain complex holes, the game never really punishes the player. Problems can easily be solved by reordering the holes or hiring Marshals. As a rule, the player's investment in the game is constantly rewarded by a larger cash flow without any downside, which makes it easier to modify and create new holes.

While far from the complexity of SimCity and Civilization, SimGolf carries the spirit of unbridled creativity that Sid Meier approached in C.P.U. Bach (1994), a 3DO baroque music generator that, despite lacking any real interactivity, was a veritable hymn to creative freedom. SimGolf extends this concept, using a theme more accessible to the general public and placing itself in the zeitgeist of simulation games at the turn of the 21st century. The result is a curiosity that is both easy to pick up and very supportive of the player and their creativity.

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[1] Sid Meier, Sid Meier's Memoir!: A Life in Computer Games, Norton and Company, New York, 2020, p. 147.
[2] Ibid., pp. 147-148.

     'Then he whirled around, pressing his fists to his temples, and howled — a long, roaring howl like that of a beast. A cry of confusion and desperation. A cry that tore at the hearts of all who heard it.'
     – Keigo Higashino, Yōgisha X no Kenshin, 2005 (tr. Alexander O. Smith).

Played with BertKnot.

A distinctive feature of death penalty in Japan is the regularity with which it is applied, in contrast to other countries such as the United States. Even after the moratorium that followed the LDP's fall from power in 1993, there was little change in judicial practice, with no politician willing to make serious changes on the issue. In 2009, a major judicial reform was undertaken to correct the excesses of the system, notably by strengthening the rights of the defendant and limiting the value placed on confessions, which are often brutally extracted by inspectors. Some commentators have seen the introduction of jury panels as a means of opposing the death penalty, on the assumption that citizens would be reluctant to choose it in a real case that they would have followed from within. In other words, the 2009 reform hoped to bring about a slow change in mentalities and a rejection of the death penalty through its reduced use.

     Capital punishment, public opinion and Japanese detective fiction

While the 2009 reform has been effective in changing concrete aspects of police investigations and increasing public confidence in the judiciary, its impact on the application of the death penalty has been particularly disappointing. In the 2010-2018 period, the capital punishment was adopted in 68 % of cases where it was requested by prosecutors, compared with 56 % for the 1980-2009 period [1]. This higher figure can be explained by a more careful choice on the part of prosecutors, who restrict the death penalty to the least ambiguous cases. It is worth noting, however, that juries are fairly consistent in following the recommendations of prosecutors on this issue and remain particularly conservative. Japanese public opinion thus remains attached to the death penalty and its application. This situation is not surprising: liberal nations that have abolished the death penalty have often done so against the tide of general opinion and under more progressive governments.

One feature of Japanese opinion is the moral and ethical value it places on the death penalty. It is considered both inevitable (yamu o enai) and necessary to avenge the victims [2]. Although governments are content with this situation in order to avoid reforms from above and going against the tide of public opinion, Japanese detective fiction was quick to question this phenomenon and felt compelled to take a stance on the issue. Among popular works, Kindaichi shōnen no jikenbo (1992), featuring a rebellious detective growing up in the Lost Decades, emphasises the tragedy of killing and the detective's function in society. This desire to understand the criminals serves to build a discourse in favour of rehabilitation. Alternatively, Meitantei Konan (1994) presents an idealised detective in a society where the police institution is characterised by exceptional probity: Gōshō Aoyama, despite his social conservatism, passively opposes the death penalty, as his universe seems completely unaware of the concept.

Master Detective Archives: RAIN CODE, which inherits the comic and violent aesthetic of Danganronpa, also revolves around these themes, but offers an overly vague and conservative moral. The player takes on the role of Yuma Kokohead, an apprentice detective flanked by Shinigami, a goddess of death whose powers allow mysteries to manifest physically in a Labyrinth. While these powers allow Yuma to solve various cases, the price is the soul of the guilty party, who inevitably dies after solving an investigation. The events of the opening chapter lead Yuma to investigate the secret of Kanai Ward, alongside the various one-off cases he encounters. The title takes a disturbingly lighthearted approach to the death penalty, and never manages to make the moral dilemma facing the detective believable.

     A chain of references serving as a parody

This frivolity is understandable, given the game's representational choices. Kanai Ward is immediately reminiscent of Final Fantasy VII's (1997) Midgar, and RAIN CODE never hides its inspiration: Amaterasu Corporation is literally a copy of Shinra, and the similarities extend to the interiors of buildings and laboratories. The title piles up references constantly: the Mystery Labyrinth is an odd borrowing from the Palaces in Persona 5 (2016), while the cases crudely parody stratagems found in Ace Attorney: Dual Destinies (2013) or Meitantei Konan. The series of locked rooms in Chapter 1 is particularly clumsy, and the subsequent mysteries are astonishingly simple – Chapter 4 gives all the solutions to the investigation straight away, but drags on for several hours, deliberately avoiding the obvious answer to the mystery. Instead, the player is forced to spend two hours investigating a trivial murder mystery, before spending an hour and a half traversing the Mystery Labyrinth, only to suffer two more recapitulations of the investigation.

Because the progression is so sluggish and the pacing so helpless, it is impossible to take the various characters seriously. In Danganronpa, the Trial mechanic created a genuine, if clumsy, discussion between the characters, and swept the player into a storm of contradictory and naive opinions: this approach suited the game's premise. RAIN CODE tries to be more surgical, but above all it comes across as more ridiculous. The Reasoning Death Matches, similar to the Non-Stop Debates, lack substance because the gameplay has been simplified by the more action-oriented gameplay of RAIN CODE, which forces the player to dodge the opponent's sentences. To compensate for the mental strain, the game steers the player significantly more towards the right answer. The irony comes to a head when the most interesting questions within the mysteries are clearly considered too complex and are solved by simple QTEs with no choice. More generally, Kazutaka Kodaka has chosen to spend more time on mini-games, which follow each other for several dozen minutes with very little variety.

In some respects, RAIN CODE is reminiscent of the structure of Meitantei Konan & Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo: Meguriau Futari no Meitantei (2009), with a series of small cases and simple puzzles, but without the strong interactions between the characters of two historical detective series. RAIN CODE only has one-dimensional characters, either because they are immediately discarded or because they have to lose their memories to justify the game's mechanics. Similarly, Kanai Ward is never built as a coherent universe with a genuine social texture. The game is content to pile on a few noir fiction clichés and offer side quests whose hollowness is rare in the medium. There is something particularly ludicrous about the way the inhabitants of Kanai Ward interact with each other, and this only serves to undermine the game's twist, whose pretentious revelation is undermined by the fact that it is one of science fiction's most famous narrative twists.

     Kazutaka Kodaka: morals and fetishisation

While Danganronpa simply highlights the tragedy of the desperate actions of high school students, RAIN CODE attempts a broader discourse on democracy, corporatism, social organisation and capital punishment. Firstly, it is hard to take any ethical considerations seriously when Yuma is flanked by Shinigami, who combines all the most outrageous elements of sexualisation – the Shinigami Puzzles, reflections of Hangman's Gambit, seem completely out of place with the beach aesthetic and Shinigami in a bathing suit. Until chapter 4, RAIN CODE never manages to get away from the idea that justice is about maintaining order and that the death penalty is a necessity (yamu o enai). Even afterwards, the title absolves the player through a series of events that allow Yuma to shrug off any responsibility. The discourse on finding the only truth – a rehash of Meitantei Konan's catchphrase, stupid as it is – is particularly hypocritical when even Aoyama's manga argues against the death penalty.

Above all, RAIN CODE spends its time sexualising female characters in all their forms, from schoolgirls to maids: at least two characters regard women as sexual objects, and are portrayed as comic devices. The game feels much more voyeuristic than Danganronpa, as there is no strong character who can really stand up to Yuma until the very end. The resolution of the final chapter is particularly muddled, attempting to rehabilitate the characters for the heinous murders they have committed based on the belief that everything fits into a carefully thought-out 'perfect solution'. That criminals had to be slaughtered to achieve this solution hardly seems a problem. The title's audacity culminates in the epilogue, where one character finds a magical and simplistic solution to Kanai Ward's central predicament, effectively rendering all the tragedies pointless.

