Don’t you hate those people who ask your opinion on a certain topic just to respond by telling you that you’re wrong? Take these awkward snobs with a grain of salt, for their patronizing way of conducting what is intended to be subjective discourse is ultimately another shot to their feet in their potential social circles. Still, where do they get the nerve? If one of these people asks me what the greatest JRPG of all time is (a rousing inquiry for sophisticated young adults, to be sure) and I answer with Paper Mario, Persona 5, or any of my other favorites that fit the genre description, I’d be sure to receive a look of smug derision and would be duly informed that the correct answer was Chrono Trigger. While I do not entertain endorsing the notion of an objective best across any form of media, the fact that tons of people have credited Chrono Trigger with this title-holder designation is certainly riveting. What is especially astounding is that even people who were born after Chrono Trigger was released are among the ones championing it as the pinnacle of the JRPG genre, and this is the same demographic of gamers that whinge incessantly when Zelda games don’t feature voice acting and when checkpoints aren’t as charitable as a soup kitchen. I don’t mean to generalize (especially upon realizing that I fit the demographic that I’m admonishing), but I never expected those who grew up with 3D graphics to laud a pixelated game on the SNES with such glowing praise in a million years. After finally playing Chrono Trigger when all of the veneration became too widespread to ignore, I think I’m now one of the annoying people who would bolster Chrono Trigger as the king of the JRPG genre to all of those even remotely interested in the gaming medium. Well, okay, I’m not entirely certain that Chrono Trigger has smitten me to that extent. Still, Chrono Trigger is an all-around impressive feat for the JRPG genre.

To think that what is the supposed magnum opus of the JRPG genre was initially going to be another brick in the sky-scraping wall of Final Fantasy titles. Whether or not one actively plays JRPGs, any and all gamers are aware of Square’s series for its synonymity with the genre. Because Final Fantasy is one of the founding fathers of the JRPG genre, its idiosyncrasies molded the facets that everyone associates the genre with, and some gamers like myself tend to find Final Fantasy somewhat disagreeable. The acquired taste of the turn-based combat mechanic is not my core discrepancy: it’s the presentational aspects of Final Fantasy that resonate an uncomforting sickened feeling inside me. Final Fantasy tends to be overwrought with gooey proverbial cheese dripping all over the dialogue and narrative arcs, confounding saccharine melancholy with profundity. To throw off my appetite even further, all of the cornball narrative elements are supported by a presentational flair so bombastic that it’s libel to make me laugh instead of weep as intended. Final Fantasy is the equivalent of a video game soap opera and the fact that the series has run as long as the airtime tenure of any standard daytime television serial hilariously strengthens this comparison. For all following JRPGs rooted entirely in fantasy, the highfalutin balderdash of Final Fantasy has unfortunately seeped into their foundation. This is why I prefer “domestic JRPGs,” my own patented term to describe games in the genre that intermingle fantasy elements in a domestic setting to keep the tone level-headed. Because Chrono Trigger was developed by the same studio as Final Fantasy and bears all of the fantastical hallmarks of that series from a first impression, I readily assumed that I wouldn’t be singing the same high praises for Chrono Trigger upon playing it. Instead, I’d be rolling my eyes constantly as I would with any of the titles in Square’s trademark IP. However, while Chrono Trigger is thematically ensconced in the realm of pure fantasy, the game has a narrative ace up its sleeve that piques my interest: time travel. This tried and true science fiction trope always serves as an intriguing plot device, even though the logic behind it is completely fallacious. Still, centering the plot of Chrono Trigger around the concept of time travel is not what inherently makes the game so exceptional. Hell, Final Fantasy often uses time travel to invigorate its plots or premises. However, Final Fantasy tends to romanticize the idea of time travel and its otherworldly implications as a video game defined by extravagance naturally would. Chrono Trigger differs from its bigger brother at Square by tapping into the existential implications of time travel as its thematic ethos, which makes the premise all the more substantial.

Time is of the essence in Chrono Trigger, which is precisely why the game wastes very little of it in the expository introduction. Like all great adventures, they all begin with our hero waking up to a brand new day in the comfort of their own bed before venturing off to the uncharted beyond. Crono, the spiky-haired teenage hero in question, is suggested to spend his day at The Millennial Fair by his mom for a joyous time playing carnival games and engaging with the other lighthearted attractions on display. This event is held every millennium in the land of Guardia to both celebrate the kingdom’s inception and commemorate the victory of a war held here that took place four centuries ago against the monstrous mystics. Immediately as Crono enters the fair, his skull smacks right into that of a blonde girl named Marle, who insists on following Crono around the fair like a desperate date once he returns her pendant she spilled in the head-on collision. Once Crono and Marle humor the teleportation device built by Crono’s precocious tech-wiz friend Lucca, the process goes awry and sends Marle through a portal that materializes due to the converging power of her pendant and the energy of Lucca’s machine. Once Crono dives into the portal to follow Marle, he finds himself in a comparatively underdeveloped Guardia: 400 years in the past during the peak of the Mystic War that the humans in Crono’s time were speaking of in retrospect as a historical milestone. As an act of oppositional aggression, the mystics have abducted Guardia’s human queen Leene, and her regal cabinet has mistaken her for Marle because she’s a dead ringer descendent. To ensure the human’s triumph over the mystics hasn’t been warped by his sudden disturbance, Crono and Lucca must stay here in the past to proactively rescue the queen and preserve the state of the future. Despite how tempting the strongman game and soda chugging contest are, ignoring the distractions the fair provides and staying on the linear progression path will see Crono fighting imps in Truce Canyon in about five minutes tops. It’s refreshing to see a JRPG prioritize catapulting the player into the action as opposed to a hefty majority of them that take a millennium to get going.

Chrono Trigger is also breathtakingly gorgeous. I realize it’s a surface-level commendation for a game that I’m touting as the cerebral savior of the traditional JRPG game, but I’d be absolutely remiss if I omitted this aspect from my review. I’m a staunch defender of pixelated graphics and their aesthetic legitimacy, but even I had no idea how heavenly they could look until I played Chrono Trigger. Pixel art’s strength is in its endearing quality, but that sense of endearment does admittedly stem from a rough-hewn jaggedness that still persisted with 16-bit graphics. Somehow for a game on a pixel-based console, Chrono Trigger’s visuals are practically free of blemishes. It’s a lucky teenager with silky, clear skin surrounded by a school of peers whose faces are still riddled with acne. The expressive humanity that is often diminished with such a rudimentary rendering of gaming visuals is not compromised, showcased as early as the fun house attraction in a Millennial Fair tent when Crono plays Simon Says with a clone of himself. Lucca’s Gato robot with his own attraction at the fair isn’t displayed here to showcase the combat before Crono is forced to fend for himself as intended: his early encounter is really to show off the gleaming sheen of his red armor that is so crystal clear that Chrono can practically see his reflection as he’s fighting it. The Guardia Forest situated between the royal estate and the mainland guarding the castle like a grassy moat is serenity incarnate, and I’d meditate in its natural glory for the whole game if I reasonably could. A scene as insignificant as the construction site of the Zenan Bridge in the Middle Ages still presents a marvelous backdrop of a shining horizon contrasting with the dark clouds engulfing it, beaming over the still river water. The sublime scenery presented here is a single tear-inducing sight. I’d send it as a postcard to all of my close friends and relatives, rejecting further engagements with them if they couldn’t appreciate the beauty that I’ve generously shared. The overworld map is rendered more one-dimensionally because it serves as a spatial middle ground that connects all of the intricately detailed places of interest. Still, even with the chibi-sized characters moving around the map with the same directional rigidness of a checkerboard piece, the backdrop of the map is still a divine depiction of the enchanted land of Guardia that sends the same awe-stricken tingles throughout my entire body. I always stated that it was a dumb decision to abandon sprite animation almost entirely in favor of stampeding toward the arguably more obtuse-looking early 3D graphics in the next generation. However, I now consider that the industry might have collectively peeked at Chrono Trigger and unanimously decided that no other game could best its pixelated beauty.

Regarding Chrono Trigger’s key gameplay attributes that the astounding presentation supports, the game is a tad less orthodox than the average JRPG churned out from Square. If you’re one of the fussy few who is turned off by the inorganic flow of turn-based combat found across most if not all JRPGs, Chrono Trigger’s approach to the genre’s distinguishing mechanic should quell the complaints from the dissenters. To accent Chrono Trigger’s combat system, I have to bury my sense of shame and inform you all that I was forced to redo the entire introduction at the fair. An imp at Truce Canyon kicked me in the back of the head unexpectedly as I was scrolling through the battle menu and the blunt impact killed Crono on sight (my health was already low because I fought Lucca’s robot for some silver points). I accidentally gave the green, chrome-domed twerp his golden opportunity to smite me because it hadn’t occurred to me that Chrono Trigger’s combat was running in real-time for all combatants. Chrono Trigger’s unique approach to turn-based combat involves slackening the polite parameters that all parties must abide by amid battle, instead opting to have a free-form fling with limited barriers. The player’s handicap that complies with the game’s lenient rules is a white bar that fully depletes after choosing an option from the menu. Once the action has been executed, the selected character will be completely inactive until it regenerates, which can either be an instant charge or a lethargic build-up depending on the character. This cool-down period, of course, leaves them vulnerable to enemy fire, commencing the opposition’s “turn” during battle. I’d debate the issue of whether or not Chrono Trigger’s combat is entirely fair, considering the enemies tend to assault Crono and friends with a barrage of pain and status afflictions seemingly without being tethered by the same regulations. Spamming disastrous spells every two seconds will become a harrowing reality to endure with the bosses in the later period of the game. Still, every enemy’s superior stamina is just another engaging facet of Chrono Trigger’s combat to put into consideration when facing them. Chrono Trigger adds an appreciated frenetic spark to the dry and tired turn-based system with minute adjustments, and the higher energy emulates something more akin to realistic combat without fracturing the JRPG base.

The way in which Chrono Trigger conducts the leveling-up mechanic also splices up the JRPG tradition. While the character’s physical attributes grow stronger in small increments with every level as usual, the game also tracks the accumulation of “tech points,” a separate system that increases in tandem with the standard leveling. After battles are won, the tech points will go towards learning special abilities for Crono and his presently chosen array of pals. For instance, the first ability that Crono can unlock with tech points involves a “cyclone” move that involves using his sword as a makeshift helicopter propeller, and the “slash” move swipes Crono’s sword on the ground as he flings the friction it creates towards enemies as a projectile. These special moves are an asset to targeting multiple enemies, preventing swathes of vulnerability with more enemies on the field. Crono can really expand the blast radius of his offense with his magic maneuvers that also coincide with tech points. Once Chrono and the majority of his partners are trained in the art of witchcraft by the furry mage Spekkio at the edge of time, the player will practically never revert back to regular attacks with these characters. The magic powers between Crono, Marle, Lucca, and Frog run the gamut of electricity, ice, fire, and water respectively, so it's an eclectic range of elemental forces. Chrono Trigger’s true innovation involving the tech points is unlocking “dual techs' which allows Crono to combine his special maneuvers with that of one of his partners, provided both of their bars are simultaneously full. To no one’s surprise, the elemental flair added to Crono’s cyclone and deadly single spincut move proves far deadlier than when executed plainly. But the dual techs don’t only serve to enhance Crono: any two of Crono’s partners can also converge their special abilities to great effect, even Robo and Ayla who are respectively both too primitive and too technological to execute any feats of magic. Any magic user can still slather them in elemental energy for a lethal combination of power. Depending on the roulette of characters in battle and, of course, if their bars are fully prepared, executing a “tri-attack” combines the special offensive properties of three characters to create total devastation. The partner characters can only earn tech points if they are often following alongside Crono for an extended period on the field, so the player is encouraged to change up their party roster frequently. The synergy between Crono and his friends is mechanically deeper than the cast of playable characters in any JRPG beforehand, and mixing up the roster to see the varied extent of the dual techs never ceases to be interesting.

