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

There is something charming about Yoshio Ishī's minimalist style. The Hoshi Saga series proposed micro-puzzles from which silent poetry emerged. A few mouse clicks were enough to explore paper miniatures reminiscent of children's dioramas. The pronounced texture of the washi paper underlines the artificial quality of the puzzles and their ephemeral nature. Parameters goes in a completely opposite direction, as with a much colder concept. Instead of building a sensory and kinetic experience, Ishī boils down the components of dungeon crawlers to their bare essentials, encapsulating exploration, combat and grinding into a minimalist interaction. In some ways, Parameters is an attempt to return to the fundamentals of the genre, but without the ruggedness of the old games.

The progression is intuitive: to increase one's stats, to be able to face the more difficult boxes, it is necessary to gain experience, either by killing enemy blocks or by exploring empty ones. Some are accessible from the start, while others are locked. To open them, the player must use an iron key found on enemies. Parameters flows naturally and, as waverly_khitryy notes, is similar to an idle game in that the number of actions the player can perform in quick succession is limited by an energy bar. After a couple of clicks, the player has to wait for a short time before interacting further with the blocks. The game appears to be a sort of meditation on the dungeon crawler theme, but Parameters offers few subtleties beyond these basic elements. The various resources and statistics affect the progression, but there is no need for the player to devise any kind of strategy.

The order in which the blocks are explored or fought never matters, as a quick gold grind is enough to increase the various stats, bypassing the need for a level-up. This would not be a problem if the title offered some variation in the distribution of the blocks: Parameters, however, is a fixed experience. The board is always the same, with the same numerical values. One might have thought that the arrangement of the blocks was meaningful, that the chests could only be opened after exploring all the adjacent boxes, but this is not the case. Apart from the slight gratification of seeing the numbers increase, the experience is quite mind-numbing. Death is never punishing, as the player slowly regains his life, but it can lead to incompressible downtime. Again, this is not a problem in a meditative experience, but it also encourages the stultifying gold grind to buy equipment, which undermines any semblance of tension.

Parameters can be seen as a good imitation of the dungeon crawler gameplay loop, turning the passive sequences into mild dopamine rushes driven by the desire to complete the grid. But because they are drowned in an overly smoothed-out experience, they become more awkward than anything else, despite the game's brevity. For the rest, the title does not try to pretend to be what it is not: it is indeed a minimalist experience, in every sense of the word.

     'I was Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good; and may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to have for me.'
     – Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quijote de la Mancha, 1605.

Played with BertKnot.

Heinrich Heine, the last herald of German Romanticism and its gravedigger, was greatly inspired by Miguel de Cervantes' Don Quijote (1605). Just as the character fought against windmills to restore the grandeur of a picaresque chivalry, Heine fought against the established and conservative order. His idealistic passions led him to support the proponents of the French Revolution, but he also cultivated a deep spiritualism. Stirred by his inner paradoxes, Heine found in Don Quijote a way to reconcile his fragmented positions, embracing the biting irony of Cervantes. [1] In Die romantische Schule (1833), he compared the German and French branches of Romanticism in an attempt to identify their characteristics, achievements and shortcomings. In particular, Heine was highly suspicious of the propensity to recapture medieval spirituality, trapping Romanticism in adoration of the past to the detriment of contemporary experiences – found in the revolutionary cycles of the 19th century among others. In Baudelaire's words, what Heine wanted was 'to plunge into the depths of the Unknown and find something new' [2].

     Striving for modernity: a proactive and more dynamic gameplay

Heine emphasised the extent to which Cervantes, by abolishing the picaresque tradition, opened a door for the modern novel and its new sensibilities: 'This is what the great poets will always do: they create something new by destroying the old: they never deny without affirming'. The characteristic strength of Don Quijote is that it genuinely celebrates the humanity and complexity of the hidalgo of La Mancha, rather than denying it altogether. Don Quijote's laughter is that of a man who sees his inability to fully live the role he has chosen for himself. The tragicomedy of the novel is born in the acute awareness of someone who knows that he is deceiving himself. Cervantes inaugurates a new tradition that does not completely reject the old, but draws lessons from it to create modernity: what matters is that something new is created. Resident Evil 4 (2023) also attempts to offer a fresh way of experiencing the classic title, which has proved to be one of the most fundamental in video game history and continues to be cited as a significant influence by many modern designers. Unlike Cervantes and all the writers he inspired, from Heine to Faulkner, this project does not manage to break free from the shackles imposed by the franchise, highlighting structural problems that are already apparent or are yet to come.

From the very first minutes, Resident Evil 4 (2023) establishes a much more serious tone and a more dynamic gameplay than its predecessor. These elements can be seen as an expression of the franchise's maturity and an attempt to modernise the title. These changes clearly affect the way the player interacts with the game. Combat sequences feel longer and more intense, becoming real tests of endurance that challenge the player's ability to manoeuvre in the arena and strategically engage the hordes of enemies. Encounters must take into account the new ability to shoot while moving and the greater versatility offered by the knife and its powerful parries. The player must move constantly, both to manage several fronts at once and to create space between Leon and the many enemies; as their grapple has a very high priority and the character's i-frames seem to have been shortened, it is essential to move wisely, as even knife parries cannot solve all situations.

This aggressive gameplay tends to work very well and keeps the player fully engaged while fighting. Some sequences can drag on – particularly towards the end of the game – but there is real enjoyment to be had from using heavy weapons, parrying attacks with the knife and delivering devastating high kicks. However, the title delivers its experience without fanfare when it tries to stick too closely to the source material. Bosses such as El Gigante come across as decent, while others are simply disappointing for want of ideas. Del Lago is vapid, full of archaisms that no longer elicit the same expressions of surprise as they did in 2005. The new gameplay would have encouraged more interaction with the environment; unfortunately, only the barrels are used and a certain visual fatigue can set in. Leon's kicks dominate the fights, and the rare German Supplex is only a tiny breath of fresh air. Because Resident Evil 4 (2023) stubbornly sticks to a very effective but rather simplistic combat formula, it suffers greatly in its later hours: KB0 has gone to great lengths to highlight the repetitive nature of the title, by analysing specific gameplay elements, and it seems superfluous to revisit them. Instead, it is the additions, such as the stealth sequence with the Garrador, that provide the necessary variety in a modernisation project.

     Unambitious atmosphere and unflattering melodrama

To continue the Cervantes analogy, Resident Evil 4 (2023) may seem disappointing, taking no risks and offering no ambition for the future. What appear to be design updates to the original title are ultimately nothing more than bland gameplay elements from Resident Evil 5 (2008) and Resident Evil 6 (2012), whose remakes seem obvious given that the formula works commercially for Capcom. Unlike the attempt of Final Fantasy VII Remake (2020), which reinterpreted the original material in a durable way, Resident Evil 4 (2023) feels half-hearted, driven only by a desire to homogenise. This is not to say that the title is unpleasant, but it comes across as a technically accomplished but unexceptional product. The game presents itself as the ultimate version, which was not the case with the previous remakes, but it never manages to replace the original title, whose unique atmosphere cannot be imitated.

Perhaps because the environments are so detailed, silence no longer manages to conjure up its eerie strangeness; there is no room left for the player's imagination, and the first third of the game loses its evocative power. The view of the church in Resident Evil 4 (2023) is a clean gothic shot, but it is particularly plain. The golden light of the sun breaking through the clouds gives the place of worship a dignified and monumental nobility, rather than the tumultuous grime of the original. In 2005, the emphasis was on the cemetery rather than the building: this change of focus is representative of the game's approach, which is a little too forceful in directing the player's gaze. The atmosphere is sanitised by a multitude of details that do not convey anything. The decision to rely on notes to tell a story is an admission of failure by the title, which fails to put its great technical potential at the service of a subtle narration.

Resident Evil 4 (2023) is more serious and explores some of the characters more thoroughly. Krauser's backstory has been changed to make him a more coherent antagonist, but it is Luis Sera who benefits most from the remake's rewrite. Instead of being a superfluous companion, he is more directly involved in the story, as a series of dialogues and notes reveal the mask he wears to hide his embarrassment and guilt. Luis Sera is Don Quijote, whose adventures have lulled his childhood. Just as the hidalgo of La Mancha dreams of fantastic adventures beyond common understanding, Luis Sera succumbs to the sirens of unethical science. Both understand their mistake and try to make amends; they also share an honest laugh that reflects a partially assumed disenchantment. Resident Evil 4 (2023) shows genuine respect for the character, who inspires real sympathy in Leon and Ashley – perhaps a little too much – and whose code of conduct follows that of the picaresque hero. Krauser and Luis's rewrite could have taken the franchise in a new direction, one that looks at what defines humanity through the complex dilemmas it faces. The 'Resident Evil' title has historically pointed in that direction: a more intimate, character-driven horror.

     The conservative roots of the series: from one sexualisation to another

Unfortunately, Resident Evil 4 (2023) does not seem to have realised this potential and justifies the rewriting of the characters for the sake of consistency. The only concern was to freshen up the game's narrative by cutting out the implausible passages. For example, Saddler only appears physically at the end of the game, which allowed for the removal of all his theatrical entrances, where he decided to stand in Leon's way but never kill him. Other changes have clearly been made to remove all the paedophile connotations of the original version. Ashley, still in her early twenties, goes from being a teenage girl to a young woman with a mesmerising face who openly plays on her charm. The majority of critics have seen this transformation in a positive light, never stopping to consider the retrograde representation it still constitutes. Is this because they are convinced of the importance of preserving the misogynistic frivolity of the original title? In any case, Ashley remains an objectified character, always driven by the desire to prove her – sexual – worth to Leon. Her teasing posture during the shooting mini-game is a poor choice, especially after the game's strong emphasis on the Illuminados' abhorrent tactility when dealing with her. The perspective of Resident Evil 4 (2023) is eminently perverse, extending far beyond a mere male gaze.

The franchise has always had a problem with its representation of women, relying on the figure of more or less strong women to fulfil male fantasies; what is particularly disappointing about Ashley's treatment is that it is yet another missed opportunity to provide depth to her character – just as Luis and Krauser were given. Instead of a proper treatment, she has simply been melted into a new sexualising archetype, while her function, for the plot and the audience, remains the same. This frustration is reinforced by Genevieve Buechner's convincing voice acting, which underlines the confidence she gradually gains during her adventure with Leon. But this confidence is immediately squandered by the game, which insists on her powerlessness. The section in which she is playable is pleasant and shows a heroine in the making, but she loses her agency extremely quickly, save for rare exceptions. Likewise, despite a veneer of respect, with Leon speaking Spanish once, the title stubbornly sticks to cultural clichés under the guise of humour, boding ill for the Resident Evil 5 remake.

For many people, Resident Evil 4 (2023) is a way to experience a legendary and beloved title after discovering the franchise with the recent remakes, Resident Evil 7 (2017) or Resident Evil Village (2021). They will not be confused, thanks to a grammar similar to the titles released in recent years. Unsurprisingly, many players have praised the game, saying that they understand why the original title is considered so valuable, even though they are only experiencing it through a standardised proxy. There is a certain irony in the fates of the Resident Evil 4 games, both of which, twenty years apart, confirm the franchise's transition into a new direction. In the case of the original, it was certainly a new modernity, whether one liked it or not, that caused the entire industry to adapt to a bold move. The remake is less about pushing the boundaries of the genre and more about obsequiously conforming to established formulas. Resident Evil 4 (2023) is a pleasure to play, because it borrows everything that is pleasing in the current grammar of game design, from combat dynamism to the importance of melee and parries. It all fits together elegantly, exploiting the strengths of the original level design to create a fresh experience. But it is a sterilised one, rejecting any idiosyncrasy, any stylistic boldness, any poetic imperfection. The strong sections generally remain strong, the weaker passages stay that way; the title never plunges into the unknown, never reveals anything new. The only daring thing about Resident Evil 4 (2023) is that it paves the way for the unnecessary remakes of the subsequent titles, with no guarantee that the sexism and racism that run through them will be amended. In the end, Don Quijote was only a misunderstood reference, never a model.

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[1] D. van Maelsaeke, ‘The Paradox of Humour: A Comparative Study of ‘Don Quixote’’, in Theoria: A Journal of Social and Political Theory, no. 28, 1967, pp. 24-42.
[2] Charles Baudelaire, ‘Le Voyage’, in Les Fleurs du mal, Poulet-Malassis et de Broise, Paris, 1861 : ‘Verse-nous ton poison pour qu'il nous réconforte ! / Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brûle le cerveau, / Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe ? / Au fond de l'Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau !’
[3] Heinrich Heine, ‘Einleitung von Heinrich Heine’, in Miguel de Cervantes, Der sinnreiche Junker Don Quixote von La Mancha, Brodhagsche Buchhandlung, Stuttgart, 1837 : ‘So pflegen immer große Poeten zu verfahren: sie begründen zugleich etwas Neues, indem sie das Alte zerstören; sie negieren nie, ohne etwas zu bejahen.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     ‘Someday, surely, you will lead the ship that is sinking in darkness into the light.’