In many ways, RAIN CODE takes its cues from Danganronpa, but in a crude and unpleasant way. The game suffers from an excessively slow pacing and always feels perfunctory in the way it treats its characters. Technically, the game is particularly abysmal, suffering from substandard graphics and a soundtrack that is nowhere near the chaotic and enjoyable explosiveness of Danganronpa. Given the disastrous and conservative way in which the death penalty discourse is handled, there is reason to fear that the very likely sequel to RAIN CODE – buoyed by its very satisfactory sales in Japan – will, if the post-credits scene is to be believed, explore the violence of the Californian riots of the 1980s and 1990s.

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[1] David T. Johnson, The Culture of Capital Punishment in Japan, Palgrave Macmillan, London, 2020 [2019], p. 85.
[2] In particular, the victim's relatives can plead directly before judges and juries, explicitly requesting the death penalty for the defendant. These proceedings are marked by theatricality and intense emotions that directly and negatively affect lawyers, magistrates and jurors. On this subject, see Yūji Itō, 裁判員の判断の心理:心理学実験から迫る, 慶應義塾大学出版会, Tokyo, 2019, pp. 48-66.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (1st Aug. – 7th Aug., 2023).

The success of beatmania (1997) gave rise to a series of similar rhythm games, each with its own special features, whether it was the inclusion of specific instruments or unexpected innovations such as Dance Dance Revolution (1998) – the concept of which had already been seen on the Famicom in Family Trainer: Aerobics Studio (1987). As part of this huge boom in music games at the end of the 1990s, Produce sought to make its own mark, after having worked as a contractor for Enix and Hudson on numerous RPGs and Bomberman respectively. The result was Paca-paca Passion, a mash-up of beatmania and PaRappa the Rapper (1996).

However, the borrowed elements lack coherence and produce an experience that is structurally inferior to both games. Paca-paca Passion displays notes on a fixed bar, with the beat advancing with the music, rather than the now traditional formula of notes advancing while the beat bar remains fixed. The title is also limited to two or four buttons, played by single presses only. In this respect, the game is similar to PaRappa the Rapper: yet such an approach detracts from visibility. In PaRappa the Rapper, the player is invited to reproduce a musical phrase and can prepare in advance by following the example of the co-singer. In Paca-paca Passion reacting quickly is very difficult, especially as the timing required is particularly demanding – the Perfect falls on the attack of the beat and any delay is severely punished; even though the tracks are fairly easy to follow thanks to the relatively simple composition, the player has no choice but to learn all the tracks by heart to keep up with the AI and survive its onslaught at higher difficulties.

As Paca-paca Passion is ill-suited to sight-reading, the title suffers from a rather unfair difficulty and is quite tough to learn [1]. The various tracks have a playful tone reminiscent of yacht rock, but struggle to create a truly transcendent experience. The asymmetric gameplay with the choice of instrument is an interesting gimmick, but ultimately under-exploited, since the different songs do not rely on call and response. Despite two subsequent attempts, Produce never managed to establish Paca-paca Passion in the same way that Bemani did with its galaxy of music games. The company folded in 1999, leaving the concept to fade away outside of fan games. At most, some arcade machines still exist, and the music tracks survive through their inclusion in other rhythm games, such as CHUNITHM (2014).

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[1] The fan game pal-melo, based on the concept of Paca-paca Passion, has its own unforgiving tracks; how difficult they are is up to the reader.

     'The winds of adventure, bequeathed by the early pioneers, had seemingly ceased to stir the hearts of the people. But times are changing, and a new cycle is dawning, heralded by celestial upheavals, as if the world were being born afresh.'
     – 'Paorn : Le renouveau des Terres très anciennes', in Casus Belli, Hors Série 23, 1998, p. 8 (personal translation).

The release of Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition marked a change in the reception of titles powered by the Infinity Engine. The project is motivated by the desire to make Baldur's Gate (1998) accessible on modern machines, thanks to ergonomic and gameplay improvements. The debate as to which version is better – the original title with or without mods, or the Enhanced Edition – is a long-running controversy that is unlikely ever to be settled: perhaps most interestingly, the Enhanced Edition is a new way of approaching the game, with greater guidance and new characters that reflect modern sensibilities in companion writing.

     Weight and probability: the benefits of memorising the game

Despite the gameplay tweaks that add class kits to the first Baldur's Gate, the game remains particularly challenging. There is a huge amount of information to remember, and beginners can easily be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of options available to them. From character creation onwards, the game does not bother to explain how leveling works or the subtleties of dual and multi-classing. This hermetic approach is the foundation of the title's heaviness, embedded in its gameplay philosophy. The lack of an Ironman mode comes as no surprise: Baldur's Gate emphasises memorisation and the ability to act creatively, armed with knowledge of the obstacles ahead. Enemy positioning often puts the player at a disadvantage, as does the discreet trap detection, which is only activated once per round.

The essence of the title is the abuse of saves and long rests to become extremely flexible: a fight against mages can easily be settled by preemptively using a zone of Silence, while a skirmish against fighters can be trivialised by a well-placed Web. The effort required to counteract a negative RNG often leads to the use of such rogue tactics. Steam achievements indicate that only a small number of players – around ten percent – have completed the main campaign, no doubt illustrating the difficulty of the title. The first two chapters act as a very harsh filter, leaving the player feeling disempowered in the face of most encounters, despite technically having access to the entire southern part of Sword Coast.

For the first few hours, it may seem that characters are barely hitting their targets. Baldur's Gate is in fact based on the rules of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons 2nd Edition (1989), notorious for the way that Armor Class (AC) works. Early wargames used a matrix of values to determine the number of points needed to hit an enemy, as a function of their attack and defence. To avoid having to consult the table for every attack, AD&D2 introduced the concept of THAC0 (To Hit Armor Class 0). While this may simplify calculations for veterans of the system, the mechanics remain nebulous to beginners, requiring constant subtraction to resolve attacks and calculate probabilities [1]. While such a system is more or less justifiable when playing around a table and with a game master, it simply seems abstruse for a CRPG. Similar problems plague the rules, and Baldur's Gate struggles to make its concepts really explicit beyond a well-informed, veteran audience.

     Narrative tones and dissonances

Baldur's Gate also suffers from a rather disjointed pacing, awkwardly oscillating between heavy-handed command and excessive freedom. Placing the player in the role of a young adventurer, the game can boast a genuine sense of wonder in the face of a hostile world that the protagonist slowly conquers over the course of their quest, reaching significant proportions quite late in the story. In order to create this feeling, Baldur's Gate relies on a methodical exploration of the various locations, from time to time beckoning the player for a bit of information – new or already known. This approach is commendable and works quite well in the final chapters, but the price is a very low density of content in the early zones, which are inevitably very empty or disjointed from the Iron Crisis experienced by Sword Coast.

A side effect of this design choice is an atmosphere that can change too radically for no apparent reason. The slow contemplation introduced by Baldur's Gate can be interrupted to give the player information about the situation between Baldur's Gate and Amn, but it can also be disrupted by almost incongruous comic scenes. More specifically, the choice of answers can clash with the tonality of the game. The player is often given a limited choice of personalities – occasionally laced with rather effective comic responses: apathetic, selfish or chivalrous. The problem is that they all seem rather unnatural. Although traumatised by the events of the prologue, but full of good faith – as the game thematically encourages the player to serve the common good – there is no real justification for the paranoid suspicion of certain replies, or the blind trust given to strangers. Even the altruistic reactions seem unreasonable, given that they are written for a man, and ooze with a passively paternalistic and misogynistic tone.

The writing in Baldur's Gate lacks overall coherence and seems to struggle to find the right tone despite the simplicity of the story, especially in the first few dozen hours. Once the player gets to Baldur's Gate, however, the script becomes more confident and really helps to create a coherent and believable setting, even if it does repeat the same information too often. Yet again, Baldur's Gate suffers from AD&D2 and the lack of subtlety around the alignment system. Trying to create a party outside the canonical companions is a real challenge, as the player is then forced to manage their reputation. The central flaw is that some characters are given an Evil alignment when their story is much more subtle: Viconia has a very harrowing and narratively interesting inner conflict, but her alignment clashes with the various mechanics of the title and the dynamics of the group [2].