But how can one possibly juggle the collective experience of six different characters at once to maximize all of their individual proficiencies? Well, I did say that a specific character had to be present in the roster to earn tech points, but I didn’t state this was also necessary for overall experience points. Only three characters can teleport through the time rifts at once, an instance of time continuum bylaws fabricated by the developers as a convenient loophole to limit the party. When Crono collects a number of adventurers that exceed this limit, the extras are stored as benchwarmers in a mystical mezzanine ostensibly suspended above the infinite ether of time itself. While the holdovers are here suspended in tranquil nothingness playing cards, Pictionary, or whatever to alleviate their boredom, somehow their idleness will still translate to gaining experience. Sure, any partners fighting alongside Crono will gain as much experience as our protagonist, but all of the other partners sitting around twiddling their thumbs will amazingly be trailing behind in levels ever so slightly. When I realized that my absent party members were not deprived of experience points upon returning to them at the end of time, I was relieved beyond belief. A prevalent insecurity common among JRPGs is their pension for having the player undergo painstaking grinding sessions to artificially pad out the length of the game. For once, Chrono Trigger is a JRPG that is confident in its estimated runtime and does away with what I consider to be the most unappealing aspect of playing a JRPG. If only Chrono Trigger set an example for future JRPGs in this regard. On the whole, it’s yet another merit of Chrono Trigger’s general accessibility. Healing items for both health and magic are always in abundance whether or not the player is proactively opening every chest on the field or buying them in bulk at the shops across any period. The gold currency needed to purchase these helpful wares is rewarded in surprisingly hefty quantities after every battle, and the player can possibly heal themselves and their entire party at once with a “shelter” item whenever they spot themselves on one of the various save states that are generously placed around every enclosed area. The player will never become attached to one basic weapon or armor accessory because the game will consistently provide new and improved models and fashion for all characters. One might gather all of this information and make a deduction that Chrono Trigger is as revered as it is because it’s so accessible to the point of being effortless. However, Chrono Trigger staves off being baby’s first JRPG by inflicting dire punishment for mistakes during battle, with enemy damage totaling up to numbers in the hundreds if the player isn’t honing their battle strategy. The diverse defensive properties across all of the enemies also require risk-taking and observation to always keep the player on their toes.

With a game so manageable, why would Crono need a ragtag team of time travelers to provide an extra elemental kick to his sword swings? One of Chrono Trigger’s greatest strengths is the rich level of depth and personability found among all its characters, especially those with elongated exposure in Crono’s RPG party. If an RPG party is intended to be an eclectic Breakfast Club band, Chrono Trigger’s primary cast is as diversely colorful as a rainbow. Firstly, Marle is not the typical damsel in distress like the game establishes her in the beginning. Sure, her hyper-feminine demeanor fits the bubbly blonde female trope like an elegant opera glove on a starlet’s arm, and discovering she’s Guardia royalty doesn’t aid my point. However, Marle’s dissatisfaction with high society and reject her regal birthname of Nadia as she tells her kingly father to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine shows more autonomous spunk than her dainty upbringing would normally warrant. For context, Marle isn’t rebelling against her family because of teenage angst, for that wouldn’t be atypical for her gender or age. She’s infuriated that her family's cabinet sentenced Crono to be executed by the state for simply bringing her home from captivity and the trial beforehand where this sentence was decreed cherry-picked from the trivial actions Crono committed in his brief stint at the Millenial Fair in the introduction. Being judged for the most minor of misconduct during this sequence was genuinely appalling and hair-raising, and I’m glad Marle sided with justice rather than the comfort of her privileged status.

Existing in the same “modern” period of Guardia as Crono and Marle is Lucca, the only partner character that already has an established relationship with the protagonist prior to the events of the game. If you ask me, the brainy, asexual girl trope is as overused as that of the girly-girl, and placing Lucca alongside Marle practically exudes a stark Velma and Daphne dynamic far too commonly seen among groups of characters (that involve women in the first place). While Lucca’s backstory isn’t as involved as Marle’s, frequent visitations to her house and interactions with her dad for Lucca’s armor upgrades give Lucca a human warmness that the aloof, calculating character trope she falls under usually rejects. Witnessing how her mother lost her legs in an industrial accident and the palpable trauma from Lucca’s reaction is genuinely heartbreaking.

Reaching beyond the confines of modern times allows Crono to expand his party past two neighbor girls to seriously wild possibilities. The most paradoxical pairing in Crono’s party is Ayla and Robo, two characters whose interactions are so absurd that their close proximity that Crono has caused with his time philandering should fracture the space-time continuum into itty bitty pieces. Ayla is a cavewoman from the ripe dawn of human civilization, while Robo is a clanking bucket of bolts from humanity’s bitter epilogue. Ayla is aggressive and blunt, solving her problems by hitting them like an ankylosaurus while Robo is neutral and impersonal as one would expect from someone programmed with artificial intelligence. The commonality these characters share is they are both fishes out of the water from the absolute parallel of ponds, and their exposure to modernity fosters domestic growth for both of them. Lucca’s character arc intertwines with that of Robo in that their mutual mechanical aptitude evolves into pure, platonic affection, a result unexpected with these two particular characters.

By far, the most complex and tragic of Crono’s posse is Frog, an anthropomorphic amphibian who daylights as a knight in the queen’s service during the Middle Ages. Like someone who carries the honor of this noble duty, Frog is loyal to a T and will happily die to protect the monarchy that governs his land with unbridled enthusiasm while speaking the king’s English with full affectation. If he does, it wouldn’t be as tragic as what actually happened to him. Until the game’s halfway point, the player will probably wonder if seeing a talking frog means that hopping from period to period has had a dizzying mental effect on Crono and his friends. We discover that Frog was once a human named Glenn who initially joined the queen’s service in the fight against the mystics to toughen up his overly sensitive interior alongside his best friend Cyrus. Once Cyrus is fatally stricken by the Mystic leader Magus, the dark fiend transforms Glenn into a frog as an adjunct act of cruelty. Once we’re privy to Frog’s backstory, we come to understand his tentative quirks and empathize with his willingness to destroy Magus.

From a certain perspective, one could argue that the setting of Guardia is the unspoken champion of complexity across all of Chrono Trigger’s characters. As the game progresses, every bandage that obscures the fascinating history of the fantasy land is unraveled, peeling back the mystique by visiting the six notable periods. How Chrono Trigger’s story progresses is the accumulative gathering of more context on Guardia’s past, present, and future, and is brilliantly constructed in a non-linear fashion where each period has a primary arc that is completed incrementally in conjunction with all of the others. Because Chrono Trigger’s plot hops around like a cocaine-addled rabbit, it’s imperative to discuss each period individually from the least amount of insight to the most.

1000 AD is the year of Guardia’s present day, and all seems a little too well. For those pedantic types, yes, 1000 AD in reality’s timeline is still smack dab in the Middle Ages. In Chrono Trigger’s timeline, their victory over the mystics in 600 AD allowed their Renaissance period to ignite much sooner. Because Guardia got a head start, their period of humanistic prosperity is far more advanced if Lucca’s robot and the steamboats floating in their harbor are any indication. Some might point out anachronistic errors, but Guardia is ultimately still a fantasy world not confined by historical accuracy. Besides, the wooden, old-world aesthetic of 1000 AD with the prevalent technological advancements here strikes a wondrous, timeless ambiguity that somehow fits, emulating that brand of Hayao Miyazaki magic found in the worlds he creates for his films. The aura here is elated like a Miyazaki world because everyone has let their guard down for 400 years. Celebrating the milestone of winning the war seems redundant because every day here seems like a celebration of the peace and prosperity they’ve earned. That is, the cheerful and nonchalant attitude is only felt in Leene Square where Crono, Lucca, and Marle reside along with their fellow humankind. One boat ride from Leene away on the island of Medina is the district of the mystics, who are still simmering over their defeat four centuries ago and are waiting for their day of retribution. The atmosphere here is one of disquieting tension, establishing that the conflict between the humans and the mystics is far from over and will be a recurring conflict throughout the game.

Reverting back to the climactic peak of the Mystics War back in 600 AD gives Crono and pals more insight into what actually occurred that allowed them to live in peace, especially since the onus to facilitate that outcome is now on them because of time adulteration. The one distinctive signifier that separates Guardia in the Middle Ages from the present is a hazy mist engulfing the land, and the wooden architecture across all civilizations is also less refined. The prevalent fogginess probably represents that unrest is ubiquitous during war times, which is then expounded on with every scene in this time period aiding the war effort with intense bouts of combat. Here, we meet the Mystic generals that the modern-day mystics practically lionize: Ozzie the portly, green tactician, the purple, sword-wielding Slash, and the non-binary Flea. With the ominous Magus as their commander, taking down these four major figures of the Mystic War is paramount to bringing about a better tomorrow for mankind. Upon restoring the mythical Masamune sword that Cyrus once owned, the climatic segment of the war where Crono and pals infiltrate Magus’s intimidatingly spooky castle to defeat him and his cronies is a harrowing highlight.

Restoring balance to the timeline in the Middle Ages is not where Chrono Trigger ends as some probably expected from the beginning. The valuable information we learn from visiting prehistoric Guardia before it was named as such is that primordial versions of both the humans and mystics have been waging war with one another since unicellular organisms emerged. Between the untamed Pangea jungles and sites of active volcanoes lies the conflict between Ayla’s tribe of unadorned Neanderthals and mystics with dinosaur phenotypes called the Reptites. The Reptites antagonize the primitive humans to secure their place at the top of the proverbial food chain, for their leader Azala is aware that the cataclysmic comet that wiped out the dinosaurs is approaching and wishes that her non-human ilk reign supreme in the future centuries. Of course, Crono assures the opposite when his party defeats Azala, setting the human-dominating precedent that will persist for millions of years into the future.