By the turn of the 1990s, Squaresoft was working on several projects at once; in addition to Seiken Densetsu: The Emergence of Excalibur, the company planned to release two Final Fantasy games in 1991: Final Fantasy IV would be the last title for the Famicom, while Final Fantasy V would introduce the franchise to the Super Famicom. These numerous projects were cancelled while still in pre-production. Seiken Densetsu was nipped in the bud – the title was given to Gemma Knights, which became Seiken Densetsu: Final Fantasy Gaiden (1991), explaining the rather unexpected gameplay. As for Final Fantasy IV, little work had been done on it, and its cancellation was not an issue: Final Fantasy V took the title of Final Fantasy IV and combined all the efforts. After Final Fantasy III (1990), which was criticised by fans for its high difficulty and its two particularly treacherous final dungeons, Hironobu Sakaguchi's team decided to adopt a less old-fashioned approach, focusing on the new capabilities of the Super Famicom to embrace the franchise's cinematic ambitions. The gamble seemed to pay off, as the game was an exceptional critical success upon its release.

     The opening cutscene: narrative ambitions around key characters

The player assumes the role of Cecil, commander of Baron's Red Wings, as he prepares to launch a raid on Mysidia to seize its Crystal. He is acting on the orders of the King of Baron, who is determined to collect the four Crystals divided between the different kingdoms: the violence of the raids weighs heavily on the shoulders of the Dark Knight, who begins to doubt his mission – a fact that does not go unnoticed by the Seneschal. Cecil is then stripped of his duties and sent to the village of Mist to kill a monster in the company of Kain, his best friend, much to Rosa's dismay. Although Final Fantasy IV retains the franchise's in medias res approach, it is also characterised by a more meticulous direction. The long introductory cutscene, interspersed with scripted battles, is accompanied by 'Red Wings', a fierce and percussive military march, as innocent people are slaughtered by Cecil and his soldiers. The triplets follow each other with force, giving the melody a sinister quality derived from Cecil's theme. The melodic motif is extremely dissonant, but finds small tonal resolutions here and there, foreshadowing the ethical doubts of the Dark Knight. This musical track should be contrasted with the discussion between Cecil and Rosa, which features the famous 'Theme of Love'.

This exemplary composition has become a classic representative of the series for its ability to evoke a plaintive and lovelorn nostalgia. This certainly explains why the second version, rearranged for the DS port, was included in the 2008 Kyoiku geijutsu sha recorder textbook for schoolchildren. The track follows the IVmaj⁷ – V⁷ – iii⁷ – vi progression favoured in Japanese compositions, yet begins with an ii⁷ chord, which not only allows for a cyclical progression, but also gives it a unique melancholic quality. This musical piece can be interpreted in many ways. With its very soft and soothing timbre, it is a perfect candidate to be Rosa's theme, heralding a long tradition for the series. The mournful motifs and lyrics of the two sung versions – Hikari no naka e (1994) and Tsuki no akari (2007) – position it rather within Kain's sorrows. Either way, this song immediately articulates the pain brewing in the love triangle of Baron's three characters, who are unable to express their deepest feelings. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the title's most poignant moments are always silent, with all communication taking place through sprite animation or music. Thus, from the very first minutes, Final Fantasy IV sets its stakes by emphasising the importance of the characters and their personalities, bringing it closer to Final Fantasy II (1988).

     The melodramatic nature of the scenario

The idea of rebellion against an established order is present in Cecil's departure from Baron and his search for identity as he attempts to atone for the sins he committed with the Dark Knight's bloody sword. Final Fantasy IV depicts this introspection through a class change, but also through the cycle of tragedy that befalls the Overworld: the game repeatedly features ruins and a world destroyed by the ravages of war. This idea was also used in The Legend of Zelda (1986), with humanity forced to retreat into caves and tombs to survive monster attacks. However, Final Fantasy IV places the burden of responsibility on Cecil, the unsuspecting bearer of the fires of desolation. Baron, Mist, Damcyan and many other cities in the game lie in ruins throughout the adventure, an illustration of human cruelty – but also a sign of their resilience. Unlike Link in his first game, who single-handedly carries all of Hyrule's hopes, Cecil is written as a somewhat apprehensive and insecure character, forcing the rest of the cast to push him forward. Despite the pain he more or less directly inflicts on his companions, they are always there to help him make the right decisions and live up to his new code of ethics.

To compensate for the highly melodramatic nature of the script, Final Fantasy IV is more willing than previous titles to use good-natured humour, which helps to ease the tension. While Golbez, Rydia and Kain are constant reminders of Cecil's sins, characters such as Cid, Polom, Porom and Edge give the title some breathing room thanks to their sharper personalities, whose clichéd writing still manages to charm. The duo of Polom and Porom crystallise the hope for a better world, between childish arrogance and a strong sense of responsibility. Even if it does not achieve full narrative coherence, the world of Final Fantasy IV is teeming with life, both in its joys and its sorrows. The game is particularly effective at showing the characters' helplessness in the face of the reality of existence: this is often staged through scripted battles that function as pseudo-cutscenes in which interaction is possible, whether or not actions have real consequences. The sequence with Edge's parents is exemplary in this regard, managing to evoke the appropriate degree of dread and sadness and allowing the player to choose their actions: the ability to attack desperately or refuse to raise their weapons is a meaningful option.

     Underused characters and a world lacking depth

Nevertheless, it is unfortunate that some narrative threads are resolved too hastily or lack subtlety. The first half of the game unfolds very quickly, leaving no time for dramatic tension to build. While Kain's troubled emotions are well portrayed through his silence and ever-downcast eyes, Rosa does not manage to conjure up the same complexity of character, something that writer Takashi Tokita actually laments. [1] She borrows all the traditional symbolism of Japanese beauty – the well-known triptych of moon, snow and flowers (setsu gekka) – in her design and way of expressing herself, but there are hints of agency thrown in here and there: at the beginning of the game, she admonishes Cecil with the famous 'Cecil is not a coward, not the Cecil I love', which puts her in the role of judge and upholder of an ethical code. She does come across as a little forceful – presumably due to the difficulty of communicating subtle emotions with the technical limitations of the time – when she asks Rydia to use Fire. Throughout the game, Rosa embodies the gentleness of the moon, providing a counterpoint to the Red Moon that hangs mysteriously and ominously in the night sky – a sort of representation of Cecil's spilt blood. Final Fantasy IV further develops the opposition between worlds that seem irreconcilable, but must learn to cooperate in order to find balance. The Dark Crystals return from Final Fantasy III to contrast with the Light Crystals, but there are also parallels between the races of the Blue Planet and the Lunarians; the inhabitants of the Overworld and Underworld; the humanoid races and the mythical Eidolons.

Unfortunately, all of these themes, although apparent during the adventure, are generally not explored. Rosa too often remains a damsel in distress, acting as a catalyst for the development of Cecil and Kain, while the Lunarians' background is left aside, except for a few mentions at the end of the game. Admittedly, some scenes remain compelling, such as Cecil's return to Mysidia and his interactions with the inhabitants, but they are in the minority. The game focuses mainly on the relationships between the main characters and less on the world around them, with the exception of the ruins' aesthetics. The emphasis on pseudo-erotic scenes with all the dancers, in the spirit of Dragon Quest, is also a puzzling and unwelcome touch. Final Fantasy IV does not manage to completely imbue its universe with a coherent poetic aura, often leaving it to the soundtrack to fill in the gaps in the script. Edward's sequences, in particular, are carried by the superb 'Castle Damcyan', whose pathetic and tired tone serves to underline the prince's difficult grief. Similarly, the sense of adventure is mostly underlined by the sweeping arpeggios and modal mixtures of the 'Overworld Theme', which borrows heavily from the 'Prelude'.

     The ATB system and the new dynamics of combat

The narrative ambitions are largely based on a new gameplay system that alters the structure of the story. In a sort of evolution of the Final Fantasy III concept, up to five characters can form a team, and Final Fantasy IV does not hesitate to add or remove team members in order to vary gameplay styles and prepare its narrative twists. While this feature is functional, it can also be a bit contrived, as the player can lose equipment when a character leaves the team. Nevertheless, the game has good mechanical variety and the idea of having fixed archetypes, as opposed to the job system, works well. The ATB system provides the necessary amount of flexibility and tension in combat without ever being too punishing. The player is encouraged to truly master the tools of all characters, rather than spamming the same option just to move on to the next character. This philosophy can put the player in a corner, as Final Fantasy IV has a large number of enemies – even common ones – that can counter attacks under certain conditions: using Black Magic on a particular enemy can be fatal, as it would trigger a powerful counter-attack that takes precedence over the ATB initiative order.

The player has to memorise the actions of most enemies and pay attention to the effects they can produce. The approach is very effective on bosses, where the task is to identify the lethal gimmick as quickly as possible, but poses more problems on standard enemies. Every fight can be an uphill battle, quickly draining the player's mental resources. Some of the dungeons feel particularly sluggish and make for cruel challenges, just to get to the boss. The last dungeon is theoretically less extensive than its Final Fantasy III counterpart, but some of the standard enemies, formerly bosses, can easily erode the player's patience. Although Save Points are available and make progression more convenient, it is a challenge that may put off less dedicated players, for whom grinding may seem a more pleasant option.

     Questionable ergonomics and asymmetric progression

While Final Fantasy IV has many more tools to build interesting battles, the game is undermined by its poor inventory system. The title's emphasis on elemental resistances, buffs and debuffs encourages the player to stock up on as many consumables as possible in order to be flexible in different situations. However, the inventory is limited to 48 slots. It is therefore impossible to have a transversal arsenal, especially as some slots have to be saved for the equipment of characters who leave and return to the party. Should one save a caster's robe for Rydia, who will be returning to the party, or would one rather have an extra slot? Questions like these break up the pace of progression: until the very end of the game, it is impossible to call the Fat Chocobo outside of a few fixed locations to transfer items to the reserve. Final Fantasy IV thus reinforces the stigma of not using consumables, which are often vulgarly abandoned. The peculiarity of Lodestone Cavern, forcing the use of certain types of equipment, makes this even worse.

Similarly, the constant switching of characters brings up the issue of experience grinding: even though Final Fantasy IV is relatively forgiving until the final hours, there are sections that are more difficult as a result of a more fragile team composition dominated by mages. These moments are conducive to grinding, but they only apply to the characters currently on the team. Although not dramatic, a certain asymmetry can arise and, in the GBA and later versions, certain characters are relegated to the bench, as it is possible to modify the party for the final section of the game. Yang and Rydia seem to be the most flexible powerhouses, while Edward, Kain and Cid struggle to dramatically increase their damage output compared to other characters.

Also worth noting is the presence of side content, which is unlocked after the Tower of Babil. Players can explore the world and undertake a range of quests and battles to increase the party's power. These sequences are a welcome respite from the hectic pace of the story, but they remain relatively minor, though important for their rewards. The optional dungeons in the GBA version are generally mediocre: the Cave of Trials is a series of forgettable floors that allow the player to face five bosses with the characters available after the Tower of Babil. The Lunar Ruins introduces a long dungeon with randomised floors, enabling access to the Trials of the characters present in the party during the final boss fight. These scenarios vary in quality – Kain is certainly the most interesting and Edge the most frustrating – and provide the most powerful equipment in the game. The problem comes mainly from the floors in between, which are hardly appealing to explore, usually lacklustre puzzles or the rooms from previous dungeons, especially as it takes several runs to complete all the challenges. The highlight is undoubtedly the battle against the superboss, which is far easier to digest than the floor exploration. Special mention should be made of the Pink Tail and Rydia's summons, which involve a gruelling grinding experience representative of the worst JRPGs have to offer, due to their abysmal drop rate.

The transition to the Super Famicom allowed Final Fantasy IV to develop greater ambitions and acquire the technical tools necessary to better present its story and combat. This first attempt is productive and full of brilliant compositional strokes, but the title lacks coherence and fails to establish an effective rhythm over the course of its adventure. The multiplication of environments, even though it is a characteristic of the genre, forces certain narrative concessions and relegates certain characters to the background. Nevertheless, Final Fantasy IV in its own way embodies the peculiar magic of old-school Final Fantasy. Its antagonists are memorable, and it is commendable that they were only minimally altered for their inclusion in Final Fantasy XIV: Endwalker (2021). Final Fantasy IV may lack subtle poetry, but ten years after I first discovered it, the title retains its charm, despite the mediocre and plain graphical assets of the PSP version.