The various content additions do little to help the title. The Tales of the Sword Coast expansion takes the player on three separate adventures that have no connection to the main storyline, adding to the sense of wandering around with no real purpose. The additions to the Enhanced Edition are particularly disappointing. Conceptually, the companions written by Beamdog are quite interesting and carry on the idea that a companion should be outstanding in some distinct personality trait. Unfortunately, in keeping with BioWare's more modern philosophy, these characters tend to force the player into their dull quests, often openly berating them – this is particularly the case with Neera, who is very possessive, while the player already has to juggle between the multitude of companions in a limited group. Perhaps most disturbingly, Beamdog seems to portray the only character with a gay romance, Dorn, as a Chaotic Evil monster [3].

     A cenacle for veterans

With Tales of the Sword Coast, Baldur's Gate is targeting the most dedicated players, offering them content of the highest difficulty. Some of the quests are sluggish, or rather superfluous – Shandalar's quest has the merit of being very short, but Mendas' is too long for mediocre and thematically unfocused writing. Durlag's Tower is the biggest undertaking of the expansion. The dungeon recalls the very slow and meticulous progression of the TTRPG modules, in response to player complaints about the lack of a traditional dungeon crawl in the base game. Unfortunately, the experience is again hampered by the gameplay of Baldur's Gate. The narrow corridors are frustrating to navigate, especially during combat, and the traps are particularly irritating to detect, crippling groups using guerrilla tactics.

The dungeon also attempts to revolve around environmental puzzles, but is rather clumsy in its execution, forcing too many round trips or relying too heavily on teleportation, thus weakening the coherence of Durlag's Tower. A few battles seek to add new complexity to the encounters, but struggle to rise above the gruelling anecdote – the Chess puzzle never works in practice, simply inviting the player to end the fight as quickly as possible before dying from Lightning Bolts. Because all of Tales of the Sword Coast's content is divorced from the main story, the various bosses feel almost gratuitous and lack depth. The expansion effectively emulates the module-based aspect of the first editions of D&D, but at the cost of alienating some players.

Baldur's Gate represents a different experience from recent expectations, offering a narrative and gameplay formula that BioWare, Larian Studios and other developers have slowly abandoned over the years. The result is a sandbox that encourages exploration and contemplation, but constantly struggles with its writing and game engine, forcing players to be extremely meticulous and slow in their progress. Beamdog's new features in the Enhanced Edition, while not universally accepted and introducing their fair share of bugs, are far from unwelcome and offer newcomers additional options to simplify their adventure; The Black Pits is also a curiosity for players craving combat, but is largely dispensable. In the end, should one version be preferred over the other? Honestly, it makes little difference.

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[1] More accurately, the Armor Class concept is a borrowing from the tradition of naval wargames such as The Ironclads (1979), although the idea had already been introduced in a different way in Chainmail (1971). Because a first-rank ship is more important than a second-rank vessel, the idea is that AC becomes better the lower the score. However, because AD&D2 chose to keep descending AC, THAC0 was simply introduced as an abstract stopgap solution, and was necessarily counter-intuitive. The third edition of D&D (2000) solves the problem by fundamentally transforming THAC0 into an attack bonus and establishing ascending AC, thereby transforming the system into a pure roll-over-a-value system.
[2] Baldur's Gate II (2000) is more interesting in this respect, as the player is able to help Viconia change her alignment and face her insecurities, as opposed to the lack of character development and agency in the first opus.
[3] This is also the case with Hexxat in Baldur's Gate II, the only lesbian romance available.

     'Catherine Legrand is perched on the fence. Her panties tear on a nail. Snap! Catherine Legrand climbs down again and runs cautiously, yelling 'thumbs'. Good grief. No one saw anything. She cannot keep playing without panties, even if the others don't know it.'
     – Monique Wittig, L'Opoponax, 1964 (personal translation).

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (25th Jul. – 31st Jul., 2023).

Monique Wittig has always rejected the idea of writing 'committed literature'. She resented the term because it obscured the real implications of literature and the manipulation of language: 'Every new work is, by its very form, a threat to older ones. Moreover, the way in which language is worked is guided by a preoccupation with expressing a point of view' [1]. In other words, literature is constantly 'committed' because it interacts with previous texts and interprets language according to the situated point of view of its author, regardless of their intentions. Wittig has always been acutely aware of how language is bound up with its social context. In The Straight Mind and Other Essays (1992), she presents an incisive overview, emphasising the extent to which language serves to cement social domination [2].

     Language and gender, the individual and the world

To counteract these phenomena, Wittig sought to refine her use of personal pronouns. In L'Opoponax (1964) she deliberately uses the French 'on'. Often considered colloquial and not very persuasive, 'on' is preferred by Wittig because its gender is indefinite. Throughout L'Opoponax, a story of childhood before the weight of gender is fully felt, Wittig attempts to construct an experience in which the division of the world into two sexes does not exist. Wittig's masterstroke is not to succumb to the impersonality of the pronoun 'on', but to point out that it is deliberately used by clearly defined and named characters, such as Catherine Legrand. The girl is always referred to by her first name and surname, as if to mimic the severity of the school name list. The contrast between these two elements creates a subversive discourse on gender through the plasticity of language.

non-binary deals with similar issues, exploring the impact of gendered words and experiences on individuals. The player follows the story of two characters who do not conform to gender expectations from an early age. They harbour deep doubts about their identity, which are gradually dissolving, and struggle to find their place in the world. The title shines in its ability to highlight the violence of language, even in seemingly innocuous sentences. Every remark seems to be a targeted attack on Luca or Erica: the player experiences this feeling vicariously, as they are forced to focus on dodging the projectiles. In this moment, the speech is almost secondary and escapes the player. The violence of the imposed gender must be fought psychologically before trying to rationalise what someone else is saying. non-binary sensitively dramatises the alienation caused by language.

     Breaking out of the shackles of gender?

The idea is so effective that it is a little unfortunate that it is not taken to its ultimate conclusion. While the game is a coming-out story for both characters, non-binary refuses to radically transform language. Although the use of the neutral pronoun emerges towards the end, the solution is practically individual and has little to do with systemic structures, despite the title's emphasis on the way Erica struggles to fit in with Chloe's community [3]. Influenced by Wittig's political thought, some lesbians saw themselves as a separate gender because they refused to associate with men. For them, the dissolution of their gender meant voluntary exile and the creation of a new community. non-binary does not adopt such a condemnatory stance, but instead shows modest hesitations and embarrassed fumblings; by the end of the two stories, the game radiates a certain pride, but also carries an air of sadness.

There is something particularly restrained about non-binary, which is more about problems than solutions. Despite a renewed confidence in their gender non-conformity, Luca and Erica still see the gendered forms of language and the world around them as a kind of tragic inevitability. Wittig's literature is more fiery and vehement. In a way, non-binary is closer to the literature of Nathalie Sarraute – and especially Enfance (1983) – whose scrambling of masculine and feminine serves only to palliate the oppression of language and its unbearable reality. Luca and Erica are just two of many stories that express an ontological malaise around gender, where self-loathing intersects with a latent hatred of the world around them. How strong and fragile they are.

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[1] Françoise Armengaud, 'La contestation des conventions du discours chez Nathalie Sarraute et chez Monique Wittig', in Nouvelles Questions Féministes, vol. 19, no. 1, 1998, p. 38 : 'Toute œuvre nouvelle par sa forme constitue une menace pour les formes anciennes. De surcroît, la forme selon laquelle est travaillé le langage est orientée par le souci de l'expression d'un point de vue'.
[2] More specifically, Wittig argues that language is ideally constructed as an equitable social contract, but that the intrusion of interlocutors and the first-person pronoun entraps language in patterns of domination: 'As soon as there is a locutor in discourse, as soon as there is an 'I', gender manifests itself. [...] The locutor intervenes, in the order of the pronouns, without mediation, in its proper sex – that is, when the locutor is a sociological women. One knows that, in French, with je ('I'), one must mark the gender as soon as one uses it in relation to past participles and adjectives. [...] Gender is the enforcement of sex in language, working in the same way as the declaration of sex in civil status' (Monique Wittig, The Straight Mind and Other Essays, Beacon Press, Boston, 1992, p. 79).
[3] If the exclusionary portrayal of lesbians can be explained by the genuine frustration of the queer community, sometimes included, sometimes rejected, the game seems very blunt on this issue, almost forgetting that lesbian communities are also founded by trans women. non-binary thus draws a rather harsh and almost surprising opposition between non-binarity and homosexuality/lesbianism.