For those whose history knowledge needs to be dusted off from their high school years, the colossal impact of the meteor slowly but surely led to the blisteringly brutal and fallow ice age that rendered the earth in a seemingly perennial blizzard. From each time period so far, we’ve only seen a skewed perspective that the humans are the moral heroes and the mystics are just incorrigible scoundrels. During the coldest era of the earth’s history when the mystics evidently scurried elsewhere, we get a taste of the humans acting maliciously towards each other. When Guardia is frozen over, human society is split in two. The impoverished half of the human race are referred to as “earthbound ones,” staving off the harsh effects of their permanent winter underground wearing nothing but rags caked with dirt as a defense. Meanwhile, on the total opposite spectrum, the Kingdom of Zeal shadows the frostbitten earth in a chain of islands suspended in the sky. Not only is the weather outside not a concern here, but the scientific and or technological accomplishments of this erudite society dwarf anything found in present-day Guardia. Besides the obvious class imbalance, an unattractive, elitist attitude against the downtrodden earthbounders persists among the Zealites. Despite their illustrious image and scholarly repute, the people of Zeal are downright rotten. The Queen of Zeal’s power trip is so potent it verges on psychosis, and her assistant Dalton is a strong contender for the most unlikable douchebag in gaming. Revealing a malevolence among the people of Zeal provides a nuanced perspective that aids how the player perceives the age-old conflict between humans and mystics.

Alas, all of the fighting amounts to nothing as eventual ruin takes over in the only future period of Guardia the player can explore in the far-off time of 2300 AD. To escape the corrupt law of the present day after Crono’s trial, Crono and pals jump into a time warp portal to a strange land that barely resembles the once glorious kingdom of Guardia. Somehow, even with the frigid dark ages as an available window of time to peer through, Guardia in the 24th century surpasses it in squalid depression. Guardia is depicted in a state of total apocalyptic stillness, with a current of dust eroding away from what was once the prosperous foundation of futuristic Guardia blustering all over the land as violently as the gusts of dark age snow. All of the color is muted in a muddy brown, and all erected modern structures have completely collapsed into the streets below. The civilization remaining in this vacant hellscape resides in a series of domes, a marvel of architectural innovation before the apocalyptic event occurred. All they do to pass the time is lie around in the musty smog of each dome’s interior waiting for a fatal hunger pang brought upon by the everlasting famine to put them out of their misery. In addition, the robots they’ve built, Robo’s models, are planning a robot uprising against the poor humans in the assorted factories located in between the domes. Stating that Guardia’s future is bleak is the understatement of the century. However, I suppose it’s not all bad considering this is where Crono and the gang uncover the Epoch, a flying time-traveling aircraft built by the time guru Belthasar that renders the drag of warping through each time portal obsolete. The Epoch is so cool and convenient that it should be uttered in the same respected breath as the Starship Enterprise and Millenium Falcon for iconic science-fiction vessels. Then again, that street race mini-game against the rogue robot Johnny here is the most objectively flawed aspect of the entire game, so the future all around still sucks out loud.

However, the various feuds between the varying two factions across Guardia’s history are not what eventually doomed it. All of the conflict was merely a distraction masking the true culprit of Guardia’s demise: an eldritch monster named Lavos who exists to parasitically absorb its chosen planet’s life force and render it desolate and barren. Apparently, Lavos’ plans to suck the earth dry is a longcon scheme, for its arrival is actually the asteroid whose impact ushered in the dark ages. In what is the earliest instance of Y2K hysteria across all media, Lavos awakens from its slumber beneath the planet’s crust in 1999 AD, flooding the world in inescapable destruction and leaving it forevermore in the state we see in 2300 AD. Knowing its devastating potential, the governing officials of Zeal attempt to abruptly summon Lavos to harness its power. Naturally, this attempt to flirt with incomprehensible energy goes horribly awry and blows the Kingdom of Zeal to smithereens. Crono ends up saving his friends from the almighty force of Lavos by sacrificing himself, causing the origin point of the time portals from the immensity. Lavos is a truly, terrifyingly intimidating cosmic force in the size and in the scope that the narrative establishes for him, making the player wonder if stopping him to save the future is a futile task.

“Did the developers just pull an Alfred Hitchcock and kill off the main character far before the falling action of the story?” I asked myself in complete shock after what had just occurred. Once the player picks themselves off their feet and control Marle as the primary party member, the dire implications of this change start to sink in. The final portion of Chrono Trigger is what I like to refer to as the “sidequest extravaganza” because the game can either end with finally tackling Lavos for real by either traveling to 1999 AD directly or finishing off the remnants of Zeal by dredging through the Black Omen dungeon which eventually leads to a more manageable Lavos encounter. Or, the player can engage with seven separate sidequests to prolong the game to a fifth of its initial length. I highly suggest humoring these sidequests not only because they reward the player handsomely with the best weapons and gear, but also because they provide essential closure to the arcs of each partner character. Glenn lays his buddy Cyrus to rest, Robo halts the computer menace, and the chancellor that sentenced Crono to the guillotine is revealed to be the direct descendant of the game’s first boss on a secret revenge mission during Marle’s sidequest. After all, the player should ideally be incentivized to prepare thoroughly to fight Lavos, and his four-stage fight will wear on the player even with the most efficient gear. How much the player is willing to do during the final stretch will also coincide with the ending they receive, and there are an impressive number of outcomes. It’s outstanding how much the player’s decisions here will affect the game’s resolution.

What resonates with me upon finishing the final section of Chrono Trigger is that our protagonist, Crono, doesn’t matter. Crono is intended to be the heroic avatar that is destined for glory, giving the player that sense of gratification. However, he disintegrated before our very eyes and the game still continues without him as par for the course. Hell, Magus, who turns out to have always been campaigning against Lavos and not for supporting his return because of what happened in Zeal on that fateful day, makes for a fine Crono surrogate if the player doesn’t allow Glenn to decapitate him to avenge Cyrus. Simply incorporating Magus as an ally is an insult to Crono’s memory, but only if you stubbornly persist with the idea that Crono is the focal point of the story. One of the endgame sidequests is a roundabout excursion to resurrect Crono, putting the clone from the fair in place at the pinpoint moment of Lavos’ attack on Zeal. Even though he returns, he no longer has a solid spot as the unchangeable leader and can be swapped out for anyone. We start to wonder what the ancillary mute is doing here among a group of characters who are vastly more interesting than he is. The inconsequential impact of Crono’s death on the plot conjures up the idea that perhaps nothing matters. The endless power struggle between those who reside on this planet will ultimately prove a stalemate because time is a cruel mistress that will end everything eventually. Time is a relative constant that waits for no one, not even those who are deemed important. It is the grand extinguisher across the cosmos. Chrono Trigger doesn’t romanticize the premise of time travel like other JRPGs: it treats the concept with honesty, causing uncomforting thoughts and feelings of one’s own mortality to creep in. It’s a scary byproduct of really effective art.

Chrono Trigger was a labor of love between three Japanese industry giants, and the goal of their painstaking efforts was to create something extraordinary that would blow the balls off of every gamer who purchased it or they would get a money-back guarantee. Well, call me a eunuch because this customer, along with several hundreds of thousands of people, is satisfied completely. By all means, Chrono Trigger should’ve alienated myself and other JRPG sticklers because of its inherent Square makeup and the fantasy premise and setting still scream that it's a Square game. However, beneath the surface, Square takes all that I find fault with Final Fantasy and commits an act of defenestration with it, starting anew from the ground up. Chrono Trigger takes turn-based combat to an unparalleled heights of involvement that is as smooth as a Guinness stout, all while trimming the fat of grinding found in most JRPGs to a sleek and slender accessibility that will still not deter the genre’s biggest enthusiasts. In an era where gaming narrative was still elementary at best, Chrono Trigger provides a story with charismatic characters handling an intelligent story involving the convoluted premise of time travel with no plot holes to be found. Goddammit, no wonder why Chrono Trigger is lauded so innumerably: the game is void of any flaws. Given that it’s a product of an era where we were still tolerating the primitiveness of a relatively new medium, the fact that Chrono Trigger supersedes all of its contemporaries to this degree is astonishing beyond words. In the almost three decades it's been since Chrono Trigger was released, the cruel mistress of time still hasn't depreciated its masterpiece status.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

Ever since the release of Super Mario Galaxy, I had always wondered how all of the successive 3D Mario titles would meet it at eye level. After all, what could possibly match the grandiose scope of freely flying throughout the infinite reaches of the universe? Logically speaking, absolutely nothing expands beyond it. While I tout Super Mario Galaxy as Mario’s finest outing across all of his mainline games, putting the plumber in a setting with an indescribably vast breadth where no one can possibly fathom its parameters peaks the franchise conceptually. My worry was that Nintendo had inadvertently squeezed the potential out of their most valuable asset, splurging all the remaining possibilities of a 3D Mario adventure into one intergalactic romp. I’m not considering the sequel to Super Mario Galaxy as proof that Mario hadn’t stagnated because Yoshi is not substantial enough of an addition. Actually, the fact that the green dinosaur was the only crumb of innovation they could implement to Galaxy’s formula is empirical evidence to my claim that it couldn’t be surpassed. The array of Mario games that followed Galaxy decided not to succeed it, but instead to ape the pre-3D classics with a polygonal coat of paint almost as a creatively bankrupt safety net. Super Mario 3D World for the Wii U, on the other hand, is technically not another 2D Mario game rendered with polygons instead of pixels. Still, considering the game features a grid-based world map and narrowly linear levels that all end by climbing a fucking flagpole, it’s a wonder how they could convince anyone that it wasn’t of the same ilk. When Super Mario Odyssey was released as the Mario representative to showcase the new Nintendo Switch console in 2017, I still remained skeptical despite hearing that it reverted back to the collectathon format and that it was receiving the same widespread acclaim not seen since Galaxy 2. It turns out that Super Mario Odyssey still doesn’t attempt to triumph over Galaxy’s magnificence, but that is actually what makes it all the more substantial.

Of course, Odyssey begins with the same general conflict premise as Galaxy. Then again, it just wouldn’t be Mario anymore if Bowser wasn’t swiping up the princess like clockwork, which means my Stockholm syndrome for Mario’s severely overused plot device is finally settling in. The unique context behind Odyssey’s princess-napping is that Bowser realizes like Beyonce that if he likes Peach, he should put a ring on her as a binding, inescapable bond of holy matrimony seen as a steadfast contractual obligation by the law. When Mario confronts Bowser on his decorated ship flying over Peach’s castle in what is the most abrupt introduction to any Mario game thus far, the boomerang swing of Bowser’s white, snappy wedding hat knocks the wind out of Mario and sends him zooming across the skies. He leaves his trusty red cap in the wake of his humbling defeat, which Bowser crushes with the force of his hefty reptilian foot as a finishing blow to Mario’s ego. However, losing one of Mario’s most personal items is more fortuitous than one would think. Mario manages to crashland on “Bonnetown” in the Cap Kingdom, a peculiar place so expressionistic with a whimsically eerie atmosphere that it’s a wonder that Tim Burton’s name didn’t appear in the opening credits. Cap Kingdom is also populated by a society of wispy, ghoulish caps that possibly could serve as substitutes for Mario’s misplaced clothing item. Cappy, the floating pale creature who has somehow retrieved the torn remnants of Mario’s old hat from Bowser’s ship, volunteers to be the new blocker of the sun’s rays to Mario’s dome because his younger sister, Tiara, has also been forcibly taken by Bowser to serve as Peach’s crown during their eventual wedding ceremony. By fusing his ethereal body with Mario’s old cap, Cappy and Mario are now a dynamic duo on a mission to save Peach and his sister from glorified legal enslavement. I suppose the call to adventure is glorious for Cappy but for Mario, it’s just another Tuesday.