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[1] ‘FINAL FANTASY IV 30th Anniversary Special Interview!’, in Final Fantasy Portal Site, 16th June 2021, consulted on 11th April 2023.

     「灼熱のファイヤーダンス、星空まで全て手に入れた。」

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

The late 1990s saw both the rise and almost immediate collapse of the Compile financial empire. Their Puyoman manjū with the Puyo Puyo image made a lasting impression and, thanks to their popularity, served to reassure investors that the company's portfolio was diversified enough to avoid bankruptcy with more profitable activities than game sales. The very competitive nature of the Japanese market, which remains insular and attracts little foreign investment, forces such strategies, especially in the case of Compile. It was a successful venture, but the aggressive expansion beyond video games drained the company's financial resources. The failure of POWER ACTY (1998), a kind of productivity application for businesses, due to questionable marketing, finally shattered Compile's hopes and forced it to declare bankruptcy, along with other failed projects. It was in this context that Puyo Puyo DA! was released, after SEGA had already acquired the rights to the franchise's characters.

Based on the concept introduced in Broadway Legend Ellena (1994), Puyo Puyo DA! is a surprisingly brief experience. The player can compete against the computer or another player in an asymmetrical rhythm duel; instead of playing at the same time, the opponents alternate between active and passive phases, repeating the same musical phrase. The title loosely follows the concept of Puyo Puyo with a Chain mechanic, which allows Garbage Puyo to be sent at the opponent to lower their life bar, but which struggles to be anything more than the reskin of a combo mechanic. Unlike Broadway Legend Ellena, which tests the player's memorization skills, Puyo Puyo DA! focuses on fast sightreading and staying in rhythm. This is not helped by the choice of controls, which were better suited to a less intensive experience like Broadway Legend Ellena. On the hard difficulty, having to chain notes together in very quick succession with the thumb alone is not very pleasant.

The fundamental problem, however, is that the required inputs have nothing to do with the music. If the player is just beating the rhythm of the song, this is generally harmless, but the situation quickly becomes chaotic when the title asks the player to pulse on eighth notes, as the music does not follow this rhythm at all. In the duel between Rulue and Satan, some phrases shift slightly from the last notes, distorting the natural rhythm heard for no good reason. This lack of overall vision tends to paint Puyo Puyo DA! as an offhand translation of the Broadway Legend Ellena concept to a more traditional rhythm game. The small number of songs – only a dozen or so – is also unfortunate, even if some of them, drawn from the franchise's legacy, evoke a strong city-pop nostalgia: Shakunetsu no Fire Dance, used for the TV commercials of Puyo Puyo 2 (1994), is a particularly catchy tune. It is a shame that it, like the rest of the music, is so poorly exploited.

Puyo Puyo DA! is Compile's final original attempt to exploit their franchise. Unfortunately, the title struggles to conjure up the charm of the series, and Masamitsu Nītani's message in the game's manual rings oddly hollow, as does his optimism. Admittedly, Puyo Puyo Box (2000), Compile's last game, is a well-made compilation, but Puyo Puyo DA! sends Compile out without fanfare. The game over theme, Heartbreak, is sung by Nītani himself; somewhat ironically, his plaintive tone is probably a very fitting expression of the end of the company's prosperous years.

     ‘Is that code for ‘Chai forgot the plan again’?’

Whether it was Final Fantasy VII (1997) or Jet Set Radio (2000), to name but a few, a noteworthy proportion of the video games of the late 1990s and early 2000s featured avowedly anti-capitalist themes, in contrast to the unbridled consumerism typical of the era. The two titles mentioned were formative for much of the industry, due to the visual and gameplay legacy they left behind. Tokyo-to is a maze of streets framed by large buildings, while Midgar is dominated by the Shinra Tower, which looms over the shantytowns at its feet. The representation of capital through the verticality of glass buildings is characteristic of the genre, revealing rebellious individuals in the shadow of capitalist madness. While reveling in its shimmering and humorous atmosphere, Hi-Fi Rush is largely inspired by these two titles, interlacing numerous references to video game classics, from Xenogears (1998) to Undertale (2015).

       Light topics and seamless gameplay

The player assumes the role of Chai, a young man who decides to take part in Project Armstrong to replace his defective arm with a mechanical prosthesis in the hope of becoming a rockstar. An accident during the procedure leaves his walkman inside the energy core that powers his arm, making him a defect in the eyes of the Vandelay company. Defending himself against the company's robots, he meets Peppermint, who is investigating SPECTRA, a mysterious Vandelay project that would allow an AI to control anyone with a Project Armstrong prosthesis. Chai, Peppermint and their comrades are forced to infiltrate Vandelay's offices to confront the heads of the various departments and obtain their key, the only way to stop SPECTRA.

This relatively light-hearted take on anti-capitalist and transhumanist themes works within the framework of a music-driven city. The world constantly vibrates to the tempo of the music Chai is listening to, with colourful stimuli constantly helping to immerse the player in the music. These visual cues serve as crutches for the gameplay, which revolves around the concept of rhythm; since all attacks must be performed on the beat to receive a damage bonus, and all defensive actions must likewise be executed on the beat to succeed, it is essential to guide the player elegantly. Hi-Fi Rush succeeds in creating an environment that, without being too overwhelming, manages to convey essential information to the player. For those who are really struggling, it is possible to activate a bar that pulsates the tempo to provide a more explicit visual representation.

From the first few minutes of play, the title achieves a very natural flow, inviting the player to mix light and heavy attacks to plan combos. To achieve this, Hi-Fi Rush opts to have all attacks fall on the beat, regardless of the player's timing. This approach makes fights generally predictable, as it allows the player to prepare for the opponent's attacks one measure in advance. It is possible to anticipate moments when a dodge or parry will be necessary, allowing a combo of the right length to be placed in between. This situation is very common in the first half of the game, emphasising the importance of good positioning. Chai's low base speed, although compensated for by the magnetic grapple, forces the player to be strategic in the way they approach enemies: splitting or grouping them will help to perform specific combos and get better scores. At the beginning of the game, it is particularly useful to master the Triple Dodge, an effective way of quickly repositioning oneself while avoiding a strong enemy attack.

       Going off-beat: how to reward an aggressive approach

Gameplay shifts halfway through the game as the player unlocks all the companions that can be summoned by Chai in battle. Their actions work in synergy to provide powerful crowd control tools. This assist mechanic radically changes the way the game is played: the special thing about them is that they can be used outside the beat of the music. Certainly, some assists need to be timed for counters and Overkills, but these are somewhat unique actions. In most cases, it is possible to weave a series of assists between the beats of a bar, creating long stuns on a group of enemies. On the beat, Chai can string together powerful combos while nullifying some of the attacks he might receive. While this strategy is less effective on higher difficulties due to increased stun resistance, it is generally a very powerful method that reduces the need for parries and dodges. The player can use the grappling hook to jump up on an enemy and start a burst sequence of normal attacks and assists before moving away or pressing on with the combo, depending on the enemy's stun bar.

Hi-Fi Rush therefore rewards an aggressive approach that leaves no respite for the enemy robots. However, it is possible to be more cautious, and GoufyGoggs has pointed out how easy it is to spam parries on the beat to ward off any incoming attack, to the point where it is possible to play on autopilot. It seems to me that this is what the development team were aiming for, as they preferred to allow the player to remain in a trance-like state rather than punish poor combat tactics. Whether in or out of combat, the music is fluid, all actions are valid, and a temporary defensive posture, if timed correctly, maintains a sense of continuity. Such a design makes for a generally enjoyable experience, but it does have its pitfalls. Firstly, Rhythm Parry Attacks can be deceptive as they do not necessarily fall into full bars: it is easy to be surprised by the timing of the first parry, which sometimes does not match what the brain perceives as a stressed beat – perhaps this is just a personal issue, but I found it easier to focus solely on the enemies' animations to adjust the inaccurate rhythm I had in mind.

       An uncompromising rhythm and the non-combat elements

On the other hand, the rhythmic continuity of the game works well during combat, but suffers most during exploration and platforming sequences. On a first playthrough, the atmosphere of the game and the dialogue between the characters prevail, but it is particularly frustrating when replaying a chapter to have to repeat the same platforming sequences in rhythm, slowing down the frenetic pace of the combat action. Generally speaking, Hi-Fi Rush performs best when it maximises the on-screen spectacle. The deliberately cartoonish cinematography works well in this regard, and the highly kinetic sections, such as the zip-line passages, are always very enjoyable. The boss fights follow the same formula, always trying to be visually impressive and never allowing the player to get bored: the last three bosses are prime examples of that, being based around Chai's entire moveset.

The same could be said about the atmosphere of the title. The most enjoyable levels take place outdoors or in flashy environments. Hi-Fi Rush has a weaker middle section, with a series of indoor chapters featuring the sanitised aesthetics of a mega-corporation's laboratories. The computer servers do not contrast with the very dark tones of the environments, making them rather tiring to traverse. On the contrary, the explosion of vibrant colours in Chapter 8 is very effective, with bright details that catch the eye. One of the first scenes in the game, when Chai escapes from the lab, is a view of the city, showing a chaotic and busy cityscape. It is a shame that the game does not take full advantage of this setting, which is far less common than it should be. Similarly, while the voice acting is generally convincing, the decision to have American actors imitate foreign accents seems unfortunate. Perhaps this reinforces the Saturday cartoon episode aspect, but some of them clearly struggle and fail to be consistent in their performance. These issues highlight some of the game's occasional inconsistencies and some noticeable pitfalls that detract from the atmosphere the title is trying to create.

     On the topic of replayability

Hi-Fi Rush moves away from what Devil May Cry 5 (2019) did, which was to limit traversal sequences to creating a series of combat sequences – this was a way of addressing criticism of the replayability of Devil May Cry 4 (2008), whose levels were very frustrating to revisit. In Hi-Fi Rush, having to repeat entire levels and their platforming sequences is still tolerable if the goal is to improve the rank of each Chorus – the repetition of some unskippable dialogue is unfortunate – but this situation is much more frustrating when the player is simply trying to open the SPECTRA Doors in each level, which make up the post-game content. Having to go through half an hour of gameplay before reaching the relevant section – which only lasts a few minutes – is tiring, and suggests that Hi-Fi Rush was primarily designed a one-off novelty experience, but does not lend itself very well to a second playthrough.

The title has chosen to focus its entire design around the original idea of a rhythm game. Both combat and movement through the levels are anchored in this mechanic, which imposes a very specific rhythm on the gameplay experience. At first glance, this may not seem like a problem, as the title is fast-paced and driven by a truly endearing cast. However, this uncompromising approach can be alienating: while Hi-Fi Rush offers accessibility options to make the pace as readable as possible, it cannot undo its overall design. Any sequences outside of what the game considers to be the main adventure risk exhausting the player's attention and patience. For the ten hours that make up a first playthrough, this is not a critical issue, but it certainly becomes so after that mark. Hi-Fi Rush is a solidly conceived title that offers a coherent and effective implementation of the rhythm-based character-action concept that has been in vogue in recent years. Nevertheless, it also suggests a whole field of new possibilities that have yet to be explored; hopefully, Hi-Fi Rush is only the first attempt.

     ‘Zelda wishes that the sometimes unreliable Link were just a wee bit stronger.’

In preparation for our Zelda Marathon podcast.

The collaboration between Nintendo and Capcom on The Legend of Zelda has led to the exploration of many concepts. If Capcom's first project, the Oracle trilogy (2001), was abbreviated, The Minish Cap seemed to be a more mature approach by Hidemaro Fujibayashi, which perhaps unwittingly closed a first era in the franchise's history. Designed to make the most of the 2D capabilities, The Minish Cap is fully aligned with the legacy of previous Capcom Zelda games; although the Western localisation has lost the thematic thread, it is worth noting that the Japanese subtitle for the Oracle games is Fushigi no Kinomi. The Minish Cap retains this element of amazement with Fushigi no Bōshi. The phrase immediately conjures up a collection of artistic works and emphasises an idea of wonder that is believed to be the essence of life.

     The fushigi and fantasy worlds in Japanese art

The choice of the term fushigi can be seen as a pragmatic decision to follow the convention of the Zelda series, which has always used the possessive 'の' in its titles, as Miyamoto reminded Fujibayashi. At a deeper level, however, fushigi evokes an aesthetic tradition that dates back to the Heian period, before being actualised in recent decades. In the philosophy of Shinran (1173-1263), fushigi refers to that which cannot be grasped by the intellect, that which remains beyond human comprehension. In particular, human salvation depends on Buddha Amida's inconceivable Will (hongan no fushigi no jinriki), as well as his light that transcends understanding (fukashigi kō). Superficial acts of kindness are not enough: one must truly submit to Amida's Will, rejecting calculated actions (hakarai) and self-power (jiriki). [1] Shinran's thought was really an attempt to analyse the ethics of Japanese society and to deconstruct its rules.