     'Those great, beautiful ships, rocking silently on the calm waters, with their idle and wistful sails, are they not telling us in a silent language — when will we depart for happiness?'
     – Charles Baudelaire, Fusées, VIII, 1887 (personal translation).

One of the most difficult issues in fantasy studies is to define its contours and, by extension, its relationship to reality. In her seminal study, Fantasy: The literature of subversion (1981), Rosemary Jackson points out that fantasy violates the conventions and rules of our reality and: 'threatens to subvert rules and conventions taken to be normative [and] disturb "rules" of artistic representation and literature’s reproduction of the "real"' [1]. The capacity for deviation that speculative fiction offers is both an opportunity and a danger. Jackson points out that this subversive potential does not mean that fantasy or the fantastic are genres that always aim for social progressivism. In fact, the overwhelming majority of the pulp tradition was steeped in racist, homophobic and misogynist tropes that exerted a lasting influence on fiction throughout the late twentieth century and to this day.

     The misogynist issue in Western-style fantasy

Many authors hide behind these historical precedents to conceal a conservative discourse. The existence of multiple races allows for the perpetuation of social oppression, and while female characters have generally become more active in recent decades, they continue to fit into old-fashioned stereotypes [2]. The Final Fantasy series is part of this dynamic and has always oscillated between these major themes of fantasy fiction, notably by offering a regular comparison between magic and technological modernity, nature and industry, good and evil, humanity and divinity. These dichotomies are relatively common and allow the story to touch on issues such as capitalist exploitation and the use of natural resources. However, the representation of other topics remains disastrous: Final Fantasy XIV (2010) is especially characterised by deep-seated racism and sexism, the latter partially masked by the presence of strong female characters in positions of power.

It is hard to say whether these precautions were taken to appeal to a particular audience, but it is clear that Final Fantasy XVI ignores all these concerns and plunges into the most outrageous archaism, piling on misogynistic scenes wherever possible, supposedly justified by the harshness of European medieval society. Excuses of this kind obscure the real issues. The player follows the story of Clive Rosfield, drawn into a quest for revenge after the Phoenix Gate incident, which spells the end of the Duchy of Rosaria. Miraculously reunited with his childhood friend Jill Warrick, he joins Cid's group, determined to change the situation of the Bearers – magic-capable individuals enslaved across the continent. Final Fantasy XVI is therefore a tale of free will and independence, pitting the dark nature of the world against the purity of Cid and Clive's ideals.

To create this atmosphere, as well as the division between good and evil, the title makes extensive use of violence, sex and sexual violence as narrative drivers. Lenise Prater explains that Fiona McIntosh's Percheron trilogy (2005) constructs: 'a series of juxtapositions between good and evil [...] through the representation of sexual violence' [3]. The same processes are at work in Final Fantasy XVI, from the very first narrative arc of the adventure, where Benedikta is cast as the archetypal femme fatale, ready to use her body to manipulate her rivals: the character is constantly brought back to her status as a woman, and it is the threat of sexual violence that cements her development – Annabella is constructed in a similar way. Final Fantasy XVI revels in the dichotomy between whores and innocent virgins. Despite the Western aesthetic of the title, Jill is no more than a yamato nadeshiko who is constantly sidelined by the game. She mostly serves as a narrative device to advance the plot, through her multiple visits to the infirmary or because she is kidnapped by Clive's enemies. The title denies her any agency, and her nuanced fragility is only hinted at in a few sentences before being brushed aside: it takes almost thirty hours of gameplay before Clive explicitly asks her how she is, despite her constant concern for the protagonist's anxieties.

     A case for centrism and laissez-faire

This conservative portrayal is echoed in the discourse on the Bearers. The game is moderately critical of slavery on the continent and fails to make it a structural issue for Clive, who always remains somewhat detached from the problem. This issue is structurally embedded in the way the player interacts with the world, as they are extremely passive in relation to the events portrayed in the story. While the player is aware of the political manipulations taking place in Storm, they cannot act on them directly; Clive is blindly thrown into the fray and the situation is simply resolved in a battle that depoliticises the social stakes. Similarly, the Seals donated by certain NPCs guarantee Clive's reputation in the community in a highly artificial way, removing any roughness from the interactions. Clive fights to free the Bearers because he inherits this mission from his father and Cid, but this task seems disembodied throughout the game.

Beyond the main quest, the side quests are particularly lacklustre and do little to deepen the world-building. Because they can be accessed at any point in the game, Final Fantasy XVI chooses to exclude companions from them. They simply disappear from the cutscenes and thus have no chance to react to the world around them. Since the intention is to establish Clive as an ideologically good, open and self-governing character, all side quests are resolved by Clive's ideological concessions or miraculous unifications in the face of artificially created danger, without the slightest contradiction from any of the other main characters. Only in the final stretch does someone point out Clive's hypocrisy and domineering power over Jill, but the scene is quickly swept away by the return of Gav, the comic relief of the group.

Final Fantasy XVI is more concerned with shocking, melodramatic or cathartic platitudes than with radical denunciations of inequality and oppression. Worse, these shocking scenes do not even make the world dynamic, so poor is the structure of the narrative. Two problems stand out. Firstly, the interweaving of high-intensity sequences with slower passages: instead of building up the world through genuine slice-of-life sequences, the game multiplies banalities that the player has already understood for several dozen hours. The temporality of the story is also incoherent. Clive seems to cross the continent in a matter of hours, while his rivals remain completely passive. The confrontation between the Sanbreque Empire and the Dhalmekian Republic is characterised by irrational stagnation and passivity, allowing Clive to strike unhindered. The Twins always remain static, despite long ellipses in time.

     A hollow and meaningless experience

Perhaps Final Fantasy XVI should not be taken so literally, but rather accepted as the nekketsu it becomes in the second half of the game. Such an interpretation would be acceptable if the game did not take itself so seriously. However, as in Final Fantasy XIV, the writing wallows in a very uncomfortable theatrical heaviness – which the actors generally manage to save from disaster – as if clumsily mimicking the drama of Shakespeare's historical plays. However, Clive's disillusioned, self-deprecating, borderline comic character breaks up this fiction. Some characters work well, playing up their theatrical nature, such as Cid or Lord Byron, but they are quickly relegated to the background or an essentially comic role.

The shifts in tone and pacing detract from the development of the narrative, which cannot be saved by a few flashes of brilliance. The aetheric floods seem to have been imagined as a reflection of nuclear risks, highlighting the danger of Japan's post-Fukushima energy crutch, but in the end they are only used as a narrative expedient to create danger where the plot needs it. The pinnacle of dishonesty and disrespect for a title that centres its discourse on human free will lies in the choice of names for the NPC fillers. In the pure tradition of Final Fantasy XIV, they include puns and comical alliterations ('Broom-Bearer') that strip them of all substance and reduce them to ridicule. In the second half of the game, a little girl is introduced as a character of some narrative importance, but the title does not even bother to give her a name or address her living conditions.

Meanwhile, the action sequences prove to be particularly hollow. The choreography in the first few hours is quite ingenious, highlighting Clive's agility with complex movements and rather creative camera angles. As the title progresses, this aspect is abandoned in favour of fights that drag on and resort to nekketsu clichés. The duel against Titan lasts forty minutes and is a miserable succession of attacks around the stone tentacles. Final Fantasy XVI even has the audacity to end the battle not with the obvious cinematic climax, but with a dull and particularly unpleasant aerial sequence. Subsequent encounters also drag on for no apparent reason other than to demonstrate a genuine – if futile – mastery of the lightning engine.