While Mario isn’t roaming the cosmos once again, the “odyssey” portion of the title still alludes to a glorious journey nonetheless. Mario is limited to the land this time around and all of its oxygenated, gravitational barriers, but this does not mean that Super Mario Odyssey is a conceptual compromise. The key element from Galaxy retained here is that heightened sense of romanticism that comes with Mario setting off on an adventure. Somehow, for a franchise whose protagonist has soared through the infinite reaches of space twice over, Odyssey’s scale still seems wondrous while sticking to an earthly environment. There is something bourgeois about sailing the skies in a steam-powered vessel in the shape of a red top hat that is granted to you on a convenient whim, a fanciful privilege only rewarded to the king of video games. Mario is a modern-day Philleas Fogg, and the premise of flying around the circumference of the entire world that was once far-fetched when Around the World in Eighty Days was written still retains that sense of spectacle and majesty despite the technological advancements we’ve contributed to air travel. The same could be said for Mario’s personal experiences, finding exhilaration in this venture even after exploring the final frontier. Somehow, for a franchise where one title was vacation-themed, Odyssey exudes a greater atmosphere of laidback breeziness than when he set foot on Isle Delfino. 3D Mario still sustains the elation of traveling abroad, which means Mario is still shirking whatever responsibility he left in the Mushroom Kingdom two decades prior. Is Peach his mistress, or did living with Luigi become intolerable?

The world that Mario is circling via a mechanical, quasi-steampunk piece of formal wear on his quest to rescue Peach is actually the one where the Mushroom Kingdom resides. Unless someone has mapped out the location of Sarasaland or Isle Delfino and determined their geographical placements in relation to the Mushroom Kingdom, Odyssey marks the first time where the player can discern the distance between Peach’s fungal domain and the areas outside of its jurisdiction. Instead of shelling out gobs of money for their wedding like your average poor sap, Bowser uses his kingly persuasion and or strongarm tactics to steal the precious artifacts from the various kingdoms to use as trinkets during the ceremony (wedding cake, soiree bouquet, etc). In the interest of sticking it to Bowser and restoring balance to the upset kingdoms he’s impolitely pillaging, Mario acts as the NATO-esque ambassador from the Mushroom Kingdom and retrieves all of the stolen items rightfully belonging to their defenseless neighbors.

Since Odyssey’s progression involves skimming across the longitudinal plane of an entire planet, one can assume that the seventeen different areas of the game showcase an eclectic range of level themes and topographies. Before you also assume that this premise allows the developers to delve back into the typical fire, ice, desert, etc. world roulette that the Super Mario series created and every conceivable platformer followed, Odyssey seems slightly more clever than to pass by with the bare minimum. Sure, the kingdoms arguably resemble the base elemental motifs that ran the genre into the ground with exhausting overuse. However, a pinch of personality will perk up any and all overused tropes. For instance, the explorable district of the Sand Kingdom, “Tostarena,” borrows inspiration from Latin American culture instead of the ancient Egyptian standstill. A plaza of vibrant, colorful buildings resembling modern Mexican architecture is contrasted with an array of mythically ancient Aztec pyramids and pillars in a dry wasteland of baked red sand. “Shiveria” in the Snow Kingdom looks like a hostile bank of frigid tundra on the surface, but underneath the raging frost is a civilization of rotund, white furballs whose habitable society exudes warmth and comfort. I suppose the closest Odyssey comes to rendering a fire-themed level is the Luncheon Kingdom, with its boiling lake of Pepto Bismol serving as the scorching hazard that surrounds the area. Anyone who would find this gaudy, splotchy kingdom appetizing is either a cartoon alien or they're on some seriously potent dope. I don’t trust that this kingdom has a pleasant aroma of food from Cappy because he doesn’t even have a fucking nose! The highlight kingdom in my personal opinion is the swinging urban “New Donk City,” meant to resemble America’s city that never sleeps. Among the goofy and brainless Sims refugees that populate this city, its less disturbingly realistic mayor should tickle anyone who is knowledgeable about Mario’s history. Mario’s old squeeze Pauline all the way back from when he was coined as Jumpman has moved on from being snatched up by Donkey Kong to a position of prestigious political power. Seeing her after a quarter of a century is like bumping into an old girlfriend from high school, and whether or not her success is life-affirming or a source of envy is a matter of individual perspective, I guess. Overall, Odyssey’s crop of kingdoms is beaming with life and energy, but there are a few duds in the mix. Some are relegated to bounded boss arenas, and the aquatic theming of both the Lake Kingdom and the Seaside Kingdom is redundant. They could’ve been integrated with the elegant mermaid society of Lake Lamode hidden underneath the surface of the carbonated beachfront of Bubblaine like how the “Steam Gardens” of the forested Wooden Kingdom juxtaposed the shadowed core below the mechanized hiking trails above.

Mario’s recurring objective, whenever he docks his aircraft on the ground of any of these levels, is to gather an increasing abundance of fuel to further power his ship. Fuel for the aircraft is harnessed via obtaining power moons that are in the shape of multicolored crescents, a Mario celestial collectible that has also been split in half. A certain milestone of power moons collected also forms another fold of the sail that hoists the ton of top hat machinery up in the sky, suggesting that it can travel to greater lengths with every new addition. That quantity of power moons needed to expand Mario’s trajectory is the primary goal of each level, as the player will be locked onto the current level until the quotient is met. Another collectible also found scattered around the field beside the standard coins is a subsidiary purple currency that tends to be aligned in packs of three and is specifically shaped for each kingdom. Mario cannot convert the darkened currency into gasoline to feed his ship’s engine; rather, they are exchanged to purchase items at a gift shop featured in every kingdom. Mario can change his attire with a hat and torso clothing combo, plant a sticker with an artistic postcard design to decorate the exterior of his aircraft like the back of a laptop screen and spruce up the interior of it with assorted knickknacks. Filling the space of the inner chamber with each level’s memorabilia is a neat way of signaling progress in the game, and mixing and matching Mario’s outfits is just darling. For those few who campaigned against Mario’s sombrero and poncho combo calling it “cultural appropriation,” get a life.

Super Mario Odyssey cuts the approximate number of total levels featured in either of the two Super Mario Galaxy games in half. Despite how this seems on the surface, Odyssey is not a skeletal 3D Mario game compared to its predecessors because of its direction. The growing linearity that both Galaxy titles sought to pursue for 3D Mario’s evolution has been scrapped entirely for Odyssey. Instead, Odyssey adopts a free-flowing open design across all seventeen levels. It’s a fortunate circumstance for Mario that his eccentric vehicle’s fuel source is plentiful and commonplace across all of the kingdoms, so the lengths he must undergo to sustain geographical movability are not arduous in the slightest. In fact, Mario can simply walk a few meters from where he parks his aircraft and find at least a couple of power moons. Odyssey provides a myriad of assorted ways to obtain its main collectible, so many that I have to limit the examples for the sake of brevity. Red doors marked with a dapper, golden top hat symbol are entrances to enclosed, traditional platforming sections where a power moon will be rewarded to Mario at the end, with another often obscured to the side rewarded for diligent searching. Some of these doors are locked behind bouncers who won’t let Mario in until he’s wearing the appropriate outfit, so the clothes are also functional as well as fashionable. Sending Mario down the iconic green pipes will transport him to a section that restricts him to the 2D axis, resembling his spritely self during his early pixelated days. I particularly enjoy these brief swathes of 2D platforming as the pixel art rendered here is so crisp and clean. Mario ascends up the New Donk City equivalent to the Empire State Building entirely in his 8-bit form in a sparkling, 25-year tribute to the classic Donkey Kong game, and the game arguably peaks in quality with this section alone. Minigames, or at least sections that I would consider to be minigames, involve matching the paces of a circle and placing the correct pieces of anatomy on a drawing of an enemy or ally. While these feel like glorified sobriety tests, the fact that they are featured shows the extent of how the game diversifies the objective of finding the power moons, ensuring that it never risks getting stale. Do you want to know what the best part of the collection process is? The pesky boot-out system that plagued the non-linear playgrounds of Super Mario 64 has been omitted entirely, so Mario can collect past the required amount of power moons to his heart’s content. The main quest that each level presents involving the retrieval of stolen goods is merely a suggestion that can be glossed over in favor of other objectives. Finally, Odyssey realizes the potential of 64’s level design after all of its immediate successors practically abandoned it.

Odyssey’s main gimmick is also greatly utilized while Mario explores each level for power moons. Cappy isn’t merely a talking hat to help Mario navigate through uncharted territory with the occasional factoid and quip: he’s as integral to Odyssey’s gameplay as F.L.U.D.D. was in Sunshine. If there is one extraordinary aspect that the already splendorous Galaxy was lacking, it’s giving Mario the ability to possess all sentient beings that surround him. Odyssey gives credence to all the conspiratorial whack jobs wearing tinfoil hats because, without their odd, makeshift headwear, their autonomy is fully squelched by Mario after he flings his hat off of his head onto theirs, with an additional mustache to signify Mario’s presence in their minds. This marvelous addition to Mario’s gameplay isn’t only used a handful of times for a small selection of NPCs: it's necessary to gather the majority of power moons per level. Ever wondered what it would be like to control a number of Bowser’s henchmen? Well, Odyssey unveils that hypothetical possibility, by letting Mario fling frying pans furiously as a hammer bro, break open cages with the charged force of a Bullet Bill, and stack Goombas to attract a female one situated on a perch. Friendlier NPCs can also be controlled, such as a clueless dad in New Donk City who can’t drive an RC car to save his life and a winged lizard who can glide to the ledges of pillars in Tostarena and the isolated islands of the remote Lost Kingdom. Mario can man mobile weaponry such as tanks and slingshots, and force inanimate objects that are obscuring power moons out of his way. For a brief period, Mario can even take control of the enormous T. Rex sleeping in Cascade Kingdom and rampage through its prehistoric waterfalls destroying all of the rock formations that surround it. Must I list more examples after this one? The ability to do so was practically a selling point for the entire game, and I was completely sold on this unique piece of gameplay innovation.

While the massive range of individual objectives per level preserves the player’s intrigue in Odyssey’s gameplay, it ultimately trivializes the game’s difficulty. Thinking of ways to scatter the power moons and implement quirky methods of earning them was probably too ambitious for the developers, so their creative juices evidently ran dry as they started to half-ass the process. Mario can earn a power moon by sitting on a bench with some lonely SOB in New Donk City, twirling his hat on several glowing spikes, and one power moon is purchasable in the section of each kingdom’s gift shop that accepts regular coins. When earning the main collectible boils down to simply purchasing it for a paltry 100 coins, does it really feel like an achievement? Is this the best the developers could come up with to meet some kind of power moon quota? Only a handful of power moons are legitimate challenges that require a reasonable level of platforming skill to obtain. To compound on Odyssey’s ease, all Mario loses when he dies is a measly ten coins. I understand that perhaps a numbered life system wouldn’t work in this open environment, for there isn’t even a hub to eject Mario to upon exhausting all of them. Still, maybe I’d be more incentivized to act cautiously if the penalty of death was a bit steeper. The areas of each kingdom tend to be fairly spacious, so perhaps Mario should be teleported back to the ship as a reasonable punishment and wipe away the whole checkpoint system. I understand that Odyssey places a heavy emphasis on liberal exploration rather than narrow platforming tasks, but lifting the weight of challenges across the board to foster this direction made me disillusioned with the gameplay at times.