The aura of mystery that surrounds the term fushigi is used today to mark the discrepancy with the rules and habits that have become customary. This can be illustrated by two contemporary examples that carry on this tradition of social critique. First, the term is central to the Japanese translation of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (1865) by Sumiko Yagawa. She retains the title Fushigi no kuni no Arisu, given by Masao Kusuyama, and makes full use of the enchantment of fushigi to ‘[enable] a countercultural mode that liberates the imagination from routine prescriptions’. Fushigi no kuni no Arisu ‘should not be read only as entertainment or a storybook fantasy, but as a framework through which one acquires a fresh capacity to evaluate interpersonal relationships within society as a whole’ [2]. The fushigi no kuni is less a vain and illusory escape from the real world than a recontextualisation of the experiences of Japanese children and adolescents, as evidenced by the frequent use of the informal second person pronoun (anata), which equates the reader with one of Alice's confidants.

The same devices are used in the Ghibli films, where characters are taken out of their everyday lives to have wonderful adventures that allow them to reflect on themselves and the society around them – something that can also be found in the more realistic films, where the return to the countryside is a classic way of comparing customs. The most thoroughgoing film in this respect is certainly Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi (2001), where the fantasy Japan of the Meiji era allows for a sharp critique of capitalism and its erratic progress. The behaviour of the Kaonashi, a purely fantastical creature, is transformed by its consumption by greedy individuals: it becomes possessive of Chihiro, reflecting the cycle of consumerism that reaches its peak in late capitalist societies. Symptomatically, Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi is not a coming-of-age story, contrary to what American audiences might think. The original Japanese version has no dialogue in its final scene and does not emphasise Chihiro's experience; instead, the film is primarily a message to the viewer about a frenetic and disoriented society. Similar themes permeate the studio's other films, and it is not surprising to find the term fushigi in Joe Hisaishi's songs – Totoro is a mysterious encounter (fushigina deai), while for Chihiro it is existence (ikiteiru fushigi, shindeyuku fushigi) that is mysterious.

     A gentle and vibrant world

This complex and intertextual aesthetic mythology, encapsulated in the term fushigi, is found in The Minish Cap. Without ever reaching the social critiques of the aforementioned works, the game delights in recontextualising Link in an environment that invites him and the player to become aware of their place in the world and their relationships with others. The player assumes the role of a young boy on a quest against Vaati, who seeks the Light Force to conquer the world after placing a curse on Zelda. Link is soon joined by Ezlo, a talking hat who helps him progress through Hyrule and into the Minish realm through portals found throughout the world. The title follows the traditional Zelda formula, with a series of dungeons interspersed with exploration of the overworld.

Immediately, The Minish Cap exudes an exceptional softness, supported by very expressive sprites, as well as pastel and shimmering colours. The characters embrace the graphic style of The Wind Waker (2002), making them always very lively. The fushigi is expressed by the contrast between big and small, but also by a constant interplay of references, which reflects a nostalgic love for a bygone era. The beginning of the game pleads in favour of this, with a particularly cheerful Zelda and a festival, which mimics the Millenial Fair of Guardia in Chrono Trigger (1995). There is a definite chemistry between the characters, as well as with Hyrule, supporting the verisimilitude of the universe and its inhabitants. Zelda is no longer the embodiment of a streamlined royal responsibility, but a character with her own agency, capable of marvelling at the world around her – anecdotally, this is also the angle taken by Akira Himekawa for the manga adaptation of Yottsu no Tsurugi Purasu (2005), where one page shows an ingenuous girl happily exploring the world with Link.

     Calling for moderation and compassion towards people and the environment

Link's strong connection to the world around him – especially Hyrule Town – may echo Majora's Mask (2000), which deliberately designed Termina as a social dungeon. The Minish Cap proposes something similar, but with less emphasis on solving people's problems: to create happiness, all that is needed is to fuse two fragments of a Kinstone, which will bring luck and happiness to those who come together. These Fusions are sometimes necessary to obtain key items and progress in the game, but most are optional and simply open secret passages. The player is constantly invited to re-explore previous areas, which become denser after each Fusion. This maximalist philosophy of area design helps to create a relatively small kingdom of Hyrule, but one filled with many secrets that reward thorough exploration.

It is in the sections where Link becomes smaller that the game shines in its recontextualisation of the different environments. If Hyrule Town is already vibrant, with its NPCs going about their business and relocating as the player progresses, visiting the town as a Minish gives it a new vitality. As well as being able to explore back rooms, ceilings and small caves, different NPCs react differently. Animals that normally show their contentment to a normal Link will now talk to him or harass him. Cats and chicks are particularly playful and will be important creatures to avoid. These wonderful passages invite the player to rethink humans' place in the world and their relationship with the vegetal and animal worlds. Hyrule shines with a richness that must be cherished by all characters.

These ecological virtues echo the qualities of honesty and compassion that characterise the title. The Great Mayfly Fairy rewards an honest player, while the people of Hyrule show their appreciation for Link's help in the manner of the renowned Smith: Link respects the dignity that Hyrule bestows upon him when he helps the library find overdue books, and Anju stresses that it is pleasant to help fellow citizens. Instead, it is hubris that is constantly rebuffed: Ezlo laments his own vanity, and his hat shape is the punishment he receives for attempting to attain omnipotence, while Vaati is an illustration of greed, masquerading as human, but ultimately taking on inhuman forms – his monstrous transfiguration in the final battle is unstoppable as he transgresses the limits of natural harmony.

     A game design between referential tributes and organic creativity

The Minish Cap is built around references, with relatively short sequences. Ignoring the side quests, the player quickly moves from the forest to the mountains, before gaining access to other very different areas. The pacing of the game is very similar to Super Mario RPG: Legend of the Seven Stars (1996), which also relied on exceptional variety without ever lingering in one area. The Minish Cap also seems to borrow its humour and lengthy quests that span the entire game: the Goron quest can be started early, but cannot be completed until the final dungeon – and the Mirror Shield is only available after defeating Vaati. Similarly, interactions with Hyrule's inhabitants all have roots in previous games in the franchise, or even in other RPGs. The Melari's Mines are very similar to the Dwarven Hollow in Final Fantasy III (1990), and the very dense and lush nature of the Minish Woods and Lake Hylia, with their shaded colours, are reminiscent of Chrono Trigger and Secret of Mana (1993), adding to the jumbled and sincere quality of the title, a sort of love letter to the entire production of 2D adventure games, be they action or RPG titles.

This fushigi approach allows the title to develop an aura that, while following in the footsteps of the Zelda franchise, brings a unique poetry to it. It is not so much the heroism of Link's quest that stands out, but the love that overflows from the world and its inhabitants. Exploration is always a pleasure, and the items support this experience perfectly: unlike other titles that have sometimes neglected certain items outside of dungeons, The Minish Cap manages to keep them relevant throughout the adventure – with the exception of the bow, which is overshadowed by the versatility of the boomerang. Fujibayashi has created unique items that are multi-functional and always essential for movement. The Gust Jar can be used to draw and repel elements and enemies, while the Cane of Pacci can be used to flip objects or create trampolines out of holes. Enemies can also be defeated in a variety of creative ways. In general, The Minish Cap rejects the idea of the sword as the main weapon as it has become established in 3D Zelda games: the sword is an item like any other, which the creative player can largely ignore if they use the rest of their arsenal wisely.

This emphasis on environmental puzzles throughout the overworld and the social construction of Hyrule contrasts with the dungeons, which are the weakest part of the title. Although there are six of them, they invariably follow a linear formula and seem to be little more than a series of obstacles that generally do not require exploration and understanding of the overall layout. The puzzles are generally simplistic and lack any real challenge. The Fortress of Winds fails to make the most of its vertical concept, and the Palace of Winds does little to disguise the fact that it is a long string of battles. While never terrible, these dungeons struggle to build effectively around their key concept, which can be a little frustrating: the idea behind the Temple of Droplets is great, but lacks finesse, while Deepwood Shrine has an interesting idea with the barrel, but it is secondary in the exploration of the dungeon. The Minish Cap fails to emulate the genius of Aonuma's dungeons, which, although working in 3D, had a much more holistic design: the GBA title focuses too much on micro-instances of gameplay.

Perhaps that was not its intention. The Minish Cap is first and foremost a unique setting and a tribute to a whole tradition of 2D games. Contrary to Fujibayashi's wishes, the Ultra Famicom never materialised, and the industry's efforts were largely focused on the novelty of 3D. In this respect, The Minish Cap is a summation, a nostalgic, fushigi work that closes an era before Twilight Princess (2006), the modern Zelda game fans had been waiting for. The title exudes a team's true love for the Nintendo franchise. Unlike many other games, Miyamoto never intervened to 'upend the tea table' [3], a testament to a successful vision. The game sometimes overemphasises its random mechanics, such as finding Kinstones for the Fusions, but it is hard to really fault it for that. The Figurines, already present in The Wind Waker, are here an opportunity for Fujibayashi to express his passion for Gunpla. The Minish Cap may not revolutionise the franchise nor the video game industry, but it leaves an indelible mark with its atmosphere. Its visual softness makes it a perfect graphic representative for the GBA, and Hyrule Town is undoubtedly the most vibrant and pleasant city in the series, a very special achievement.

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[1] Thomas R. Plant, Dualism and nondualism in the thought of Dionysius the Areopagite and Shinran Shōnin, PhD thesis, University of Cambridge, 2013, p. 40. Note that the term fukashigi is also used by Shinran and does not serve an exactly similar purpose; the topic is beyond the scope of this review, but see also Norihiko Kikumura, 「入出二門偈頌」における不思議と不可思議の研究, in 印度學佛教學研究, vol. 25, no. 1, 1976.
[2] Sean Somers, ‘Arisu in Harajuku. Yagawa Sumiko's Wonderland as Translation, Theory, and Performance’, in Cristopher Hollingsworth (ed.), Alice Beyond Wonderland: Essays for the Twenty-first Century, Iowa University Press, Iowa City, 2009, p. 200.
[3] Eiji Aonuma, Minish Cap - 2004 Developer Interview, on shmuplations, consulted on 4th March 2023.

     ‘But when negative thoughts hit you, let it pass, and keep living.’

Played with BertKnot.

The modern legacy of Sonic the Hedgehog is a series of experiments, which seek to reassess the place of the iconic hedgehog in the cultural landscape. Representative of a 1990s and 2000s zeitgeist, he has become obsolete and outdated with the modern conception of rebellion. This does not mean that the fans have abandoned their beloved mascot, but rather that, in a long spell in the wilderness, they have sought to modernise the character themselves. The multiplication of fanworks with very different atmospheres pleads for the versatility of Sonic and his friends, as comfortable in an urban pop setting as in more slice of life stories. The Sonic Mania MAP collaboration (2019) illustrates this plasticity, with the hero naturally switching between graphic styles. In particular, the pastel and shimmering palettes work successfully; this same aesthetic quality can be found in the comic strip adaptation of Sonic Skyline (2015), where the angular lines contrast nicely with the candy colours.

For the official franchise, the situation is more difficult. In the midst of games that were widely disliked by fans, Sonic Mania (2017) was a saving grace, but it felt like an exception, nowhere near the vision of the Sonic Team. It was only with Sonic Frontiers (2022) that the community saw a tentative change in the treatment of the hero, for better or worse. Regardless of the quality of the title, the open-world opus attempted to meet the demands of the fans by offering something new, a much-needed breath of fresh air. Surprisingly, The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog seems to be another attempt to do just that.

Released on the 1st of April, the title was presented as a joke, offering a short visual novel adventure interspersed with light arcade sequences that somewhat overstay their welcome. The player assumes the role of a railway employee who is hosting a murder party for Sonic and Amy's friends in honour of the girl's birthday. Once everyone has learned their roles, the party splits up and the investigation begins, with Sonic as the victim. The player accompanies Tails, disguised as a detective, to identify the culprit. The title is generally very linear and simplistic: the protagonists arrive in a new room and have to solve the small mystery behind it, which often involves establishing the alibi of the people there. The title is obviously inspired by the success of franchises such as Ace Attorney and Danganronpa, which have now spread to the West, and this is underlined by the structure of the investigation.