     Ergonomics, gameplay and fluidity

While Final Fantasy XVI boasts detailed environments at first glance, the facade quickly cracks. The early areas are indeed highly detailed, to the point of drowning the player in detail – navigating through the thick vegetation is quite difficult, forcing the player to use Torgal to progress – but the quality deteriorates as the game progresses. The dense environments disappear in favour of vast open areas that struggle to convey the majesty of the world. Although the cities visible on the horizon are beautiful backdrops, they fail to radiate materially onto their surroundings, which then become mere abstractions. Moreover, Clive's movement is extremely sluggish: even getting on his chocobo is an unpleasant task that constantly interrupts the fluidity of the action, while the player is condemned to an extraordinary passivity in order to get from one place to another.

In the Hideaway, this impression is reinforced by Clive's inability to sprint: in the second half of the game, getting to the backyard is a gruelling chore. The magic of this cocoon quickly vanishes, as the various characters keep repeating themselves and are only mediocrely animated. Despite the detailed scenery, the game borrows all its animations from Final Fantasy XIV, giving a very artificial tone to the discussions. The Hideaway is less a place where the player can comfortably catch up with their favourite NPCs, and more a burdensome obligation to access NPCs, side quests and the hunt board – requiring the player to physically go there to see the location of elite monsters, a design mistake that even Final Fantasy XIV avoided.

The enjoyment of the combat system is left to the player and their experience of other character-action games, but it is absurd that the player has to wait at least twenty hours to finally be given a modicum of flexibility in their attack options: Final Fantasy XVI justifies its unique protagonist with a deep combat system that encourages the creation of diverse builds, but this philosophy is only appropriate in a New Game+ where all powers are unlocked from the start. In a first playthrough, the player must suffer from an impressive slowness, to the point where the Story Mode becomes an obvious option. The title here echoes the recent problem of Shadowbringers (2019) and especially Endwalker (2021), which first designs its battles with the Extreme and Savage versions, before cutting out the most difficult sections for the Normal versions – the result is a sense of incompleteness that is particularly damaging when combined with the very slowly evolving combat system.

It is difficult to place Final Fantasy XVI in the landscape of modern Japanese video games, so awkward is it in every way. With the title still in its cycle of artificial marketing in preparation for the DLCs, one can only speculate as to the reasons for these failings. Perhaps the lack of coherence can be explained by the fractured development team working on two major games, and the highly eclectic nature of the directors brought together by Naoki Yoshida. His design philosophy is particularly well suited to an MMO, but Final Fantasy XVI suffers greatly from it: the endless succession of side quests involving the Hideaway characters just before the final battle is incomprehensible, as if the game had remembered that it needed to conclude. Hiroshi Takai and Kazutoyo Maehiro's narrative vision is a series of shocking, empty, meaningless scenes: players of Heavensward (2015) had the opportunity to suffer from Ysayle's portrayal, and it is surprising that Final Fantasy XVI does even worse, a standard-bearer for passive misogyny in modern fantasy. That Jill's theme becomes 'My Star' and denies her any agency in the game's final moments is particularly painful and aptly sums up the title.

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[1] Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy: The literature of subversion, Routledge, London, 2005 [1981], p. 14.
[2] On the topic, see for example Peter Bebergal (ed.), Appendix N: The Eldritch Roots Of Dungeons & Dragons, Strange Attractor Press, London, 2021. In the afterword, Ann VanderMeer discusses the conservative roots of pulp fantasy and of the historical TTRPG.
[3] Lenise Prater, 'Monstrous Fantasies: Reinforcing Rape Culture in Fiona McIntosh's Fantasy Novels', in Hecate, vol. 39, no. 1-2, 2014.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (18th Jul. – 24th Jul., 2023).

Attempts to find the first 'representation' of a given group in fiction amount at best to historical anecdote [1] – and at worst to ideological invention – insofar as the contours of any social group are fluid. Tracking down the first representation of kathoey in Thai cinema, for example, would be a complex task because the term encompasses so many different realities – so far removed from Western categorisation. Effeminate men, trans women and intersex people can all be found in this group, which has been a classic archetype of the buffoon in films and series since the post-war years [2]. The consensus is that the turning point in representation came with Phisan Akraseranee's Phleng sut-thai (1985), which followed the social turn in Thai cinema and offered a tragic vision of kathoey – mistreated by society and forced to commit suicide – instead of simple comic relief.

     Contours of LGBT studies on cultural production

Does this make Phleng sut-thai the first sensitive representation of kathoey on screen? Some argue that Satri lek (2000), with its positive portrayal, should be given this status [3]. In a sense, the matter is secondary: it is more useful to understand the socio-cultural transformations that help to explain shifts in cultural production, both in isolated instances and in more widespread trends. The same principles can be applied to the first wave of American LGBT games. These were motivated by socio-political and cultural transformations in the United States, and offered a range of responses to the difficulties faced by LGBT communities during the extended Reagan era [4]. Just as Caper in the Castro was a tribute to the homonymous neighbourhood and a response to institutional inaction regarding AIDS, GayBlade is intended to be a cathartic response to the consolidation of the culture war promoted by Patrick J. Buchanan.

On the 17th of August 1992, Buchanan's speech to the Republican National Convention marked an ideological turning point in conservative circles, although he adopted a more 'democratic' tone than usual, by highlighting the ideological divide in the country without directly attacking minorities [5]. This speech cemented the ideological conflict that had gripped the United States since the 1960s. Buchanan had been working on this project for a long time; in his political prescriptions Right from the Beginning (1988), he is particularly violent towards the LGBT community, as they represent a transgression of what he considers to be the sacred order of the United States [6]. In many ways, Buchanan epitomised Republican political extremism – so much so that he was largely rejected by the moderate faction in the 1996 primaries. The violence that Buchanan instigated can be seen in everyday life and in the new American mentalities – it lies at the heart of the genesis of GayBlade. Ryan Best explains that the production of the game was a response to the harassment he suffered during his high school years in suburban Illinois, and that it was a way of exorcising his experiences: the purpose of the title was simply to put on an image and destroy what had caused his distress [7].

     Cathartic and personal screams

In this respect, GayBlade is a far cry from the haloed image portrayed by High Score. The title is a very unimpressive variation on the formula of Wizardry (1981); its design suffers from the inexperience of its creator, who fails to communicate all the essential information needed to progress. Character creation is particularly cryptic and painful: rolling statistics follows incomprehensible probabilities and favours small outcomes, while the choice of classes is opaque because Best has replaced their usual names with 'Queer', 'Gypsy', 'Lesbian' and the like, without giving the slightest explanation. The same lack of clarity is evident when it comes to purchasing equipment, with the player having no idea what the various weapons are or what they do.

Exploring the dungeon is hardly more enjoyable as the subjective perspective is so clumsily implemented: the player constantly feels as if they are visually moving across two tiles, ruining any hope of drawing a proper map. Battles are miserable, boiling down to pressing the same attack button and hoping to emerge victorious. Therein lies the problem: traps abound, as do opportunities to take damage for no apparent reason – even walking into a wall will take one HP from a random character. Ultimately, GayBlade is unbearable in every way, reducing the LGBT player to merely reliving the frustration and oppression experienced in real life. Unlike Caper in the Castro, the title does not feature any strong LGBT characters with aspirations of their own, instead sprinkling its defective dungeon-crawling experience with a handful of camp archetypes. The numerous slurs hurled by enemies each time they attack only serve to alienate the player, unwittingly replicating the same experience in the flesh, to the point where GayBlade almost comes across as an offensive parody of the LGBT struggle.

This was certainly not Best's intention, whose efforts are evident, but his expression of anger at the symbols of institutional oppression – from the media to politicians – is ultimately clumsy. But there is something almost endearing about this personal performance, which ironically underlines – in its harshness – Buchanan's sickening legacy, still widely felt today [8]. A product of despair, GayBlade stands in stark contrast to later, more positive games such as Foobar Versus the DEA (1996) and especially Furcadia (1996), which provided a real creative outlet for the LGBT and furry communities by encouraging the use of mods, with all the positive and negative consequences it entails. GayBlade is perhaps less relevant on its own, and should instead be placed in a galaxy of games published between the late 1980s and the 1990s, as part of an overall trend that underlines the socio-cultural changes in the United States, the affirmation of a counter-culture and the critique of institutions.