I can’t say the game’s various bosses provide too much of a challenge either, but at least they share the admirable levels of diversity and creativity that the high points of Odyssey bestow. Initiating a boss encounter is usually not done by stumbling upon them like a regular power moon. They tend to be integrated with the primary objective looming overhead, and the incentive for defeating is earning a three-piece power moon pack instead of a single one. A recurring encounter found floating menacingly over many kingdoms with their miniature, flying boat are the Broodals: a quartet of anthropomorphic rabbits hired by Bowser to coordinate a slew of things for his wedding. While all the thuggish bunnies exude a rough and tough, low-brow urbanity like they’re an unused gang from The Warriors, each individual Broodal fight couldn’t be any more different from the next. Mario even fights their equally trashy mother a couple of times, who walks around carrying a chain chomp on a leash as the Mario universe equivalent of a middle-aged housewife pampering a pit bull terrier. Other bosses are endemic to the particular world they reside in, such as the stone face of Knucklotec in the catacombs of Tostarena, Mechawiggler scaling the sides of the tall buildings of New Donk City, and Cookatiel flapping its wings over the Luncheon Kingdom’s Mount Volbono volcano. The Ruined Dragon of the forsaken Ruined Kingdom is so photorealistic and darkly intimidating that it’s as if Mario crossed the metaphysical video game boundaries into Dark Souls. While none of the bosses were perilous duels that tested Mario’s might, integrating the possession mechanic into most of these boss battles is an appreciated factor of their high engagement. I especially enjoy using Knucklotec’s own fists to sucker punch him, and shooting the balls off of Mechawiggler’s body with tank shells.

Lest we forget Bowser’s role as the primary Mario antagonist among the crowd of secondary bosses in Odyssey. Similarly to the Galaxy games, Bowser is fought a handful of times before the climactic moment that results in returning Peach to safety. Also like Galaxy, Bowser’s fights are basically the same as the first with additional variations to his attacks to throw Mario off the sense of familiarity. The first fight that Bowser engages with Mario is a detour into the small, secluded Cloud Kingdom, and we’re meant to believe that his final fight will take place at his feudal Japan-themed castle, which is the most inspired depiction of Bowser’s fiery fortress we’ve seen in ages. The true climax where Mario finally conquers Bowser is set in a cathedral erected on the edge of the moon. Talk about a destination wedding! After barging through the towering ivory doors to yell “I object!” like any maverick wedding crasher would, Mario kicks Bowser’s white tuxedo-wearing, neatly combed hair ass so hard for his latest attempt to secure Peach as his property that the cathedral starts to crumble around them. In order to survive the wreckage, Mario does the unthinkable and passes his cap onto Bowser. Yes, for the last segment of Odyssey’s story, the player controls King Koopa himself as the only reliable physical force available to break through the falling debris, and he’s as fun to play as one would expect. Odyssey’s ending may not form an emotional lump in my throat as Galaxy’s did, but the epic closure of racing to the other side as Bowser is satisfyingly epic. Plus, the “bro moment” between Mario and Bowser when Peach rejects both of them as potential lovers at the end is hilariously tender and unexpected.

Flying to the moon to halt Peach’s horrible fate as Bowser’s lawfully wedded wife wrapped up the story of Odyssey nicely, but the game itself is far from over. The first step of Mario’s epilogue is finally returning home to the Mushroom Kingdom after an extensive period away. However, Mario will be working overtime here as the modern rendering of Peach’s castle and the yard surrounding it serve as an entirely new area with power moons aplenty. In addition to the power moons earned through exploration, portals strewn throughout the castle grounds transport Mario to fight the game’s bosses again with a dash of extra challenge seasoned in. Green series staples such as Yoshi and Luigi can also be found roaming the area, and their brief inclusions are enough of a presence so Nintendo doesn’t think to legitimize Odyssey with a whole new sequel where they hog more of the spotlight. What really extends the length of Odyssey to overflowing proportions are the space cubes littered across every single kingdom in the game. Now, when Mario bats these mysterious multidimensional shapes with Cappy, they ignite into the sky and create new power moons that are integrated with those left over from the base game. Engaging with the cubes doubles the amount of power moons per level, meaning that Odyssey’s epilogue is extended to the length of the entire game that the player just finished. One may dismiss Odyssey’s post-game as a case of ludicrous padding. Yet, I genuinely still yearned to collect more power moons after I defeated Bowser, and the flood of supplementary power moons quenched my thirst for more content. Besides, I can choose to collect as many additional power moons as I please at my own pace, and I’m not a strict completionist. For those who are, Odyssey certainly has their work cut out for them.

After a lengthy period of lackluster releases unfitting for Mario’s golden reputation, the Italian pride of Nintendo finally fired on all cylinders with Super Mario Odyssey. By returning to form via the 3D platformer format that used to mark a gigantic release for the plumber, Mario reworks what was perceived as insurmountable by Galaxy’s high standard by tweaking the knobs of collectathon gameplay to something completely untested in the franchise. I’m almost ashamed to admit my short-sightedness in assessing how doomed the attempt of any subsequent 3D Mario game matching Galaxy would be, for basing the core design in a strictly non-linear playground where the player has the freedom to explore without any constraints seems like such an obvious solution. “The possession mechanic” that drives Odyssey’s appeal is so unconventional that no one could’ve anticipated its incorporation into the gameplay, but we’re all delighted by its inclusion. Odyssey is a tad too facile for my liking, even for a series as accessible as Mario. Because of this, I can clearly state that I prefer the format of the previous 3D Mario platformers where earning a main collectible felt more gratifying. Still, Odyssey is more than worthy enough of being uttered in the same respects as its predecessors, something that couldn’t be said about the immediate Mario titles before it.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

The concept of a “tearjerker” is usually not associated with the medium of video games. In the realm of films, literature, and music, the tag is assigned to works that fit the bill either as a point of interest for those who want to expunge their emotions or a disclaimer if someone wants to keep their cheeks dry and cheery. Music is in a class of its own as the sonic art form tends to delve into one’s emotions more intimately no matter what the artist’s intentions were, or at least to a broader extent of the medium’s potential. For the narrative-focused mediums of film and literature, the writers must make a meticulous effort to direct their audience into flooding their living spaces with salty saline through the events of the story and the context of the character’s interactions. Since a large number of video games include traditional narratives with personable, dynamic characters, why isn’t anyone excited and or worried that one will cause them to be impacted by vulnerable feelings of overwhelming sadness? Well, video games had to evolve to achieve this sensation, as the earliest few eras of gaming were far too primitive to intermingle the narrative weight that would induce crying with the gameplay. That, and the inherent feeling that comes with playing games should be of elatement. After all, that is the primary objective of playing a game of any sort whether they be digital or not. However, video games possess a deeper layer of interactive complexities that games like hopscotch, gin and rummy, and all sports do not. Video games are art, goddammit, and one effective trait of fine art is the ability to make its audience cry. Emotional instances are known to pop up across a select few video games, but one game, in particular, was foretold to destroy the spirits of everyone who played it: indie developer Freebird Studio’s 2011 title To the Moon.

Already, the plot premise of To the Moon should slightly moisten the player’s eyes. An old man named John Wyles is lying on his deathbed, and his last wish before he passes into the eternal ether mirrors the fantasies expressed in early 20th-century cinema: a trip to the moon. Even in the fictitious realm of video games, there is no Make-A-Wish foundation for privileged senior citizens to fulfill such fanciful dying desires that only a handful of people on Earth have ever experienced. However, an organization called Sigmund Corp. can work around the expenses and general feasibility of this grand request by planting artificial experiences into the patient’s brain as they lie there comatose. Two doctors appointed by Sigmund Corp named Neil Watts and Eva Rosaline are on call to execute the mission by visiting John’s mansion and applying an apparatus to him while he lies in bed. Integrating these fake memories into John’s fading consciousness is quite the ordeal, so Neil and Eva must brew some coffee for the all-nighter they are about to undergo. As we speak, there should be at least a few choked-up throats upon reading what To the Moon’s narrative has to offer. The concept of death is an uncomfortable, bittersweet topic that will constantly nag us with feelings of dread throughout our time on Earth. The concept of death and dying is arguably the most universal human fear that crosses all cultural boundaries, even if the scattered earth civilizations have their interpretations of the inevitable. Because death and its implications are such a prevalent force while we are living, we do not need any context as to who John was as a human being to empathize with his critical condition.

To the Moon’s premise hardly sounds like something a triple-A studio would produce, so expect the game’s presentation to display the minimalistic trappings of an indie studio. Specifically, To the Moon was developed with RPG Maker, a computer program downloadable by the general public to craft their own RPG games. To the Moon isn’t working with a modest sum of resources: it’s something any schmuck with Windows 7 could’ve conjured up in one afternoon. In all fairness, despite how cheap and unprofessional the base software of To the Moon’s development sounds, the final product could still ultimately prove substantial if the developers know how to work around the constraints of a pail bucket budget. Besides, I’ve always stated that any modern game rendered in the pixelated past of the medium always possesses an endearing quality, and To the Moon is no exception. With the pixelated format the game works with, To the Moon’s graphics strike a balance between cherubic and sublime. The chibi characters in the foreground contrast with the often picturesque displays of the backgrounds. Look at the sight of the nearby lighthouse peaking over the cliffside where John’s mansion is located and you’ll understand the visual dichotomy I’m attempting to illustrate. It’s beautiful but carries a sense of melancholy. Like most indie titles from the 21st century that use pixels as a driving force of their artistic direction, To the Moon still looks crisper and cleaner than what the big boys of the industry were working on in the later years of the previous century. It’s telling how far the medium has progressed when a program as accessible as this one outperforms anything made with an enormous budget only two decades prior.

Despite the name of the software that To the Moon was created in, the game is not an RPG of any sort. Our two protagonists fight a squirrel on the rocky road up to John’s house in a turn-based format, but this is a one-time snarky, ironic joke to throw off the expected precedent. No, the developers figured the tasteful way to gamify a story where an old man meets his timely demise is to render it into a point-and-click adventure title. With the conjoined Inception-esque apparatus, Neil and Eva can fully access every memory and experience from John’s storied life, or at least how John recalls them. Their objective is to redirect the course of John’s life through their minor alterations, simply by subtly or unsubtly passing the idea to visit the moon while he still had time. Neil and Eva know that timeliness is essential considering the host of the simulation could perish at any moment, so their first attempt is to grab him a few months before he’s bedridden to relay the idea. Unfortunately for them, John’s twilight years were rather occupied with other worries, such as aiding his dearly departed wife River when she was in hospice and how to feasibly move a grand piano up and down a flight of stairs. John is too long in the tooth to be considering the improbable goal of space travel, so Neil and Eva are forced to delve further into John’s past to find him at a more impressionable age. The rewinding process through John’s life is how the game implements the interactive point-and-click elements. To dig deeper into the strata of John’s life, Neil and Eva must find a memento whose resonance will serve as a portal to an earlier memory. Commonly used mementos include a bag that John carried around and a stuffed platypus plush owned by River. To activate the memento, Neil and Eva must find five pieces of contextual evidence behind the memento found in the same scene, usually after the conversational section between John and another person is finished. Oftentimes, the substance behind the gameplay in a point-and-click adventure is solving puzzles to progress, giving the player a hint of interactivity that will keep them engaged. To the Moon offers something in the same vein, but it's far too elementary. The five pieces of context needed for the memento are hidden in plain sight, and the area where they are all located is confined enough that finding all of them will most likely take a few minutes at most. When the five pieces are all assembled at the chosen memento, the player is transported to a puzzle section where they must align a picture by a 5X5 grid. This simple task will also prove to be quick and easy, as there is no time limit and no penalties for accidentally making the image less coherent. I always worry when narrative-focused video games sacrifice gameplay to fortify the story, and To the Moon is another example that will continue this concern.