Rather, the title strives to accumulate references to past games with a certain subtlety, creating a soft and warm atmosphere. To support the slice of life aspect, some characters have their personalities bent to fit the mood of the game – this is the case with Shadow. There is a certain modesty that makes the game feel like a comic book chapter or a Saturday cartoon episode. The stakes are low and the mystery is trivial, but that is not the title's main concern. The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog is about creating an experience that is different from the recent games from the Sonic Team – who are not involved in the production of this spin-off. The title appeals directly to fans, and Sonic's words of encouragement to the protagonist are a testament to his sincerity and genuine desire to nurture a loyal community.

It may be a shame to point this out, but The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog, while a harmless experience, reveals the franchise's structural problems. Caught up in its own nostalgia and struggling to innovate around a character from another era, the Sonic Team proved incapable of coming up with a subversive and fresh concept. The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog manages to do so, but the title is still plagued by being an April Fool's joke, and only seen as such by SEGA. There's something about the company's management that prevents them from really trusting a new generation that might have insights to offer on a truly major project. The title could have been an expanded experience with additional storylines, making it a proper text-based adventure around the franchise's beloved characters. Instead, the Sonic Social Team was only given the opportunity to make an appetiser.

The title is undoubtedly cute, features beautiful artworks and is brimming with love for the franchise. One must acknowledge the delight that various fans have experienced from spending two hours with it. However, I cannot help but feel that it is little more than a few crumbs for a starving community – perhaps this is the reaction of someone who has never had any affection or nostalgia for the blue hedgehog. Either way, The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog is a harmless little experience that says very little, but is a step in an interesting direction. One can only hope that this is not just another fleeting idea from SEGA, but something that will be more fully developed and polished in the future. Sonic fans deserve other similar games, or titles that explore new thematic horizons that would truly modernise the franchise.

     ‘The dead themselves have no regrets; how could they? They are dead and that is all. Only those remaining regret their passing.’
     – Natsuhiko Kyogoku, Ubume no natsu, 1994.

Played with BertKnot. The game and this review mention extremely difficult events related to crimes, violence and abuse.

Contemporary Japanese culture is fuelled by a cycle of moral panics generated by high-profile criminal cases. Some, though mysterious, do not escalate into the gruesome, such as the 300 million yen robbery (1968), but others take a far more horrific course. The murders of Tsutomu Miyazaki are an enduring trauma for the Japanese, who associate them with the figure of the otaku, who has sunk into deep madness to the point of committing monstrous acts of violence. Other individuals have followed in his footsteps and continue to fuel the hatred of marginalised groups. Such events are not unique to Japan, but its artistic production always flirts with these traumas without ever completely overcoming them.

     The shakai tradition in Japanese crime fiction

However, there is a long literary tradition built around these themes, and the detective genre is no stranger to them. Critics refer to these titles as shakai-ha, a literary trend that is primarily concerned with its social dimension. The mystery plays a fundamental role, not because of its complexity or brilliance – although these are not excluded – but because it reveals the malaise of a society whose social norms are no longer accepted by its members. The historical roots of this genre can be found in the works of Seichō Matsumoto. Suna no Utsuwa (1961), undoubtedly his most famous work, features a detective whose obsession with a criminal case disintegrates his personal life. Depicting a post-war Japan in the midst of hectic reconstruction, the novel describes a family in which the father is absent and the wife is in charge of the household and the children's education. Moreover, the reasons for the crimes underline the plight of Japanese women, caught between the ideal of yamato nadeshiko and rapid modernisation.

The prevalence of suicide in Matsumoto's works raises the question of its chronic nature in Japan. Masāki Kato has analysed a large sample of suicides and notes their anomic nature after World War II, to borrow Durkheim's terminology. [1] It is a feeling of general dissatisfaction with the inability to find one's place in society. For these individuals, it is necessary to adhere to particularly rigid social rules, and the slightest deviation from these idealised norms is grounds for suicide. Taking one's own life and that of others is the fundamental question that runs through the shakai genre. After Matsumoto, a tradition of female writers has emerged, especially since the 1990s. These stories focus on female characters who are confronted with a changing world. They face a socio-economic crisis that exacerbates the systemic sexism they experience. In Miyuki Miyabe's Kasha (1992), crime gives women a new independence after being denied by the social contract of Japanese society. As the losers of urbanisation and modernisation, they can escape from their low-paid jobs, fuelled by desperation and the desire for a better life – or to escape unbearable situations such as debt harassment.

     The paranormal to create a chilling horror

If Japanese video games were quick to adopt the detective genre and produce remarkable adventures, starting with Portopia renzoku satsujin jiken (1983), they were inspired above all by the honkaku and shin honkaku genres, which reject shakai realism. On the contrary, the murders have to be particularly complex and have an aura of impossibility, which creates an intellectual game between the author and the reader. Social themes are not completely absent, but they are relegated to the background in favour of the mystery itself. There is certainly a sense of tragedy in the murders, which can be explained by difficult circumstances or sociological trends, but they explain the mystery in retrospect rather than being the crux of the narrative. Famicom Tantei Club: Kieta Kōkeisha (1988) touches on the issue of the zaibatsu and their influence on the economy of certain regions, but it is a very secondary element in the plot.

Paranormasight: The Seven Mysteries of Honjo goes against this tradition, anchoring its story in the shakai style while incorporating elements of shin honkaku. At first glance, it appears to be a horror game inspired by Japanese mythology – the Honjo Nanafushigi are genuine legends and have been adapted in films by Shinko Kimura (Honjo Nanafushigi, 1937) and Katano Goro (Kaidan Honjo Nanafushigi, 1957). However, after the prologue, the tone shifts to become a long investigation depicting the malaise of Japanese society as the years of prosperity come to an end and the first signs of the bursting of the economic bubble in the early 1980s are felt. The player takes on the role of several characters caught up in a curse that has engulfed the Honjo district of Tokyo's Sumida. They are awakened by terrifying ghostly apparitions that urge them to commit murders in order to perform the Rite of Resurrection. This ritual would allow them to bring back to life a person of their choice, at the cost of the soul dregs collected from murdered people. Each protagonist is then able to use a curse to slaughter any person at night, as long as the conditions, inspired by urban legends circulating in Honjo, are met. The first protagonist, Shogo Okiie, meets Yoko Fukunaga in the prologue, who asks for his help in uncovering the truth behind the legend of the Whispering Canal; he is drawn into a series of violent deaths that the player must understand in order to unravel the Seven Mysteries of Honjo and the murders taking place in the neighbourhood.

The game is characterised by its atmosphere, which is supported by a unique art direction. The cold blue colours make Honjo's atmosphere frightening and underline the subtle tension between the various curse-bearers fighting for their survival. Gen Kobayashi's character design alternates between realistic softness and frightening expressions of terror. Dread is conveyed through wide eyes and plays with off-screen action. The player is frightened not so much by the jumpscares, but by the prospect of having to turn around to see them. The backgrounds, slightly distorted as if through a short focus lens, convey a sense of unease through the hollowness of their composition. Paranormasight brilliantly uses oblique shots and atypical staging of characters to emphasise the brooding nature of the discussions, while the architecture of the city overwhelms them.

     On social representation through cultural references

Komagata High School is thus a reference to Ushimitsu High School from Famicom Tantei Club Part II: Ushiro ni Tatsu Shōjo (1989), with identical shots, but the coldness of the colour palette in Paranormasight makes the high school very disturbing; it is less a place of education to prepare students for the future, but rather a place where social inequalities and violence are reproduced, something that Japan accepts without flinching. The inadequacy of the teaching staff and the prevalence of juvenile delinquency are signs of the failure of Japanese social policy. The various female characters suffer from this, condemning them to academic failure or worse. Paranormasight takes up the plot of Sukeban deka (1976), a pivotal shōjo manga of the 1980s: it features Saki Asamiya, a delinquent high school girl who ends up helping the police solve several investigations, notably the apparent suicide of one of her best friends, Junko Yuina. The game very explicitly recreates the character of Saki through Yakko Sakazaki, be it in personality, appearance or motives.

In general, the game takes familiar elements of Japanese culture to modernise and comment on them. This is particularly the case with the female characters, who regain a high degree of agency in the pure shakai tradition. At first glance, Harue Shigima seems to be the embodiment of the yamato nadeshiko, full of the ideals associated with a traditional Japan, but the death of her son and the curse give her the energy to fight against the weight of society. Despite her tired appearance, she displays a very subtle wit through her careful and respectful speech. Yakko is particularly proactive and confident, following the example of Sukeban deka, while her friend Mio, a specialist in occult matters, is presented as a voice of reason, contrary to the cliché of the mad witch. This complex nature of the female characters is echoed in a more fragile representation of masculinity. The various male characters are presented with characteristics that undermine the myth of traditional, honour-bound masculinity. They are generally cowardly or display marginal masculinity. If Tetsuo Tsutsumi represents the serious and unyielding inspector, he is often the comedic force of the group, with deadpan remarks that take the edge off the game's terrifying tension. Richter Kai portrays a more jovial and chaotic manliness through his love of childish things, which leads to Harue's amused comments.

Paranormasight quickly reveals itself to be a title with a sharp critique of all forms of authority. The police are portrayed as an institution incapable of preventing crime and serving the public. While officers like Hajime Yoshimi try to be more akin to a social worker for troubled teenage girls, he is generally unable to structurally solve their problems, offering only what he can, namely a shoulder to lean on. The characters lament the fact that Japanese law prohibits police officers from intervening in cases of domestic violence – a situation that only changed with the Act on the Prevention of Spousal Violence and the Protection of Victims (2001). Hierarchical frameworks dictate behaviour in Japanese suburbs. Paranormasight repeatedly emphasises the importance of the dichotomy between the public face (tatamae) and the private face (honne). Michiyo Shiraishi's neighbours are sympathetic until the Shiraishi family strays from the discretion expected in a neighbourhood. Even within the working class, solidarity is not taken for granted and depends on adherence to social rules, however rigid and conservative they may be. The title also insists on the hypocrisy of the family myth, with reference to the coin-operated locker babies, who, for various socio-economic reasons, were abandoned newborn babies in lockers and left to die. This phenomenon, which was widespread between the 1970s and 1990s, haunts the various characters in the game.

     Instantiating horror in a real setting: how to modernise a social representation?

It is precisely because these elements are central to Paranormasight's horror and mystery that the game works. The soundtrack is particularly effective in creating a strong atmosphere, alternating between dissonant tracks and music inspired by the emerging city pop of the time. The game is concerned with social modernity in its discourse: it is about representing 1980s Tokyo with respect to the social progress of 2023. The title is therefore against prison and in favour of rehabilitation, rejecting the idea that crimes are inherited through blood. Paranormasight, even though its plot is based on elements of Japanese mythology, stands out for its ability to tell a story whose social motives would remain the same even without the occult. In an eternal Buddhist cycle, the ills of society remain the same until structural measures are implemented by decision-makers, as illustrated by the chronic pollution of the Sumida River, the visual centre of the title.

In terms of gameplay, Paranormasight clearly borrows from recent adventure games, notably the Switch port of Famicom Detective Club (2021) and the second Ace Attorney trilogy. The grammar remains that of 1980s games, with the necessity to repeatedly bring up the same topic of conversation, but the game clearly indicates when all actions have been completed, or if further exploration and dialogue is required. The title uses the Story Chart system inherited from Kono Yo no Hate de Koi o Utau Shōjo YU-NO (1996) and Kotaro Uchikoshi's games, and tries to be as clear as possible about the branching paths the player needs to explore in order to follow the different narrative threads. It is only towards the end of the game that Paranormasight becomes more cryptic, although this does not cause any major problems. The title really tests the player's understanding of the case with relatively open-ended questions. These sequences are particularly effective because the player is always in a strong position compared to the protagonists. Having a transversal knowledge of the events, they are able to theorise in advance and identify the blind spots in the characters' deductions. This narrative style helps to create the impression that the protagonists are conducting a real investigation, with all the complexity this implies.

Paranormasight manages to modernise the adventure and detective genres with a believable story, despite the presence of supernatural elements. Carried by a deep and touching cast, the title presents an ingenious mystery rooted in the malaise of a society on the verge of collapse. Poverty, pollution, a crisis in education and a sense of alienation exacerbate a generational clash. The protagonists, although caught up in a curse that transcends them, are only individuals among others in Tokyo who harbour regrets, remorse and sadness. As the sun sets, the Sumida River turns bloody. The real killer is a city that is oversized and relentless. Paranormasight illustrates this unease with a unique horror texture, instantiating it in the physical reality of Honjo. If Japanese crime fiction has always insisted on the importance of locales while promoting mindful tourism – indeed, since 2001, this has been the function of the Mystery Tours in Meitantei Konan (1994) –, the game accomplishes an astonishing tour de force and establishes itself as a modern shakai staple for the video game medium.