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[1] I will not discuss the floating and undoubtedly misleading chronology of Ryan Best's account, which undermines the importance of GayBlade as a precursor to LGBT games, doubtless acquired after the rediscovery of the game and France Costrel's documentary High Score (2020). On the topic, see CRPG Addict, 'What I Can Tell You About DragonBlade, GayBlade, and Citadel of the Dead', 3rd April 2020, consulted on 20th July 2023.
[2] The term kathoey is still widely misunderstood by Westerners, who clumsily translate it as 'ladyboy'. The term goes beyond this simple definition and refers to a range of legal, cultural and economic realities. It should be emphasised that Western LGBT categories are usually incapable of translating foreign experiences. In Asia, Filipino kabaklaan and Indonesian béncong/waria also construct unique relationships to masculinity and gender.
[3] Oradaol Kaewprasert insists that there was a first wave of queer Thai cinema in the 1980s, but that: 'even though these films allowed audiences to empathize with their characters, some characterization of queers in the films still replicated stereotypes of queer people as [...] screaming, miserable, suicidal and so on' (Oradaol Kaewprasert, 'The very first series of Thai queer cinemas: what was happening in the 1980s?', presented at the 1st International Conference of Asian Queer Studies, Bangkok, 2005, p. 1).
[4] I mention various contextual elements in my reviews of A Mind Forever Voyaging (1985), Caper in the Castro (1989) and Foobar Versus the DEA (1996).
[5] Of particular note is the passage: 'My friends, this election is about more than who gets what. It is about who we are. It is about what we believe, and what we stand for as Americans. There is a religious war going on in this country. It is a cultural war. [...] And in that struggle for the soul of America, Clinton & Clinton are on the other side, and George Bush is on our side' (Patrick J. Buchanan, 'Culture War Speech: Address to the Republican National Convention', 1992).
[6] On the topic, see Mark P. Worrell, 'The Veil of Piacular Subjectivity: Buchananism and the New World Order', in Electronic Journal of Sociology, vol. 4, no. 3, 1999.
[7] LGBTQ Video Game Archive, 'GayBlade', 18th June 2018, consulted on 20th July 2023.
[8] Mark Davis, '"Culture Is Inseparable from Race": Culture Wars from Pat Buchanan to Milo Yiannopoulos', in M/C Journal, vol. 21, no. 5, 2018.

     '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).

     '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.

     '[Fishes] are meant to live in the wild. They are very sensitive to changes in their environment. [...] It is wisdom passed down from fishermen through the generations.'
     – Yoshio Takeuchi, 'Ikita sakana' (Episode 4), Oishinbo, 1988.

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

While gourmet manga took off in the 1970s thanks to titles such as Hōchōnin Ajihei (1973), it was in the 1980s that the genre really became popular, boosted by Japan's economic expansion and the increased purchasing power of the middle class. Among the new titles, Oishinbo (1983) made an outstanding breakthrough, becoming one of the most important series in circulation in Japan. For Western readers, reading Oishinbo is a complex task – the 1988 anime adaptation, whose first episodes have been translated, is recommended – as it presents a particular vision of Japanese gastronomy. Indeed, in its early decades, gourmet manga was dominated by a fierce nationalism and a very masculine vision of the culinary world [1].

Oishinbo is no exception, and is particularly critical of technological progress and Western influences, arguing that traditionalism and frugality are irreplaceable. In particular, the series is driven by the encyclopaedic knowledge of its main character, Shirō Yamaoka, who displays a disillusioned and tactless personality. The success of the franchise led to a video game adaptation by TOSE, who had already tried their hand at detective adventures with Yamamura Misa Suspense: Kyouto Hana no Misshitsu Satsujin Jiken (1989), the second title in the Yamamura Misa Suspense trilogy, the first of which was developed by Taito itself. Kyūkyoku no Menu Sanbon Shōbu follows the manga's introduction, with the duel between foie gras and ankimo, Mantaro Kyogoku's dinner and, with ample liberties taken, the search for the best ramen. However, players familiar with the series will immediately notice the differences from the original story, as well as the changes in tone.

Shirō Yamaoka completely loses his provocative nature and extensive knowledge to become a simple food journalist. The game's first two story arcs carry over the content of the first two episodes, which were designed to showcase Yamaoka's encyclopaedic knowledge. In order to adhere to the formula of 1980s adventure games, Kyūkyoku no Menu Sanbon Shōbu spends an inordinate amount of time investigating, forcing the player to travel back and forth between the various accessible locations, while multiplying cryptic dialogues. In contrast to the investigative approach of Yamamura Misa Suspense, the narrative suffers greatly, becoming incomprehensible to the unfamiliar and unbearable to the acquainted.

Moreover, the title alters essential information that allowed the original series to build its – admittedly conservative – discourse on gastronomic sobriety by opposing the corporate world and manual labour. The game is content to follow a set of prescribed scenes, but never fulfils its didactic function for the player, who hardly learns anything about the peculiarities and techniques of Japanese cuisine. Kyūkyoku no Menu Sanbon Shōbu does not discuss Japan's relationship with the oceans, and it completely omits the central criticism of capitalism and urban pollution, as well as the more poetic flourishes of the series. All that remains is a shadow of the original story, peppered with dashes of humour that hardly work.

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[1] This is largely inherited from early shōnen, which constructs masculinity around an expertise forged through repetition and determination. Despite the seminal Cake Cake Cake (1970) by Aya Ichinoki and Moto Hagio, the transformation of gourmet manga into a subversive genre was slow in coming. In recent years, titles such as Bokura no Shokutaku (2016), Maiko-san Chi no Makanai-san (2016) and Shiosai no Majo (2018) have taken the genre in new directions.

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.

     'Rui, do people’s hearts forget how to react to a town that leaves nothing behind to remember it by? In comparison, there is something cruel, merciless about the sight of the Sanriku region, where everyday life was transformed into ruins. For that mountain of debris was the “hope” people had spent years building.'
     – Kyōko Hayashi, Futatabi Rui e, 2013 (tr. Margaret Mitsutani).

Kyōko Hayashi's works attempt to convey to younger generations the lived experience of the hibakusha, the direct survivors of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A particular feature of her work is the blending of temporalities and events, which illustrates her chaotic and almost unspeakable recollection of the events of the 9 August 1945. In Futatabi Rui e (2013), Hayashi writes a new letter to Rui – following the one included in Torinitii kara torinitii e (2000) – meditating on the effects of the Great East Japan Earthquake and the Fukushima disaster. She writes: 'perhaps the Great East Japan Earthquake was what turned this destruction in the natural world I thought was eternal into a sign that everything I’d believed in was now crumbling before my eyes' [1].

     Disasters and environmentalism in Japanese fiction

The atomic bombings and the Fukushima disaster have had a lasting impact on Japanese cultural production, like a never-ending ghost that is periodically fanned by current events. Fumiyo Kōno's Yunagi no machi, sakura no kuni (2003) illustrates this concern in a multi-generational story. It is a cathartic narrative whose main purpose is to nurture and reconcile the painful memory for the hibakusha, but also for those who did not directly witness the events. The acceleration of climate change and Japan's new energy mix are also of growing concern, conjuring up an image of a Japan on the brink of extinction and ravaged by disasters. Two examples illustrate the epidermal nature of these issues. In 2014, the famous gourmet manga Oishinbo (1983) tackled the aftermath of the Fukushima disaster head-on, highlighting the harmful effects on the environment and the people of the region, who suffered regular nosebleeds. These scenes clashed with the official discourse on the effects of the accident, so much so that Shinzo Abe directly condemned the manga [2], leading to the series' ongoing hiatus.