Alright, so if To the Moon’s gameplay is effortless so as to not distract from the foreground of the narrative, certainly the game compensates with solid characters that drive the story’s intrigue. John, for example, has circled around the sun enough times to have experienced plenty of amazement and hardships, so traveling down the rabbit hole that is his entire life should ideally be interesting, right? Actually, John’s life is realistically mundane. In fact, the man led a pretty insular life with the same people. He married his high school girlfriend, proceeded to stay acquainted with his best friend Nick into adulthood, and has been kept company by his caretaker Lily, and her two children after his wife passed into old age. Upon exploring John’s past, it seems as if his wife, River, is the fascinating one by comparison as we learn about her diagnosis of Asperger's and how it correlates to why she obsessively makes origami bunnies that are strewn all over John’s basement. We never know what John’s former occupation was and how he could afford a countryside estate that overlooks a lighthouse. Whatever it was, I’m sure it was incredibly boring. It isn’t until Neil and Eva have to connect the bridge of John’s past to his early childhood that we discover that John’s existence hasn’t always been so spotless. For some reason, the time before John’s teenage years is obscured in a hazy shield of blankness, for his time-consuming beta blockers in the military (which is only explained through exposition and not experienced firsthand) have blocked it from view. After forcibly pushing past the impediment, we learn that John is suffering the trauma of losing his twin brother Joey in a pedestrian car accident when they were still in grade school. To retain some semblance of Joey’s presence on this earth, John subconsciously adopted all of his quirks such as his adoration for pickled olives. He also gained Joey’s fondness for the Animorphs books series, which means that this old geezer is a decrepit millennial, and the modern-day in this game is in the later decades of the 21st century. Thanks for making your target demographic (me) fret over their mortality, guys. Uncovering the pinnacle turning point in John’s life that shaped his present-day demeanor suddenly makes us invested in him and adds some spice to the humdrum future events we’ve already witnessed.

Where To the Moon has characters who have the personalities of a wet sock, the game also features those on the other end of the spectrum who are a bit much. Neil Watts, the male half of the Sigmund Corp duo, is…how do I put this nicely? He’s a real prick. He’s impatient, obnoxious, rude, and treats the job he’s doing with such callousness that it is practically offensive. In sensitive fields such as the one he specializes in, it’s understood that one has to harden their heart to deal with the heaviness of death. Still, Neil presents himself with such aloofness that he comes off as a clod. The game is somewhat aware of Neil’s flawed personality through his dynamic with Eva, the straight (wo)man on the job. She constantly reprimands Neil for his buffoonery not playfully as a couple with brewing sexual tension or as a younger brother, but as a colleague who is wearing her patience thin. She has no hang-ups about announcing that Neil cheated to gain the position he’s in or insulting him right to his face. Mulder and Scully, these two aint, only because the Mulder here is an absolute cretin. Is Neil intended to be the comic relief? He certainly isn’t the rock of the protagonist duo keeping things together, so I suppose the developers intended to be the sportive source in a game revolving around heavy subject matter. Still, there isn’t anything funny about constant pop culture references or acting like an immature child when prompted to perform the most menial of tasks. Neil strays too far with his clown persona that it creates tone issues for To the Moon.

I was fully ready to rant about how To the Moon did not deliver on its promise of an emotionally impactful experience all because of Neil’s shenanigans until the end when the game managed to save itself. Reaching back into John’s earliest memories at a carnival where he meets River for the first time as a little child. When River expresses curiosity about the stars and the moon when she’s gazing up at the night sky with John, an alarming realization hits our protagonists like a ton of bricks. The reason why they’ve been having difficulties directing John towards his dying wish is that it was never his wish to begin with: it was River’s final wish that he was fulfilling for her. When our protagonists finally understand John’s motive, a conflict in ethics arises in the decision to erase River from John’s memory. By some miracle, I found myself agreeing with Neil’s stance to let things be and leave the misguided man’s memories alone, while Eva continues to press that it should be done for the sake of the mission like a cold-hearted bureaucrat. I couldn’t believe I was siding with the fuckhead that had been pissing me off to no end for the past few hours, as I shared his devastation when River had vanished from John’s high school days in the blink of an eye. Because John never went on that first date with River, this leads him through a “George Constanza abstinence directive” where he focuses on his studies to become an astronaut now that the possibility of having sex is gone. Once he succeeds and NASA gives him a grand tour of their facility, another recruit named River is there to join him on their mission to tour the moon. Also, this time alteration saves his brother, Joey, somehow. In the ideal timeline that Eva created, he marries his true love after their time spent living their wildest dreams. However, the player does not witness their moon expedition firsthand, for John in the real world flat lines and fades to black. John is buried alongside River next to the lighthouse, and Neil and Eva are given another call for a new patient. By the skin of its teeth, To the Moon yanks out an ending that sincerely tugged at my heartstrings.

I’m not going to be okay for a while now, and To the Moon is to blame. For the longest time while playing To the Moon, I was skeptical of its potency to turn on the waterworks as I had anticipated. Sure, the inherent plot of the game was sad enough to support it initially, but the impact became muddled in too much quippy dialogue from a certain character who almost ruined it entirely. With great patience, I pulled through and experienced the game pulling a buzzer-beater of an ending that made me forget about all that annoyed me beforehand, climaxing the intricate story superbly in something effectively heartwarming. Are the game’s characters a lot to be desired? Without a doubt. Is the gameplay so simple that a chimpanzee could do it? Absolutely. Is everything wrapped up in a package that is perhaps a little too contrived and convenient? You betcha. Still, the gaming medium needs games like To the Moon to prove its narrative potential.
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While I'm at it, the story here is better than Inception. There's your hot take for the day.

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Attribution:// https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

With a title like Ori and the Will of the Wisps, one can infer that Ori and the Blind Forest was greenlit for a sequel. All referential jokes to the introduction of my review of Ori’s first game aside, I’m quite pleased as punch for this opportunity to see the luminous forest nymph once again. Ori and the Blind Forest was an exemplary title in the new wave of indie Metroidvania games, presenting a captivating wooded world for the player to explore under the guise of the niche 2D platformer’s particular progression methods. The game was undeniably gorgeous, and the silky smooth controls made hopping around the several shades of wild foliage wonderfully accessible. However, many of the accessible aspects in Ori and the Blind Forest besides the remarkable mechanics rendered the game rather sparse compared to its Metroidvania peers. Opting for frantic chase sequences from natural disasters and apex predators as opposed to duking it out with them in epic boss fight fashion was an especially unorthodox decision. I understand that Ori is intended to be lighthearted and more whimsical than the existential sci-fi horror of Metroid and the bloody, gothic glory of Castlevania. Still, the general ease of Ori’s gameplay with the added factor of zero boss battles seemed like the developer’s directive was to create a Metroidvania experience for an extremely young demographic, easing them into the realm of gaming with a title that wouldn’t obtrude on their impressionably vulnerable sensibilities. I’m not one to judge the intentions of an artist as long as they’re honest, but diluting a few gameplay attributes ostensibly for the sake of making your game digestible for children undermined Ori and the Blind Forest’s full potential. This is why Ori and the Will of the Wisps are in an ideal position as a sequel: another opportunity for the Ori IP to fill in the blanks that the first game either omitted or regrettably came to the developers as staircase thoughts. The final product of Ori and the Will of the Wisps suggests that they ultimately wanted Ori to kick ass, but wait till you hear about the source of inspiration the developers took to enable this initiative.

I suppose the resolution of Ori and the assorted group of destitute misfits around the forest banding together to live in one space is open to expanding on. The developers didn’t slap a “happily ever after” on this tender ending like one would expect from something that resembles a fairy tale, so there can be plenty more strife in the lives of these adorable folk of the forest. For now, all they are concerned with is raising the sole surviving offspring of the dark indigo owl Sein who stalked Ori with impassioned ferocity in the previous game. Hence, the little owlet is the reason why the non-nuclear family unit was formed in the first place. Everything is as content and tranquil as the opening events of Blind Forest, except for the fact that Ku, the owlet, is pitifully failing in her attempts to fly when Ori and the others are teaching her due to having a lame wing. Considering the colossal size of her birth mother, Ori should be wary about inadvertently creating a monster down the line, but I suppose this could divert into a nature versus nurture debate. One day, Ku manages to soar a little TOO high using Kuro’s Feather, and a violent storm separates Ku from her glowing guardian Ori. Because Ku is frightened and fragile, Ori must scour the uncharted Niwen forest to find her lost little lamb. This premise establishes exactly what I had wished for Ori after the events of the first game. Ori’s growth after ascending past her role as a helpless critter through her perilous venture was reduced greatly when Naru rose from the dead completely unscathed to continue his role as her furry protector. Now, putting Ori in a position of daunting responsibility to save someone as weak as she was, if not even more at the beginning of her first adventure proves that her acute physical prowess is dynamic.

So what is the extent of Ori’s ability to combat what lies in the hostile wilderness? On top of the valuable experience gathered from hiking through Nibel, Ori’s tactical enhancements in the sequel are the prime differentiating factor of the game, and where its source of inspiration I alluded to in the opening paragraph is most apparent. Let’s just say that the title of “Ori and the Will of the Wisps'' is a mirage. An honest title to Ori’s sequel is “Ori and the Hollow Knight.” Between the release of the two Ori games in 2015 and 2020, a dinky cobble of a studio in Australia surprisingly cemented its 2017 title Hollow Knight as what is quite possibly the zenith point of its genre. If the indie Metroidvania boom could be comparable to the classical period of music, Hollow Knight is clearly Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, practically eclipsing the contributions of its equally worthy peers with sensational amounts of approbation, and (almost) rightfully so. I cannot cite whether or not Hollow Knight’s accolades had Moon Studios seething with palpable envy like Salieri, but Team Cherry’s gold-medal game evidently affected Will of the Wisps without question. Instead of using the projectile fireworks of the flickering light spirit Sein as a bodyguard, Ori will stumble upon the “spirit edge” for a more personal, manual method of offense. This sharp, glowing, icicle-like weapon is eerily similar to The Knight’s nail art, even if Ori flails this thing around with less rhythmic grace than Hollow Knight’s protagonist does with his weapon of choice. As the game progresses, Ori will acquire the familiar attributes that allowed her to unlock more of Nibel’s grounds by absorbing the light of the ancestral trees, and familiar moves like the spirit smash and the light burst are now selected through a weapon wheel and are assigned to a button. Even though the spirit edge is grouped in with the roulette of Ori’s secondary abilities, the combative dexterity and inherent inexhaustible energy as a melee weapon will guarantee that it will be used as routinely as the nail art. Sure, the similarities between the primary weapons of both games aren’t enough to decry acts of plagiarism. Still, other frequent elements in Will of the Wisps also conjured too many clear memories of Hollow Knight for comfort, so I insist that everyone keep the comparisons in mind. I even encourage a drinking game whenever close similarities arise throughout this review because I’m so confident of how commonplace they are (but drink responsibly).