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[1] Masāki Kato, ‘Self-Destruction in Japan: A Crosscultural, Epidemiological Analysis of Suicide’, in Folia Psychiatrica et Neurologica, vol. 23, no. 4, 1969, pp. 291-307.

     ‘Grass isn’t against the law!’
     – Ricardo Cortés, It's just a plant, 2005.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (Mar. 28 – Apr. 3, 2023).

The 1990s saw a shift in the Christian Right's rhetoric towards LGBT communities. In previous decades, most arguments focused on the alleged pathological deviance of these groups, associating homosexuality with paedophilia and mental illness. At the same time, this rhetorical framework made it possible to assert the superiority of Christian values, threatened by a new Sodom and Gomorrah. A clear illustration of the ideological shift can be seen in the vote on Amendment 2 to the Colorado Constitution (1992) and its subsequent ruling of unconstitutionality by the Supreme Court (Romer v. Evans, 1996). The text sought to prohibit any law or decision protecting minorities in the State on the grounds of sexual orientation: it was passed by popular initiative before being struck down by both the Colorado Supreme Court and the Federal Court. The dissenting opinions in these rulings stressed that Amendment 2 should not be an issue, as it did not seek to deny rights to homosexuals, but only to prevent any form of affirmative action.

     The American conservative right's new means of action

This ideological stance reflects a malaise that has plagued America since the Reagan presidency: since the civil rights movements, decisions to protect vulnerable groups have been seen as preferential treatment that disadvantages white middle-class Americans – the electoral backbone of conservatives. The Amendment 2 campaign was largely led by Colorado for Family Values, co-founded by Tony Marco. An ex-gay, Marco has largely steered the campaign away from traditional arguments in favour of a legalistic and misleading sociological approach. He repeatedly states that "gays are no 'minority'; gay militants constitute a rich, powerful special interest. And, to coin a phrase, enough money makes anyone a 'majority’" [1]. Didi Herman explains that this line of argument has been adopted by conservative movements that have sought to regain respectability by avoiding overtly religious discourse; certainly the Christian Right was largely convinced of the immorality and sinfulness of homosexuals, but publicly it had to be reasonable and fight on a more liberal ground, that of rights and law. [2]

This less explicitly extremist discourse finds institutional expression in the 'war on drugs', initiated by the creation of the Drug Enforcement Administration in 1973. Since the Reagan presidency, and especially during the Bush administration, the budget for these actions has increased from $5 million to over $600 million. [3] This 'war on drugs' has been characterised by, among other things, the militarisation of borders, political interference in South American countries, and an increase in abusive arrests, particularly of racial minorities. Most of the literature on the social consequences of the 'war on drugs' focuses, for understandable reasons, on its impact on ethnic minorities, and much research remains to be done on the links between LGBT communities, the AIDS epidemic and 'war on drugs' policies. However, recent studies show how it is being used as a moral panic to criminalise LGBT people who are more vulnerable and at risk of using these substances. [4]

     Very explicit and simplistic LGBT references

It is in this very broad social context that Foobar versus the DEA must be understood. Like other LGBT games of the period – Caper in the Castro (1989), a point-n-click game featuring a lesbian detective, comes to mind – Foobar versus the DEA reuses relatively familiar gameplay elements, in this case the shoot'em up formula inspired by Xevious (1983). From a technical point of view, the game showcases the new capabilities of Mac machines, but remains relatively behind the rest of video game production. The player assumes the role of Foobar, whose outfit is largely inspired by comic book superheroes, on a quest to find his boyfriend Ned, who has been unjustly arrested by the DEA. To free him, Foobar must take on the entire American penal system, backed by capitalist industry, the media and a Big Brother-like super-computer.

The title is divided into four levels, each featuring one of the stakeholders in this 'war on drugs'. The game does not conceal its LGBT references or its disdain for authority, as the various power-ups make no attempt at subtlety: the rainbow flag adds one life to the counter, and the American flag-draped condom – which actually looks a lot like a missile – serves as a shield. The pointer that marks the drop point of the bombs is, incidentally, a pink triangle, the symbol of the gay community. There is a playful irreverence in these elements, but the militaristic aspect of the title seems a little odd. Not that there should be no violence against state institutions and their repressive policies, but Foobar versus the DEA features mostly traditional military weapons in what is technically an air raid. This can be seen as an ironic reversal of American practices, but there is a lack of purposefulness in the process, to the point where one might suspect an internalisation of American methods.

     Archaic in its design, modern in its representation

For the rest, Foobar versus the DEA is a mediocre title. The airship's manoeuvrability is rather poor, which makes dodging projectiles frustrating, especially as the hitboxes seem very permissive. The missiles, which fly horizontally across the screen, are probably the worst feature, as they force the player to stay in the middle of the screen, reducing the space available for manoeuvring. The game is generally devoid of any real gameplay ambitions, as it is so much a rehash of the conventions of the time, which were already archaic in 1996. The lack of variety in the enemies and their erratic movements make every death particularly tedious, as does the very slow scrolling, which adds to the impression of interminable levels. Admittedly queer-coded for its time, the game does not manage to instil its themes beyond a few visual elements and synopsis statements.

This is a shame, because Foobar versus the DEA, shared as a freeware, represents the versatility of the LGBT community in the midst of the great social, economic and health crisis it experienced in the United States during the 1980s and 1990s. The game confronts the mainstream representations that still nourished that era; similar to the New Queer Cinema, led by a new generation of filmmakers and characterised by a very offensive rhetoric against the patriarchal and religious order, Foobar versus the DEA does not hesitate to attack industry giants, media and state institutions. Although it struggles to be a convincing experiment from a purely technical standpoint, it is an important record in the cultural history of the LGBT community.

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[1] Tony Marco, Shaky Foundation: Twelve 'Big Lies' The 'Gay Rights' Movement is Built on, 1993, quoted in Didi Herman, '(Il)legitimate Minorities: The American Christian Right's Anti-Gay-Rights Discourse', in Journal of Law and Society, vol. 23, no. 3, p. 350.
[2] Didi Herman, op. cit.
[3] Yulia Vorobyeva, ‘Illegal Drugs as a National Security Threat: Securitization of Drugs in the U.S. Official Discourse’, in Bruce M. Bagley, Jonathan D. Rosen (ed.), Trafficking, Organized Crime, and Violence in the Americas Today, University of Florida Press, Gainesville, 2015, p. 50.
[4] Grace Ramsey, ‘How the War on Drugs Harms the LGBTQIA+ Community’, in Drug Policy Alliance, 22nd June 2018, consulted on 30 March 2023.

     ‘Madmen, too, are able to see and hear things that are imperceptible to ordinary people.’
     – Ranpo Edogawa, Oshie to Tabi-suru Otoko, 1929.

Played with BertKnot. The game and this review mention medical, psychological and incestuous abuse.

Terrified, dazed, empty, dilated, mournful; the eyes in Kindaichi shōnen no jikenbo (1992) have always been particularly powerful emotional vessels. In contrast to Meitantei Konan (1994), where the pupils are stylised and exaggerated, the delicate, restrained strokes in Kindaichi evoke a particular vulnerability. People are sensitive to exaggerated outbursts of passion, and the silences speak volumes when a panel is focused on demented eyes. The completely black pupils of the suspects and culprits offer little insight into their inner feelings. This veil remains impenetrable for the detective who, insofar as he can guess the modi operandi, never manages to fully circumscribe the tragedy of the murders. On the contrary, he crystallises and exacerbates it by bringing the truth to light in front of the audience.

     The common heritage of Japanese detective and horror genres

There have always been links between horror and detective fiction, but this is particularly true in Japanese literature: under the influence of Ranpo Edogawa, the definition of the detective story (tanteishōsetsu) expanded to include the heritage of the horror, fantasy or criminal genres. He further states: ‘the appetite for detection (tantei shumi) corresponds to the appetite found in detection novels; it can just as easily be called the appetite for the bizarre. [Appetite for detection] is the quest for the bizarre and the enjoyment of the strange' [1]. The proliferation of intricate stratagems in shin honkaku stories supports this view. The detective and the reader become voyeuristic witnesses to strange crimes. Despite the sordid cases he has solved, Kindaichi continues to visit remote islands where mysteries abound – at least until Kindaichi 37 sai shōnen no jikenbo (2018). In turn, the horror genre has itself been inspired by crime fiction, and this aspect is particularly evident in the Zero series. Not surprisingly, series co-creator Makoto Shibata mentions Seishi Yokomizo, whose success coincides with Shibata's youth, as a notable source of inspiration. [2] Yattsu haka-mura (1951) evokes particularly difficult circumstances and builds on the traumas of a society; its horrific aspect was exacerbated by Yoshitarō Nomura's 1977 film adaptation, to which Shibata refers. The fourth entry in the Zero series reinforces this link between horror and detection, in a triangular collaboration between Tecmo Koei, Grasshopper and Nintendo.

The player alternates between Ruka Minazuki, Misaki Asō, Madoka Tsukimori and Chōshiro Kirishima, all of whom explore the island of Rōgetsu to discover what happened ten years ago. As children, five girls were kidnapped during the Rōgetsu Kagura, a traditional local festival, before being rescued by Kirishima. Ruka, one of the victims, still has some vague memories of these events, but is unable to comprehend what happened during her abduction. Even more perplexing, ten years later, two of the victims have been killed, their faces distorted with horror. To uncover the truth, Misaki and Madoka decide to go to the island to investigate the psychiatric hospital they were admitted to in their youth, followed closely by Ruka and Chōshiro.

     Masks and faces: a medical horror

The Zero formula is immediately apparent in the title, with rather slow-paced characters exploring a given location and using the Camera Obscura – or, in the case of Chōshiro, the Spirit Stone Flashlight – to fend off attacks from the ghosts that haunt the area. However, the title relies much more on its underlying mystery and an atmosphere that deliberately plays with a heterogeneity between elements of Japanese folklore and more Western features. Haibara Hospital is a huge, sprawling complex with architecture reminiscent of Meiji-era buildings, complete with a shrine and a traditional cemetery. The remaster retains this approach, with an emphasis on old VHS-inspired colour grading. The traditional horror of Zero is here tinged with corporate themes and mixed with technological and medical modernity, none of which can explain the madness of Rōgetsu's inhabitants.

In fact, the game's plot revolves around Moonlight Syndrome, an affliction that only affects those who spend time on the island: in a benign stage, the disease makes the patient more melancholic and daydreamy, before destabilising their rationality and memories, leading to violent outbursts. In the last stage, they blossom and their faces and eyes become distorted to anyone suffering from the Syndrome. It is immediately clear to the player that Mask of the Lunar Eclipse is inspired by Higurashi no naku koro ni (2002-2006), with many overlapping elements, both aesthetically and thematically. In the tradition of Goichi Suda's 'Kill the Past' titles, Mask of the Lunar Eclipse explores questions of identity and memory, under the haunting gaze of the moon. The madness that moonlight often embodies in Suda51's titles blends with Zero's own themes, which have always emphasised the debilitating weight of tradition and ritual on Japanese women.

In a historically patriarchal society, the place of women in horror stories is significant. As vengeful spirits, they regain a semblance of agency once they have left the world of the living, but have not yet fully reached the realm of the dead. Japanese art has long used these female figures, who are prominent in noh theatre, particularly in stories of avenging spirits (onryō mono) such as Kinuta (c. 14th-15th century). These plays convey codified rules of ethics through recurring elements such as masks that capture particular emotions. These masks are omnipresent in Mask of the Lunar Eclipse, where they conceal the identities of the characters and act as an unsettling veil behind which distorted faces can hide. Even when the various ghosts are not wearing masks, their frozen expressions of horror act as a mask for the protagonist, who is unable to understand their emotions and the reasons for their presence on this deserted island.

     Anarchic repetition as a device in horror and detective fiction

It is only through the notes found throughout the hospital and left by the ghosts that the protagonists and the player can understand what is happening. Mask of the Lunar Eclipse is the first official translation for the game, a welcome release after the inconsistent quality of the fantranslation, but it struggles to convey the desperate madness of the diaries. The interplay of lowercase and uppercase fails to mimic the lacunar horror of the Japanese characters, but this is offset by the odd nature of the notes and their repetition. The events that have taken place on the island of Rōgetsu are not inherently complex, but the way in which information is presented to the player tends to make them nebulous. It is sometimes difficult to place events in time, as the protagonists do not seem to be reliable narrators, suffering from recurrent and disjointed flashbacks. Gérard Peloux has analysed the serial reading of Ranpo Edogawa's works as an 'actualisation of the monstrous'. By this, he means that the repeated appearance of characters in different short stories leads to an automatic reading that compels the reader 'to follow the text in its various excesses, even if this means leaving aside elements of introspection and narrative verisimilitude'. [3]

In Mask of the Lunar Eclipse, the repeated battles against the same ghosts and the diaries, which highlight the same events but from a slightly different point of view, help to normalise the dramatic and horrific tension of the game. The player's awareness is tempered, and they become less sensitive to actions that are purely medical abuses. Just as the hospital staff generally remained impassive in the face of the atrocities committed – before breaking down –, the player is caught up in a voyeurism typical of the detective. The various protagonists have gone to the island in the first place as witnesses; apart from the keys they borrow to open the various sections of the hospital, they hardly touch the furniture and pass no judgement on the events that have befallen the Rōgetsu Isle.