More recently, Makoto Shinkai's films have oscillated between neo-traditionalism and social conservatism, as in Tenki no Ko (2019). Maria Mihaela Grajdian has already pointed out that Mamoru Hosoda's films, by idealising concepts such as family, parenthood and masculinity, 'shows both that he understands the critical situation and that he does not regard it as his duty to offer alternative solutions, more in tune with the spirit of the 21st century' [3]. In Tenki no Ko, Shinkai is content with the same naive, depoliticising position: climate change and the disappearance of Japan under the sea are seen as inevitable natural phenomena, and the film prefers to focus on the fleeting happiness of a few teenagers from a purely individualistic, conservative perspective.

With The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017), Nintendo's flagship series has also taken up these themes anew. This is less a first exploration than an updated discourse. The Zelda games have always contained elements of shintō philosophy, contrasting Arthurian mythology with the typically Japanese depiction of environments, whether through non-human creatures, the abundance of islands – literal or figurative – or the sacred aspect of nature. Breath of the Wild depicted the world after a catastrophe and the restoration of nature, everlasting despite the scars left by disasters. Tears of the Kingdom is a direct reflection of this vision, by reversing the representation.

     Flowers of ruin: looking at micro-gardens

A variation on the theme of Majora's Mask (2000), Tears of the Kingdom also shows humanity on the brink of extinction. However, the tone is quite different. Whereas Majora's Mask was a journey into nihilism and the lack of communication that breaks down interpersonal relationships, Tears of the Kingdom explores the persistence of solidarity and the opening up of societies. Recontextualised, the world of Hyrule is a fable that sings of the resilience of nations in the face of natural disaster. Even within the first few hours of surface exploration, the world is teeming with life, yet societies live hidden away, sheltered from the elements. There is something charming about re-exploring a world that is decidedly optimistic, but still a little fearful, like the first buds of spring breaking through the snow.

Rather tellingly, the Zonai Ruins are still harbouring life: the sky islands are still inhabited by birds, while the debris that has fallen to the ground is home to plants that normally only grow in the heavens. Despite these chaotic elements, however, the world of Hyrule is somewhat more domesticated. The roads are well trodden by travellers, stables provide regular resting places, and construction materials are plentiful along the roadsides. Tears of the Kingdom has swapped the 'miniature plant garden' and 'garden in a box' (hakoniwa) [4] for a lusher shrubland. Hyrule is shaped by the collaborative work of its inhabitants, and their presence can be seen in the little accents that dot the landscape: Zelda and Magda's little flower garden, or Pyper's glittering tree, are clear signs that humans have made the environment their own, creating a symbiotic relationship between society and nature.

Tears of the Kingdom is, in a way, an ode to primordialism and man's passivity when it comes to influencing nature. Unlike Breath of the Wild, where the equipment forged by humans quickly becomes the most powerful, the player can make do with items found on monsters for most of the adventure. It's not until fairly late in the game that the shift occurs, when Zonai items can become more valuable. More generally, Tears of the Kingdom allows the player to contemplate the world and its inhabitants through tighter resource management, at least in the first few dozen hours. But even when Link is well equipped, nature is not easily tamed, as the introduction of world bosses keeps exploration somewhat terrifying or majestic. The exploration of the Depths, while often undermined by visual monotony, illustrates the sinister nature of what crawls beneath the gaze of the living, and the importance of ruin, not just of human civilisations, but of a world tainted by corruption (kegare).

     A melancholic sky: fall and burden as elements of game design

This aesthetic owes a great deal to the vision of Hidemaro Fujibayashi and Daiki Iwamoto, given that they apprehend the sky through the act of falling. There is a certain tragic irony to this Upheaval, as it is used to discover the reasons for the fall of the Zonai. As in Skyward Sword (2011), the exploration of the skies begins with a long fall. But the world of Skyward Sword allows for much easier exploration thanks to its bird mounts [5], whereas in Tears of the Kingdom Link is constantly being pulled down by gravity. He is destined to fall, and this sense of heaviness is present throughout the game: in particular, the interactions with the various inhabitants of the world emphasise their insecurity and, by extension, their fallibility. Despite the humour and joviality that runs through the dialogue, all the characters are undermined by self-imposed desires and missions. Addison continues to hold signs for endless days, Reede is forced to admit that his vision of tranquillity is no longer sustainable, and Penn struggles with his fear of actively participating in field investigation. There is something deeply human about them, and Link emerges in turn as a mythologised figure as he performs heroic deeds and helps others. In this respect, it is striking that everyone knows his name, but his identity sometimes remains a mystery.

This philosophy no doubt helps to explain other design elements and Fujibayashi's characteristic wandering. Tears of the Kingdom opts for a more scripted progression, with the player openly encouraged to help the various tribes. Each storyline is fairly engaging and recontextualises nicely the characters met in Breath of the Wild – with the exception of the Goron quest, which neutralises its anti-capitalist themes far too quickly. The main quests in each region are refreshingly varied, with some unexpected sequences such as the defence of Gerudo Town. The downside of this approach is the disappointment of the dungeons. These are particularly mediocre, a simple series of puzzles inferior to those in the Shrines. The same structure as The Minish Cap (2004) is found in Tears of the Kingdom, with an inability to think holistically about design. These sequences do a poor job of incorporating the great freedom of Link's powers; it would probably have been more interesting to emphasise the oppressive aspect of confined spaces and a survival approach, for example by removing the map in dungeons.

As it stands, the non-linearity of the title works against many of the design ideas. In addition to the identical flashbacks for each Sage, the dungeons do not adapt well to the upscaling that players experience as they accumulate more resources and power. For the most part, the dungeons restrict the new skills unlocked, rather than showcasing them as other mini-dungeons and celestial islands can, where Ultrahand shines very brightly. The Fire Temple is perhaps the only exception, as it is possible to completely ignore the various puzzles if the player has enough resources and has been diligent in their exploration. On the other hand, the non-linearity works well with the side quests, as it feels genuinely satisfying when an NPC tells Link that he has already completed the mission he was given. Similarly, the Proving Grounds Shrines benefit greatly from player progression and a larger heart pool, turning a careful experience into a speed challenge, while the other Shrines allow for creative expression for players familiar with the advanced grammar of the various powers and machines.

Perhaps more importantly, it is the combat that suffers greatly from this approach: while Tears of the Kingdom features much larger waves of enemies, the system remains clunky. The combat system is designed for duels rather than large-scale melee, and the lack of ergonomics often renders Fuse unusable in battle. Similarly, the Sages' avatars are a welcome touch, emphasising the fact that Link is no longer alone, but the implementation is so unpleasant that it is easier to ignore their powers outside of certain puzzles. To a certain extent, the heaviness of the game and the idea of the fall serve to underline a contemplation of the world and its societies, provided one is receptive to Fujibayashi and Iwamoto's themes, but at the expense of the gameplay and the fluidity of the experience.

     To live is to atone for one's sins: neo-traditionalism in Japan

Breath of the Wild had already begun to return to a very Japanese aesthetic, a trend that continues in Tears of the Kingdom. Certain elements are obvious: Kakariko Village retains the same visual appearance, and the soundtrack features many more Asian elements – 'Master Kohga Battle' makes more use of the shamisen, and the 'Main Theme' is largely driven by an erhu, to name just two examples. Thematically, the universe more readily embraces East Asian mythology. Dragons are explicitly Japanese, as are the quest for immortality, magatama, the constant search for home (ibasho), and the genealogical links between humanity and the gods – the royalty of Hyrule is descended from the union of Zonai and humans, just as Emperor Jimmu is described as a descendant of Amaterasu.

Strikingly, the noble female characters in Tears of the Kingdom are all marked by the Japanese stain of tragedy, whether through the burden of blood, motherhood or the sins for which they take responsibility. The thematic development and presentation of Rauru and Sonia form a striking parallel with Izanagi and Izanami. As parental figures, the royal couple represents a familial and affective ideal, albeit a highly traditional one. Despite its seemingly progressive themes, Tears of the Kingdom revels in social stagnation and a status quo that must be protected at all costs – the True Ending emphasises that the point was not just to defeat Ganondorf, but to preserve 'eternal peace' (eien no an'nei) [6]. Hyrule may have undergone a number of transformations since Breath of the Wild, but they have always occurred within continuities: clan leaders have changed, but only to be replaced by blood descendants. Similarly, the multicultural discourse is always tempered by the service that the different tribes provide to the Hylian royalty, according to a strict hierarchy.