This isn't to say that Will of the Wisps implemented all of its new features by peering over at Hollow Knight and taking notes. Plenty of elements newly introduced to Will of the Wisps are uniquely Ori, or at least they don’t readily remind me of something from another IP. For instance, the spirit smash move isn’t merely a rebranding of the downward bash from the previous game. Using this move in any other cardinal direction that isn’t south will see Ori fling what looks like a hefty mallet that inflicts a massive amount of damage to enemies. To hit a series of out-of-reach switches, Ori channels her inner Robin Hood and shoots a spirit arrow to activate them. The instances of using the spirit arrows for this purpose are surprisingly confined to one space, so the most utility of this tool will be used for those pesky airborne enemies. Ori can torpedo herself through and out of a body of water like a leaping dolphin with a “swim dash,” and the same practical move is extended to thick banks of sand with the “burrow” ability. Ori can coat herself in a traveling radius of light that protects her from being consumed by crushing darkness with “flash,” although how darkness can be so pitch black that it can kill someone is beyond me. Other skills can be purchased with the spirit light currency by the white-haired simian Opher, which include the “blaze” move that naturally engulfs enemies with flames and a sentry that serves as a surrogate attacker in Sein’s absence. The ability to breathe underwater is available to purchase here instead of gaining it through natural progression like in Blind Forest. I think this is an incorrect shift considering how essential it is to progress in some spots. Overall, the additions to Ori’s array of abilities are further proof that she’s no sitting duck anymore and that she’s got plenty of ways to protect herself.

On the surface, Niwen’s vast plains of untapped wilderness look to be about as formidable as Nibel’s forest. Will of the Wisps was developed through the same engine as Blind Forest, so the vivid, picturesque depiction of an arboreal setting fit for a prestigious gallery showcasing the finest of video game graphics is still retained here. To further instill a sense of perceived uncanniness, Niwen’s districts even reuse the level tropes seen in Blind Forest with such areas as the snowy mountain peak of Baur’s Reach mirroring the icy elevation of the Forlorn Ruins, and the blindingly dim catacombs of Mouldwood Depths practically serving as a deadlier version of the Black Root Burrows. One can argue that the Inkwater Marsh and Kwolok’s Hollow districts situated at the center of Niwen are appropriately moody and somewhat tranquil as starting areas. Still, I can’t help but be bothered by how similar they are to Nibel’s Sunken Glades and Hollow Grove in their geographical placement, tone, and general aesthetic. Because Ori’s areas are conceptually confined to natural, dendriform places, the developers discern the ones from their previous output with some clever new mechanics. For instance, Baur’s Reach doesn’t continue the anti-gravitational gimmick from the Forlorn Ruins, rather implementing an elemental contrast between frost and fire with the new properties of the light burst maneuver. Luma Pools expands upon the pristinely crisp waters of Thornfelt Swamp into an entire area, whose vibrant purplish-pink trees all around the perimeter resemble the Lorax’s wondrous landscape before it was corrupted by the Onceler’s capitalist endeavors. The aquatic land is so effervescent that bubbles consistently emerge from its sparkling waters, and Ori uses them as springy platforms to aid in her traversal of the area. Similarly, the grim, lugubrious Silent Woods looks as if it’s drowned a number of horses in its days (that’s a Neverending Story reference) in its murky, sludgy streams, and Ori will be another victim to their gripping depths if she doesn’t plant herself precisely on the buoyant bubbles that catapult her upward. Progression through these areas will automatically fill in step by step as the case was for Blind Forest, but the cardinal difference is how the entirety of the map is revealed before Ori explores 100% of it. Instead of stumbling upon a stone basin that vaguely resembles a save mechanism on the field, the missing patches of land that haven’t been cleared on the map yet are half-filled in by Ludo. This merry gentleman sells maps to Ori for a marginal price, and he’s found around the muddy corridors for every area of the game. Drink up, everyone, and if Ludo hummed a jaunty tune to signal his nearby presence, I’d make you all drink straight whiskey with no chaser.

The most unique of Niwen’s areas is the Wellspring Glades, a relaxed hub of sorts where the game’s NPCs reside to sell Ori their various wares. Dare I say, it’s similar to Dirtmouth from Hollow Knight (bottoms up)? Whether or not the comparisons are a fit once again, this treetop grove is an excellent respite area situated in a pocket of rare, glowing sunshine in Niwen. The temporary residents here in Wellspring Glades are all familiar faces seen all across Niwen’s spacious land. The nomadic Tokk leans on the bark of the area’s foundational support beam asking Ori to find esoteric areas of interest and lost items. The former cartographer would do it himself, but those days for the grizzled blue bird are behind him. The Final Fantasy mage-like Twillen is a purveyor of “shards,” enhancements to Ori’s skills with specific conditions that are assigned in the menu with a limited maximum (glug glug). A few NPCs use the fertile grounds of the glades to make Ori perform extraneous labor efforts. A common item called “gorlek ore” is given to a burly creature named Grom whose species shares the namesake of the material, and he uses it to build architectures around the hub to make it more hospitable. Turtle-bear hybrid creature Turley will plant seeds that Ori finds on the field to grow vegetation that makes higher reaches of the glades accessible. A nameless tribe of lemur-like Mokoi can also be spotted here, and they certainly make the hub friendlier because they’re so innocuous. Even though Niwen is a strange land that Ori is forced to excavate, this particular area makes this parallel forest homier thanks to the NPCs strewn about the locale.

Having a hub situated somewhere in Niwen is especially vital because Will of the Wisps is surprisingly more difficult than the previous games. I stated that one of the primary aspects of Blind Forest that made the overall experience somewhat lacking was the general ease of its difficulty, minus a few tense moments regarding platforming later in the game. While Will of the Wisps does not match the steep difficulty standard of that other Metroidvania game I keep comparing it to, stiff obstacles will occur more frequently throughout. Namely, the player might struggle a bit with this game’s bosses. Yes, another wish that Blind Forest didn’t quite deliver on has been fulfilled in its sequel, and the select few bosses across the game’s playtime are mighty foes with screen-spanning health bars. A giant wolf with the same shaded fur complexion as Kuro’s feathers will lull the player into the familiarity of a high-stakes chase until his health bar appears and Ori gets the chance to defend herself by smacking it in the face repeatedly. The giant Beetle Ori fights next starts without a misleading precedent, as Ori will jump over the ferocious armored bug to hit its vulnerable backside. Unlike Howl who was in a compromising position throughout his encounter, the varied attack patterns of the Beetle showcases that this game’s bosses need considerable patience and a slight awareness of each of their offensive actions against Ori (I guess that’s another shot). A methodical approach to defeating the bosses is especially crucial with Mora and Kwolok, two gigantic foes whose fights are the climactic peak of two of the game’s main quests. Mora’s status as a queen and mother spider should indicate her physical enormity, and the second phase of the poor possessed toad sage (who has the same voice as the narrator of both games, but supposedly isn’t) takes place underwater before Ori has the chance to purchase her gills from the merchant in the glades. I am not ashamed to admit that these bosses took me more than a minute to triumph over, as the developers have done such a fantastic job implementing their encounters that it’s hard to believe that this is the first time that these kinds of substantial duels have been factored into an Ori game.

However, they are only the requisite challenges that Will of the Wisps has implanted. Off the beaten paths of Niwen are optional challenges that Ori can humor for an extra amount of spirit light or another notch where an additional shard can be used. Earning more currency comes in the shape of spirit trials, where Ori races against a wispy doppelganger of herself to the basin where the trial was initially activated. Ori’s shadow has evidently practiced navigating through the tough terrain, so every victory against it sprinting to the goal will always come down to the wire. The other auxiliary challenge the game provides is the spirit shrines, which will lock Ori into defeating waves of assorted enemies in combat. Without Ori’s new ability to regenerate her health using energy (without placing a checkpoint like in the last game), these horde matches can amount to overwhelming tests of endurance. The game is practically compensating for Blind Forest’s breeziness at this point.

Even though the bosses in this game certainly stick out as memorable, threatening instances of improvement in Will of the Wisps, they ultimately stand aside as secondary pawns to the game’s primary antagonist Shriek. While Shriek is admittedly another dark purple bird of prey constantly looming over Ori, she is not a replica of Koru. We can immediately distinguish this from a design standpoint as Shriek’s body is supported by calcified exterior ligaments that Shriek uses to hoist herself into a walk position like a pair of stilts. She’s carried this strange affliction her entire life, which is what caused her to be shunned by the rest of the bird community she was born into. No wonder she’s now a menace that casts a blanket of tension overhead as she soars through Niwen’s skies. A section that highlights how harrowing Shriek is as a force of evil despite her handicap is a stealth section between the Silent Woods and the Windswept Wastes, annihilating Ori in a second if Ori is in her line of sight for too long. Shriek is a bird that has been scorned by her own kind, so it’s no wonder she harbors a grudge against all of Niwen’s denizens. It especially isn’t surprising that she literally stomps out Ku’s life (don’t worry, the screen fades to black as it’s happening) once she and Ori finally reconvene in the shady Silent Woods. An NPC laments that it’s unfair that the big and strong can prey on the meek and the pitiable, but the situation obviously stems from the storied history of dejection Shriek experienced as a young owl that looked exactly like Ku.

The titular wisps in the title refer to the main quest of retrieving three of them at Niwen’s different districts to restore the fractured Spirit Willow. Doing so will also erase the noxious decay that Niwen has been experiencing, which is so prevalent across the land that it’s affected even the prestigious sages. Mora was fortunate to have the effects of the decay smacked out her, but Kwolok wasn’t so lucky after the “stink spirit” wrapped him up in its infectious arms. The behemoth brown bear Baur who resides in the mountain range of his namesake was rather lucky, so the game resorts back to running away from Shriek as the pinnacle point of this section. Once the misplaced wisps are accounted for, Ori brings them to the cliffs of the Windswept Wastes to the entrance of the Willow’s End. The final section of Will of the Wisps resembles that of the erupting Mount Huro that finished off the first game. Ori is tasked with completing a series of platforming challenges that mainly involve a teleportation mechanic only utilized in the optional Midnight Burrows area to strike another stem of the whole pulpy, orange decay surrounding the core of the forest (chugalug). Seir, the spiritual embodiment of the great Willow’s lifeforce, is then snatched up by Shriek, finally giving Ori a chance to beat the blackened bird in a final boss that manages to be satisfyingly epic. To ensure that Ku is given another chance at life and that Niwen ceases atrophying, Ori has to merge with Seir to fully restore balance to this marvelous, beautiful land, meaning that her physical state as a nimble little nymph has to be sacrificed. Ultimately, she makes the right decision as Ku wakes up from her deep slumber to rejoin the custody of Gumo and Naru, as they make tributes to the new spirit willow that was once an integral member of their makeshift family. As tragic, intimidating, and fairly complex as Shriek is as the game’s antagonist, I’m not sure she’s really the focal point of the game’s story. Every point where she makes an appearance seems like a series of circumstantial conveniences made to complicate the plot, but the pervasiveness of the decay seems substantial enough of a conflict to carry the game’s narrative given the harrowing examples of its effects. Perhaps she could’ve been a stronger narrative force if her motives to specifically burden Ori were more defined like Kuro’s were.