     Atmosphere and social discourse: successes and shortcomings

This is both the strength and the weakness of the title. The player is effectively drawn into a story that mixes medical experiments and ancestral curses; the game manages to evoke a strangeness carried by the faux-silence of the abandoned Haibara Hospital; some unexplained appearances really work, such as the wheelchair, to name but one. On the other hand, Mask of the Lunar Eclipse struggles to develop a coherent social discourse. Of course, as in all Zero games, women are at the centre of manipulations devised by men, but the title fails to emphasise the medical and corporatist horror of the Haibara, nor does it find the right tone when it alludes to incestuous themes. If the game's aesthetic hints at modern inspirations in Japanese crime fiction, especially with the rise of works with social themes (shakai), the discourse of Mask of the Lunar Eclipse is generally lacking. This reserve may be justified by an insistence on the quest for identity and family, but it makes the reference to Ryukishi07's works somewhat awkward, since social themes are at the heart of his writing process.

Nevertheless, the title is carried by some clever and particularly effective scenes that contribute to a very interesting atmosphere. Sakuya's convulsions or the interplay of shots and reverse shots work very well, as do the long corridors that alternate between architectural styles. It is difficult not to read the characters' long wanderings as a journey into purgatory or the jigoku. The back and forth reinforces the Buddhist aspects of the plot and the cyclical nature of the curse that afflicts the Rōgetsu Isle. As such, it would not be far-fetched to consider Mask of the Lunar Eclipse as a modernisation of Teinosuke Kinugasa's Kurutta Ichipeiji (1926). The film is also set in a psychiatric hospital, and the interweaving of hallucination and reality is reflected in the game's storytelling structure, not to mention its obsession with masks. Mask of the Lunar Eclipse is thus part of a long tradition of Japanese horror, and attempts to innovate with the possibilities of the interactive medium.

The game is not without its faults, however. In addition to the underdeveloped themes, the gameplay suffers from imprecision, with some shots being deemed inaccurate even when the subject is clearly in focus. With the ghosts' hitboxes being slightly below their heads, it is common to miss a shot while trying to maximise points by taking it as late as possible. In the later chapters, some encounters can feel too repetitive, especially as they no longer help to advance the game's narrative. The absence of random encounters may explain the choice to multiply ghost appearances in the last third of the game, but this only serves to slow down the progression in a rather superfluous way. The remaster adds costumes, following a rather obnoxious fanservice trend that goes against the message of the series. These are optional, naturally, but they highlight the failure of the video game industry in terms of representation.

It seems to me, however, that the decision to slightly embellish the graphical aspect with a better engine, while retaining some of the original textures, really works. This creates a worrying contrast between the game's graphical style and the somewhat austere cutscenes. Mask of the Lunar Eclipse is a very pleasant opportunity to experience a new Fatal Frame in the West. The title never reaches the horror heights of the first trilogy, but it proves to be an atypical curiosity that tries to move the series towards other narrative horizons. Some sections would have benefited from further development, but the spirit of Zero still inhabits the title – for the better.

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[1] Edogawa Ranpo Zenshū, vol. 4, Kōbunsha, Tokyo, 2005, p. 146.
[2] ‘Interview with Makoto Shibata and Keiichiro Toyama’, 3rd October 2016, consulted on 28th March 2023.
[3] Gérald Peloux, L’acte de lecture dans l’œuvre de Ranpo Edogawa (1884-1965) : une réflexion sur la littérature d’avant-guerre au Japon, PhD thesis, Université Paris Diderot, 2012, p. 218.

     ‘The sky of Santiago de Chile might be a foreign sky, but once the air mail was in flight you lived, from end to journey's end, under the same dark vault of heaven.’
     – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Vol de nuit, 1931 (tr. Stuart Gilbert).

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (Mar. 21 – Mar. 27, 2023).

On the road from Haskovo to the Greek-Bulgarian border, north of the Studen Kladenets reservoir, there is a relatively steep hill. On its summit are the ruins that bear witness to the ancient human presence in Perperikon. While the medieval site, with its administrative complex at the foot of the hill, is fairly well known, the ancient remains remain a mystery. Artefacts from the Hellenistic period have been found, but it is the archaic remains that are most intriguing. The tombs and the sanctuary-palace suggest that Perperikon was an important centre of power in the Bronze Age. Today, however, it seems unlikely that anything more can be learned about the culture of this period, which is forever petrified in stone and eroded by time.

     A nuanced and customisable flying experience

In 2000, Sky Odyssey appeared as an anomaly, with its arcade concept offering a completely pacifist experience. The title is halfway between Pilotwings 64 (1996) and more technically complex titles such as the Landing series (1987-1999) – originally released in arcade before having sequels released on the Playstation. Inspired by the great epics of famous aviators, the title is imbued with an adventurous spirit and a rather unique atmosphere for the genre, which was a first for the development team unused to working on such games. The player assumes the role of an aviator whose goal is to explore an archipelago feared by adventurers and find the famous Tower of Maximum. The difficult weather and topography of the islands make it impractical to approach them by sea, leaving only the skies as a viable route. But even for an experienced aviator, crossing the gorges and mountain passes proves to be an arduous mission. After an optimistic and adventurous opening scene, driven by lyrical choirs, the player is invited to choose the first mission and their aircraft.

The three planes available at the start each have their own characteristics, allowing the player to approach each mission in a different way. A lighter aircraft provides greater manoeuvrability and is useful in confined areas, while a more stable and powerful aircraft can help with the strong winds that often characterise the levels. The ability to change the parts of each aircraft provides the flexibility to suit both the mission and the player's preferred play style. While it is always necessary to have a fairly high top speed to meet the target times – particularly in Mid-Air Rendezvous – emergent approaches are always available to the player.

Sky Odyssey immediately delivers a challenging Adventure mode that does not shy away from testing the player's speed management or aerial manoeuvres: the player will have to manage refuelling, flying through clouds, climbing mountains or going down waterfalls on pantoons. Learning to fly may take some getting used to compared to the much simpler experience of Pilotwings 64 – although it does have some simplified controls similar to the latter – but it is highly addictive. Sky Odyssey also manages to create very organic challenges through its ranking system. While it is possible to complete a mission with minimal complication, the player can also try to pass through all the checkpoints in order to score as many points as possible. Both mark the general route and are placed in locations that are quite difficult to reach, requiring a real mastery of the aircraft. As it is much easier to gain altitude than to descend due to air resistance, a careful route is required to reach some of the more challenging checkpoints.

Crossing all of them during a level guarantees the player an A-rank, provided they have not taken any damage and have landed within the time limit. However, the complexity of the title lies in the A+ rank, which requires the player to accumulate Acrobatic Points by performing rolls and other dangerous manoeuvres – such as flying low to the ground with the plane inverted. Having to divide one's attention between multiple tasks while completing the main objective can be a particularly daunting task, and Sky Odyssey highlights the ceiling of skill the player can achieve. On the shorter maps (Stormy Seas), reaching the 5,000 point mark is a merciless test of the pilot's skills. Yet these elements are entirely optional; it is perfectly possible to enjoy the game for its contemplative atmosphere and forgo the more difficult challenges; some aircraft will not be unlocked, but this does not detract from the quality of the game.

     For a poetry of exploration: freedom and wonder

Sky Odyssey really shines with its scenography. From the very first levels, the pilot must infiltrate ravines and tunnels, with rocks crashing down from all sides. The environment is full of motion and nature often dwarfs the player with its ancient majesty. From one level to the next, the player can see stone spires reaching into the sky, torrential rain beating down on the plane's wings, or mysterious forests with towering trees. The title alternates between very natural scenes, traces of recent activity and the dilapidated ruins of an ancient civilisation. This combination creates an astonishing and tenderly human contemplation. The trials of wind and land make the player seem insignificant compared to the breadth of nature. Aeroplanes, however much they enable humankind to fulfil its ancient dream of soaring through the skies, do not alter its place in the universe and the course of time. The pilot seeks to discover Eden, but it is only a quest of exploration. Unlike the traditional pulp adventure, he doesn't steal anything, but merely bears witness to those who have lived before.

Throughout the levels, the player is treated to scenes that are strongly reminiscent of Hayao Miyazaki's cinema. This is not surprising given his passion for aviation. The spirit of freedom depicted in Mirai Shōnen Conan (1978), Lupin III: The Castle of Cagliostro (1979) or Porco Rosso (1992) is distinctly apparent, while the landscapes recall of the greasy plains and rugged mountains over which Nausicaä in Kaze no Tani no Naushika (1984). Like Miyazaki, the Sky Odyssey team mixes the poetry of flying with a fascination for the technical aspects of aviation. Just as Sky Odyssey allows the player to modify aircraft parts or choose the Kyushu J7W1, an experimental aircraft that was never built, Miyazaki's mangas are much more concrete and give a glimpse of his love of pure engineering. Hikōtei jidai (1989), published in Model Graphix, an aviation magazine, foreshadowed Porco Rosso and featured the iconic red seaplane in sumptuous watercolours.

This unique atmosphere is enhanced by a surprising soundtrack for an aviation game, composed by Kow Otani. Prior to his work on Shadow of the Colossus (2005), he was already known for his work on numerous anime and films, creating rich and emotionally dense atmospheres. His contributions to Mobile Suit Gundam Wing (1995) and Outlaw Star (1998), among many others, were inspired by Jerry Goldsmith's modernist score for Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979). Otani's compositions were symphonic poems, conjuring up the full range of emotions associated with space adventure. The Sky Odyssey soundtrack follows the same approach, but Otani was inspired by traditional Bulgarian songs. He used female choirs, unexpected intervals and complex rhythms to create a strange depth, while writing the lyrics in Japanese; similarly, the ruins of Eden, a city where only marble columns and buildings carved into the cliffs remain, are reminiscent of those of Perperikon and Laputa in Tenkū no Shiro Laputa (1986). This cultural syncretism foreshadowed the contemplative tracks of Shadow of the Colossus and is similar to the mystical work of Keiichi Okabe on Nier (2010).

Sky Odyssey is a nuanced and rich experience always dedicated to the player. The different game modes and difficulty levels, the customisation elements and the unbridled curiosity of the exploration all contribute to making it a truly unique title. The game did not stand out and is largely forgotten in the history of Japanese flight simulators. But Sky Odyssey is brimming with good intentions and memorable scenes. Rejecting violent dogfight action and hyper-realistic simulation, it portrays the thousand-year-old dream of soaring through the heavens. Sguardo verso il ciel saprai – lì a casa il cuore sentirai.

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

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

     A formula based on Dungeons & Dragons rules

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

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

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

     Some diverse but often obsolete mechanics

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

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

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

     Exploration abandoned in favour of grinding: an artificial approach

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

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

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

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

     'That outfit is a bit.... Erm.'

Played with BertKnot – and joined by Ranirinn –, in preparation for our Zelda Marathon podcast.

In the early 2010s, during the development of The Legend of Zelda: A Link Between Worlds (2013), Hiromasa Shikata, who had worked as a planner on Spirit Tracks (2009), wanted to explore the idea of a multiplayer Zelda. The inspiration came from the asymmetrical gameplay of the DS title, where the player could control the Phantoms along with the Princess. A symbiosis was needed to progress through the various puzzles, and the touch screen was used to make the experience as readable and intuitive as possible. Based on this experience, Shikata decided to create a title that would take full advantage of this mechanic by having players work together with various items to progress. By focusing solely on multiplayer, Shikata's project was structurally flawed because it ignored critical elements. In particular, his desire to amputate the title's single-player mode, which was only curtailed by Aonuma, foreshadowed the game design blunders that would plague the title.