Tears of the Kingdom is a parenthesis and a intermediary conclusion to the series. At the end of the adventure, Link returns the powers he used to explore the world. The gameplay of the title is designed to be a natural extension of the powers used in Breath of the Wild, increasing the creative and traversal possibilities. It is, however, a temporary experience; to the player, Tears of the Kingdom repeats the same old message: 'this is what I propose, and if you do not like it, so be it'. The title makes no concessions in its approach, to the point where it suffers structurally. Its extraordinary density may seem almost antiquated – but such has been Fujibayashi's legacy since The Minish Cap – and some will find the idea of the game providing bits and pieces of the solution to every puzzle heavy-handed.

Hyrule is still scarred by the damage of the Upheaval; there is no sign of the islands falling to the ground again, nor does Hyrule Castle. The Chasms are unlikely to close either, with only the Gloom gone. Mankind will have to learn to live with this new and distorted world. Like Japanese disaster fiction, Tears of the Kingdom looks to the future – to the resilience of the people – but it also reflects on the trauma that will not fade away: Kyōko Hayashi laments the inaction of institutions while the traces of destruction are still present in Japan, and the promise of the Sages at the very end of the game seems to be a response to this concern. Tears of the Kingdom guides the player's gaze almost relentlessly towards a contemplation of Japanese society in its environment, even if it means verging on the artificial, and whether or not this approach is welcomed is up to the player.

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[1] Kyōko Hayashi, 'To Rui, Once Again', tr. Margaret Mitsutani, in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 15-7, no. 3, 2017, p. 3.
[2] Justin McCurry, 'Gourmet manga stirs up storm after linking Fukushima to nosebleeds', in The Guardian, 22nd May 2014, consulted on 10th July 2023.
[3] Maria Mihaela Grajdian, 'Compassionate Neo-Traditionalism in Hosoda Mamoru’s Animation Movies', in Russian Japanology Review, vol. 3, no. 2, 2020, p. 148.
[4] Victor Moisan, Zelda : Le jardin et le monde, Façonnage, Lyon, 2021.
[5] On spatiality, the traversal aspect and the design of the sky and Skyloft, see 'Volume Five: The Dense Sky and Town', in Nintendo, Iwata Asks – The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, 2011.
[6] Note that the English translation conveys the original idea slightly differently, balancing Ganondorf's defeat with the idea of 'eternal peace'. The Japanese text reads: 「あの方たちが願ったのはつかまあ束の間ではなく永遠に続くハイラルの安寧。」Here, the comparison is much more focused on the ephemeral and the eternal, while the term 安寧 expresses both Hyrule's public peace and Zelda's inner tranquillity.

     'We floated off into that quiet world which love made possible because the power devils had been admitted and therefore banished.'
     – Mary Wings, She Came Too Late, 1986.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (4th Jul. – 10th Jul., 2023).

The 1980s saw a shift in American lesbian fiction away from coming-out stories and towards the detective genre. This transition was not entirely smooth and was met with highly polarised critical responses. Reagan's presidency unleashed a national conservative fever that sought to normalise homophobia, while the AIDS epidemic was greeted with outright inaction by the federal government. Anna Wilson defines this decade as a point of transition for feminist and lesbian identities, as 'the focus of the women's movement had gradually shifted away from an emphasis on exploring and enhancing the "liberated" self toward a preoccupation with that self as embattled and endangered' [1]. Furthermore, the new discourses on sexuality also sought to de-essentialise lesbian sexual identities, rejecting the clichéd labels that sharply distinguished between butch and femme.

     American lesbian detective fiction in the 1980s

Unlike the coming-out story, which revolves around introspection and the exploration of domestic life – since the discovery of lesbian romance takes place largely out of the public eye – lesbian detective fiction reinvests the public sphere, especially the streets. Despite its persistent aura of threat to women, the street has become a place where lesbian detectives can express themselves. Some take on the authority of institutions: Kate Delafield, the protagonist of Katherine V. Forrest's novels, recognises the structural abuse caused by the family, a place of male domination, and upholds the weight of the law – which she believes to be just – as the only way to bring about change in society. Not all detectives are as reformist as Delafield, but the whole sub-genre recognises that society is constructed in the service of male power [2].

C. M. Ralph's Caper in the Castro echoes these changes. The player assumes the role of Tracker McDyke, investigating the disappearance of her girlfriend, Tessy LaFemme. Behind this mystery lies a series of murders that underline a vast anti-LGBT conspiracy on Castro Street – the main avenue in San Francisco's historic gay district. Finding one's way around the various screens is difficult at first, as the interactions are so rigid and the context so minimal, but after a few minutes it becomes clear that Castro Street is plagued by a wave of violence. Ralph – undoubtedly inspired by the events leading up to the White Night riots (1979) – repeats the same stern observations as crime literature, highlighting not only public inaction but also the murderous impulses of the privileged ruling class. The title makes no attempt to hide its ambitions, ridiculing white heterosexuality through the detective's pithy tone.

     Stigma reversal and agency through the detective's eyes

Caper in the Castro is not the first game to explore the place of lesbians in a patriarchal, heteronormative society. Moonmist (1986), another investigative game, made this a crucial aspect of one of its four scenarios. However, Caper in the Castro is notable for being written from the perspective of the lesbian character. Whereas the events of Moonmist are merely tragic, Tracker McDyke reclaims her agency and directly confronts the oppressive system. Many of the interactions necessary to progress are resolved by gunfire, reclaiming this symbol of masculinity from hardboiled fiction and turning it into a woman's preferred instrument. Surprisingly, Caper in the Castro also avoids essentialisation, thanks to its detective's perpetually mocking gaze; although some passages are clumsier and rely on glib puns, they nonetheless overturn the insults and 'social stigma' [3].

While the somewhat cryptic nature of some of the interactions is regrettable, sometimes made more complex than necessary by the overly rigid text parsing system, Caper in the Castro remains an enjoyable game for its lack of concessions and the tribute it pays to San Francisco's LGBT community, which suffered reactionary violence. Despite the tragedy of the murders, there is something comforting about following a detective who ultimately succeeds in her mission, self-assured and with such a witty take on the world around her. Much like lesbian crime fiction, Caper in the Castro is perhaps less interested in exploring the gender and sexual identity of its protagonist than in the means available to fight injustice. Anna Wilson mentions the contradiction of the lesbian detective who somehow fits in with the rules of the social order while performing her homosexuality in public; Caper in the Castro avoids this dilemma: its answer seems to be, unequivocally and albeit naively, the revolution.

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[1] Anna Wilson, 'Death and the Mainstream: Lesbian Detective Fiction and the Killing of the Coming-Out Story', in Feminist Studies, vol. 22, no. 2, 1996, p. 252.
[2] There is an extensive historiographical debate about whether lesbian detective fiction can accommodate reformist, assimilationist and individualist positions without denying its radical heritage. The question is complex and deserves a close reading of the various novels of the period, but a central idea is that the lesbian detective, because of the female gaze, does not have the same lived experience of the streets as the hardboiled, misogynistic male detective – this is particularly explicit in Barbara Wilson's Sisters of the Road (1986). The traditional hardboiled view is that the detective's acts of justice are isolated and cannot change society; the feminine and lesbian view emphasises above all that 'violence is never random; there are no haven' (Anna Wilson, op cit., p. 266). See also Catharine R. Stimpson, 'Zero Degree Deviancy: The Lesbian Novel in English', in Critical Inquiry, vol. 8, no. 2, 1981, pp. 363-379 and Timothy Shuker-Haines, Martha M. Umphrey, 'Gender (De)Mystified: Resistance and Recuperation in Hard-Boiled Female Detective Fiction', in Jerome H. Delamater, Ruth Prigozy (ed.), The Detective in American Fiction, Film, and Television, Greenwood Press, Westport, 1998, pp. 71-82.
[3] Erving Goffman, Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity, Simon & Schuster, New York, 1963.

     '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.

     ‘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.