     Something is rotten in the kingdom of Hytopia

The player assumes the role of Link – a few years after A Link Between Worlds – as he travels to the kingdom of Hytopia. The latter has been cursed, forcing Princess Styla to wear a rather hideous grey full-bodysuit that makes her look vaguely like Tingle or a Super Sentai henchman. Full of altruism, the hero decides to help the young woman by battling the witch, The Lady, through thirty-two levels in order to obtain her accessories and craft an outfit capable of lifting the exorcism. The player is immediately struck by the silliness of the title, which stands in stark contrast to the traditional tone of the franchise; while the DS instalments may have been lighter, playing on more prosaic and stereotypical personalities such as the tsundere Zelda, they were nonetheless imbued with a degree of gravitas that has historically inhabited the series. Tri Force Heroes eschews these considerations and is particularly verbose for nothing, stringing together insipid gags and more or less conservative clichés.

Aside from Styla, whose post-curse appearance serves to mock a deviation from the expected feminine norm in traditional fantasy – long, silky blonde hair framing a sweet face – the rest of the cast is unpleasantly odd. The saleswoman, for example, is a fat-phobic cliché not uncommon in Japan, with a false air of bon vivant. Throughout the adventure, there seems to be something rotten in Hytopia. The small town looks like a replica of a typical Zelda game village, but there is something hypocritical about the personality of the various characters: this is probably because the characters say nothing about the world around them, unlike the archetypes of previous titles, whose discomfort allows an eschatological atmosphere to be conveyed, as in Ocarina of Time (1998) or Majora's Mask (2000), to name but two.

     Coordination issues: an unpleasant and turbulent cooperation

In its main gameplay loop, Tri Force Heroes requires the player to complete the levels alone or with the help of two companions. If they choose to go solo, all puzzles remain the same, and they must solve them using the two provided doppelgangers, switching between characters as the puzzles unfold. Each level begins with the distribution of three items, which are split between the three characters – whether they are doppelgangers or real players. Structural differences with Four Swords Adventures (2004) and Spirit Tracks are immediately apparent, suggesting the erratic ways in which the game plunges in for long hours. First and foremost, the competitive aspect of the title has disappeared completely: unlike previous multiplayer titles, where players could compete to be the hero with the most Rupees at the end of a level, here all resources are shared, including hearts. In Four Swords Adventures, death was not a problem, as the player was instantly resurrected in exchange for a fairy. Because they were so easy to collect, players were never penalised for getting involved in the game and getting in each other's way, with cooperation naturally resurfacing during the more intense sequences.

In Tri Force Heroes, hearts are shared between the three players, making it particularly easy to lose three hearts in a single attack or get stunned in a death cycle. In single-player mode, doppelgangers take no damage unless they fall into the void, so it is possible to use Totem Time, a mechanic that involves grabbing another character to lift them up and solve certain puzzles, without ever risking anything. With other companions, each attack on the Totem multiplies the damage taken by its height, which quickly becomes disastrous. As players only have three lives per level, there is a constant tension that damages the overall atmosphere and is frustrating at the slightest miscommunication or wrong move by a companion. This problem is compounded by the online functionality, which does not allow for any form of communication beyond a few primitive emotes, making it a constant struggle to coordinate effectively: external communication is necessary, but is only partially helpful in certain puzzles, where the timing is already particularly tight.

     From gameplay asymmetry to exclusion from the action

Apart from creating a generally abysmal multiplayer experience that does not lend itself to blind exploration, as it is particularly frustrating to have to restart an entire level after a boss has repeatedly killed the team, Tri Force Heroes, for all its inspiration, seems to have completely overlooked what made Spirit Tracks stand out. In the latter, the player controls Link and Zelda at the same time, as it was possible to buffer the actions of the Phantom controlled by the Princess to coordinate attacks: the armour can smash the enemy from the front, while Link goes around it to attack from behind. Planning Zelda's movements and then adjusting Link's actions was a strong mechanic, made possible by the ingenious use of the stylus, which allowed actions to be chained together organically. In Tri Force Heroes, the asymmetry of gameplay is more or less mimicked by the different items at the players' disposal, but the puzzles rarely require a complex sequence of actions. On more than one occasion, certain items seem distinctly underused: the bow feels like an inferior version of the boomerang, especially when the latter is upgraded to deal massive damage in addition to stun.

Progression in Tri Force Heroes is indeed both sluggish and chaotic. There is rarely a sense of accomplishment, as the puzzles feel more like obstacles, easy to understand, but difficult to execute due to the multiplayer mechanics, abusive inclusion of enemies, or deliberately cruel elements (wind, precariously balanced platforms, ice, etc.). Totem's mechanics quickly become tiresome, and by the second world all the possibilities have been explored: all that remains is tedious manipulation to get everyone in the right spot, which is not helped by the button mapping, with the A button overloaded with various actions, while Y and X are generally useless. Why a three-player experience? According to Shikata, the idea was to force full cooperation, as a group of four could split into two groups of two autonomous people, especially with the Totem mechanic being boring for players who would be in the middle of the formation. [1]

     The economics of grinding and the player dichotomy

This justification is a confession of failure: the cooperation emphasised in Four Swords Adventures was based on organic puzzles that required everyone to be in a specific place and perform a specific action. The same puzzles could be solved with a reduced number of players, but they would require some inelegant back and forth. Collaboration in Four Swords Adventures worked because it was enjoyable, natural and seamless. Too often, Tri Force Heroes allows one player to brute force an entire level with the right outfit. Each level gives the player a chance to collect an item that can be used to craft new outfits with varying effects. It is possible to start a level with more hearts, increase Link's power, enhance an item or neutralise level hazards such as lava, ice or wind. The Boomeranger, for example, adds damage to the Boomerang, as well as extending its range and size, making it one of the most effective weapons in the game: the player can chain stun bosses and obliterate large numbers of enemies who are usually able to parry conventional strikes. A well-prepared player can easily render the other two heroes obsolete and solve all the puzzles in an emergent manner.

However, in order to obtain these outfits, the player will have to spend time repeatedly going through the different levels in search of the necessary materials. They are invited to complete bonus challenges, which are variations of the standard levels with unique objectives (time limit, reduced health, no items, etc.). These challenges are generally an example of poor level design, and tend to make the levels unnecessarily protracted; yet they are essential in order to obtain rare materials. The issue is that these outfits will always be more or less obsolete, should a group of players just try to get to the end of the game as quickly as possible, as they enhance items found in previous levels. Only towards the endgame will they become useful again, if the players have bothered to craft them. If not, they will be forced to go through a grind phase or try to compensate for the levels' cruel design with personal skill, something they are unlikely to achieve when discovering a level for the first time.

Tri Force Heroes, like Four Swords Adventures, is full of references to some of the franchise's iconic game design elements. The final levels of every world are reminiscent of A Link to the Past (1991), but without any character, while the bosses are sometimes well-known enemies. But the reference for the sake of the reference never manages to match the title's gameplay. Tri Force Heroes remains a perpetual chore, a kind of Zelda-game-as-a-service, designed to keep the player's attention for several weeks, with daily micro-sessions, encouraged by the Daily Rewards system. By focusing exclusively on structurally flawed elements, the title has denied itself the chance to create a coherent and cohesive multiplayer adventure. The single-player experience is no better, as it is uncomfortable to switch characters with the stylus while moving and performing actions with the other buttons: the option to skip a section in exchange for a fairy and a lesser reward – welcome as it is for accessibility – feels like an easy expedient to remedy the overall mediocrity of the levels. This lack of identity and clear horizon is evident in the various puzzles, which are extremely difficult in either multiplayer or single player. In the end, it is difficult to understand who Tri Force Heroes is really intended for.

__________
[1] GameSpot, « The Story Behind Triforce Heroes: An Interview With Aonuma and Shikata », 25th October 2015, consulted on 20th March 2023.

     ‘Another hundred days before the resurrection ceremony!’

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (Mar. 14 – Mar. 20, 2023).

In the early 1990s, the majority of Korean video game production ignored the platformer genre. Titles such as Sin'geom-ui Jeonseol (1987) or Pungnyu Hyeopgaek (1989) were representative of an RPG genre inspired by the Ultima series. Some titles followed the Japanese shoot'em up tradition, while others were elimination games where the player had to kill all the enemies on a screen. Lychnis holds a special significance, as it is generally accepted that it was the first Korean title to use smooth scrolling. This new technology allowed the game to explore the platformer format more thoroughly and offer a full adventure. Perhaps due to its ambitious marketing, which relied heavily on this feature, the title is remembered by Korean gamers as one of the pioneers of the second generation of Korean video games. Softmax is better known for its The War of Genesis series (1995-2000), but there are elements of Lychnis in it. Similarly, producer and programmer Kim Hak-kyun later founded Gravity, whose games also borrow ideas from Lychnis, as can be seen in Lars the Wanderer (1995).

     Lychnis' difficulty is a wolf in sheep's clothing

The player assumes the role of Lychnis or Iris, young adults who decide to embark on an adventure to defeat Sakiski, whose desire is to use the weapons of Hartinium to resurrect an ancient dragon and conquer the continent of Laurasia. The story is presented in a short cutscene, with an electric and solemn music accompanied by long dramatic arpeggios, before focusing on the two heroes and shifting to an optimistic and light melody, as well as shimmering colours, heralding the spirit of K-fantasy that would flourish on the Internet in the late 1990s. The relatively short adventure takes place in five different worlds, leading up to a showdown with Sakiski: at the start, the player can choose their character, each with a different moveset. While Lychnis attacks in close combat and can perform wall jumps, Iris fights from a distance with her magic and can double-jump; for this reason, she is generally the easiest character to control, making some of the platforming sequences less challenging.

Lychnis opens with levels reminiscent of Super Mario World (1990), but with more faded colours. As the first world is set in a forest, the early enemies are rather cute, if not particularly detailed, and give the adventure a childlike quality. The difficulty is fairly low, which seems to make Lychnis a relaxing title. Soon enough, the player will notice fundamental differences with the controls of the Mario games. For example, Lychnis does not allow the player to adjust the trajectory of a jump once the character is in the air: this design choice does not seem dramatic, as the first two stages offer plenty of space to avoid enemies. However, the game's philosophy shifts radically in Stage 1-3, where it is obvious that the developers wanted to display the technological achievement of their scrolling. This level is excessively long due to the exceptionally slow auto-scrolling: it also insists on platforming sequences that are moderately difficult – although the lack of visibility doesn't help – but prove less straightforward than expected due to the inertia of the jumps. It is particularly easy to fall into the void after a few minutes, forcing the player to start from the beginning of the level, as there are no checkpoints.

     A title that does not communicate its gameplay intentions

The protracted nature of Stage 1-3 makes it a particularly unexpected difficulty surge, in contrast to the tranquillity of the early levels. Lychnis is actually quite a challenging game. Later levels show little reluctance in multiplying enemies to overwhelm the player, and the platforming becomes increasingly unforgiving. In Stage 2-2, the player has to cross the level on moving platforms, similar to the lifts of Super Mario Bros. 3 (1988). The very poor visibility and the inability to control the jump in mid-air – at most, Iris can use her second jump to try to reposition herself – make this sequence an unpleasant obstacle to navigate. Occasional collision problems further complicate the progression. Such problems persist throughout the adventure, to the extent that the title has gained a reputation for being impossible to beat, not because of the aggressiveness of the enemies, but because of its unergonomic platforming. In World 4, the mountains form labyrinths that are somewhat navigable, but the player is not guided by any visual cues to find their way out: they must wander until they reach a new section, sometimes discovering secret passages as they go. Platforms are often positioned off-screen, forcing the player to make a blind jump and hope that there are no enemies on the other side to push them over the edge.

Lychnis suffers from poor communication, as it never manages to make clear what is expected of the player. In particular, it slyly hides its RPG mechanic. Throughout the five worlds, the player progresses through a traditional action platformer, but the situation changes with the showdown with Sakiski. It is literally a slot machine where the player must try to line up identical symbols as best they can to attack the boss. Because of the random nature of the battle, the only way to ensure victory is to have collected and purchased enough items with the money earned in the levels. Unfortunately, this requirement is never mentioned in the title, except in the manual, and it is entirely possible to fail against Sakiski due to insufficient equipment. Some of the items are prohibitively expensive, suggesting a need to explore the various levels in search of gold coins. It is quite difficult to understand the exact intention of the title, whose grammar oscillates between opposite poles.

Lychnis is a rather frustrating title that is not easily mastered, as its difficulty seems so disconnected from the atmosphere it exudes. However, the game does offer a real variety, with levels that renew their gimmicks one after the other. Some are more focused on action and combat, while others offer rigorous platforming. There is an undeniable charm to this game, which ushered in a new era for Korean video games. Nevertheless, the modern player should not be fooled by the colourful sprites and upbeat music: Lychnis requires more effort than one might think. Amusingly enough, the final world seems to sum up the title's philosophy much more accurately, with endless waves of enemies and a soundtrack that bears an uncanny resemblance to ZUN's work.