It’s so thrilling to have your wishes granted. I wrote my review of Ori and the Blind Forest in early 2023 after its sequel had already been released, but it’s as if the developers read my review and decided to craft the next title in the series based on the critiques I gave. Ori and the Will of the Wisps is, by definition, a perfect sequel to Ori and the Blind Forest. Every single gripe I had feeling unfulfilled by Blind Forest’s pensions for subduing aspects of the Metroidvania gameplay for some odd, unclear reasons were totally amended here, regarding the titanic boss battles, Ori’s combat shrewdness, and competent evolution of the two game’s eponymous protagonist. However, what slightly deters me is that all of Ori’s improvements here is that a large quantity of them seem to be borrowed from Hollow Knight, a “if you can’t beat them, join them” type of scenario that makes me question Will of the Wisps true quality. In saying that, I now realize how much I compared the gameplay aspects of Hollow Knight to Dark Souls, and will emphasize this to humble Team Cherry’s magnum opus a bit. If I proposed a drinking game for every time something Soulsy came up in Hollow Knight, I'd be responsible for so many stomach pumpings. There is a classic quote from Picasso where he claims that good artists borrow and great artists steal, and if Hollow Knight’s attributes are what Ori and the Will of the Wisps needed to fill in the blanks to elevate it up to the high Metroidvania echelons, so be it.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

Why was Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive such an influential cultural force across all forms of art and entertainment last decade? The film was released in the early period of the decade in 2011, so there was plenty of time for its 1980s-reminiscent aesthetic to seep into the zeitgeist of the 2010s. However, what I’m wondering is why so many artists gravitated towards emulating Drive’s style. Admittedly, the elements that constitute its style are endearingly kitsch, and the way that the retro-chic artistic direction is layered over gritty, darkened overtones presents a unique contrast that surprisingly melds together superbly. Normally, highlighting the purplish pink neon hue of the 1980s is a signifier of the decade’s elated decadence, but Drive’s direction rather exposes the drug-addled dirt and sleaze underneath the surface. Its modus operandi wasn’t an homage to the next-to-last decade of the 20th century, but a scathing depiction of what was hidden in plain sight across the ten years. Drive resonated with the influx of vaporwave and hypnagogic pop artists whose music reckoned back to the antiquated production of 1980s synthpop, as well as films like Baby Driver and the long-awaited sequel Blade Runner 2049 that shared Drive’s signature aesthetic and brooding, yet high-octane action pacing. In the realm of video games, the closest another work of fiction ever came to truly capturing Drive’s aura to its full extent is Hotline Miami, an indie darling that effectively translated all of the components of Refn’s most notable film to an interactive medium. However, Hotline Miami achieves something beyond an interactive tribute.

To start, Hotline Miami is fucking putrid. Drive, of course, had its fair share of scenes that didn’t shy away from depicting graphic, stylized violence on the celluloid, but every waking moment of Hotline Miami is a torrent of blood splatter. The entirety of Hotline Miami is that elevator scene from Drive and plenty of fans of the film state they find that scene hard to stomach due to its unflinching brutality. I realize that Hotline Miami is not a literal video game adaptation of Drive but if anyone were to make the argument that the violence of any adapted work is heightened in the video game medium to gamify the content, Hotline Miami would be a testament to this claim. “Jacket,” the anonymous protagonist whose nickname stems from the same snazzy clothing item signifier that Ryan Gosling’s character from Drive possesses, paints the interior walls of Miami’s corporate buildings with the gushing, red bodily plasma of the Russian mafia. However, the game never romanticizes the carnage, depicting the frequent massacres that occur throughout the game with a dread-filled, dark tone that becomes apparent once the flies start buzzing around the fresh, stinking corpses in Jacket’s wake once he climbs back up to his vehicle. The vibrant 1980s backdrop and aesthetic choices are practically what save Hotline Miami from plunging into severely horrific territory because what is being presented is truly grim and vile. I’m astonished how Hotline Miami didn’t draw in a flood of lashback from the typical crowd of concerned parents and scapegoating politicians considering the breadth of its depravity. Really, it’s probably because the pixel art that renders the viscera looks so quaint that Hotline Miami’s graphic content doesn’t bat an eye in an era with gaming visuals that could be mistaken for cinematics. Still, IF Hotline Miami weren’t an indie title where the developers were working with the bare essentials of gaming presentation, the game would make Max Payne look like Kirby. Hell, it could maybe even surpass Manhunt’s level of nihilistic gore.

Even though I’ve already compared Hotline Miami to Drive ad Nauseam at this point, the general objective across each of the game’s levels is reminiscent of the climactic sequence of Taxi Driver. For each of Hotline Miami’s chapters, Jacket enters one of the southern tip of Florida’s various commercial buildings, whose location is given through a dossier transferred to him via a phone call. Like Travis Bickle in Sport’s New York brothel, his objective is to clear the building of everyone in it, and I don’t mean by executing a devious prank like pulling the fire alarm. Jacket must take no prisoners and murder everyone on sight. The player witnesses this mission from a top-down perspective, a view of the scene from an impersonal angle as if they are an accomplice to the carnage as opposed to acting as the prime perpetrator (or an homage to when the screen pans out at the end of Taxi Driver?) More than likely, the top-down mechanics are to complement the twin-stick shooter gameplay. The player will control Jacket’s movement with a close combination of keyboard keys while performing most of the actions by alternating the left and right buttons on the mousepad. For anyone playing the console ports of Hotline Miami, both analog sticks need to be used simultaneously for both Jacket’s movement and aiming controls. Jacket enters every building unarmed, but this surprisingly isn’t a horribly miscalculated judgment call on his part as the area is littered with guns and other blunt objects galore. Simply knock out a goon situated at the front of the building and steal his weapon and he’s good to go. Of course, Jacket will dispose of his first victim a little more thoroughly, so the game allows him to perform an “execution” move on the ground with whichever weapon he has or his bare hands to slip the unconscious foe into a state of eternal oblivion. Once Jacket makes a meticulous effort to search every corner, closet, and behind every potted plant to dispatch all of his targets, he retraces his steps back up to the Delorean-esque limousine back to his safe house.

The rinse-and-repeat kind of gameplay that Hotline Miami bestows should tire the player through the stacked number of levels the game provides. However, Hotline Miami’s strict, constant difficulty curve is what staves off the repetition from becoming grating. Hotline Miami’s main gimmick is that the player must mow down the army of Russian mobsters without sustaining even a smidge of damage. If Jacket so much as trips on a cockroach that is sure to scurry by in these scuzzy hallways, he’s completely done for. Not to mention, all of the enemies inside are acutely alert (probably due to copious cocaine consumption), and they’ll spring at the opportunity to beat Jacket down or shoot him on sight before he can register what just happened. Hotline Miami’s core idiosyncrasy is absolutely brilliant, as the swift penalty for one’s mistakes adds a plethora of rich layers to the gameplay. While the overarching goal is to expunge the area of any Russian mafia activity, succeeding is not a simple matter of readying, aiming, and firing at will. Hotline Miami is a quasi-stealth game in that the player must refrain from acting rashly and plan each step accordingly. The jig won’t be up if an enemy catches Jacket, but the player should ideally be treating the overwhelming odds at hand with patience and tact if they want to make a clean getaway. However, for as proficient as some players might be in the vein of traditional stealth games like Metal Gear Solid, Hotline Miami practically guarantees that they’ll never achieve victory on their first attempt. Hotline Miami is a game whose progression is marked by trial and error, memorizing every little increment of the field and the relative rotation of where the enemies are stationed or the trajectory of their pacing. Later levels also add vicious rottweiler dogs that pin down Jacket and tear his trachea right out of his throat as well as burly black bouncers who are immune to melee weapons to thwart any accumulative familiarity. However, the cardinal rules to abide by in Hotline Miami, such as that the abrasively loud gunshots will always attract attention and that not taking advantage of every abrupt door swing to subdue enemies, will always be in place to ensure a quicker victory. As the game progresses, Jacket will unlock a wide variety of crude animal masks with special attributes that could compensate for whichever blindspot keeps befalling them. A checkpoint will be placed once the player reaches another floor as well, so the game is more than accommodating to its regulations. Still, some may feel dejected constantly respawning at the entrance upon subsequent failures, but the eventual triumph over the league of bald, eastern European Don Johnson wannabes will invigorate the player with a sense of gratification. Plus, all of the failed attempts behind the success will fuel one impressively smooth go-around. Jacket will execute every last living, breathing being in the vicinity unscathed like Travis Bickle, but if Travis Bickle had the killing acuity of a ninja.

Hotline Miami’s substance is interwoven into the gameplay and presentation, but there is a subtly told story that is still being told between the levels. Since his girlfriend left him, Jacket’s life has plummeted into a downward spiral of personal atrophy. The negligent, destitute state of his apartment is emblematic of Jacket’s metaphorical inner soul and mental state. Jacket’s evident apathy for his life and the world around him has made him a prime candidate for a radical group referred to as the “Fifty Blessings,” whose mission to fracture America’s relationship with Russia by exterminating their mafia is a very Cold War-centric pursuit of nationalism. Only a reprobate with nothing to lose would sign themselves up for a dangerously self-destructive act, and Jacket undoubtedly fits the description. As he accustomed himself to the daily grind of mass murder, Jacket’s mental state deteriorates even further. Three men often visit him in a hazy, darkened stupor of crawling insects that are wearing the animal masks he uses on the job, his “three witches” who judge him on his actions instead of offering premonitions. Jacket’s mental fortitude seems like it could bounce back after igniting a new relationship with a new girl he saved from a sleazy executive producer during a mission and interacting with a friendly and seemingly omnipresent store clerk that charitably gives him a bevy of free shit for his troubles. Unfortunately, the clerk winds up dead and so does his prospective new love, and the killer of the latter minor character shoots Jacket. He survives and is taken to the hospital, which is where we discover that the events in the game leading up to Jacket’s recovery have been a comatose recollection of his life’s recent events. Once he escapes the hospital and infiltrates the Miami police station, he confronts the man who reduced him to a vegetable and decides to let him live (in the canonical timeline) to procure instead information on where to locate the Russian mafia’s district leader. He confronts the local don, plus his female and canine bodyguards to shield him during his boss encounter, and then kills himself because he’s a man of outstanding pride. Jacket has rid late 1980s Miami of the Russian scourge, and treats himself to a long toke off of a Marlboro red as he tosses a picture from his pocket off the balcony.

Sure, this is technically the current of events that occurs throughout Hotline Miami’s runtime. However, how the game presents its story is akin to a photo collage where the pictures are aligned in a row. The player still has to piece together the context and correlative bearings between scenes and even then, the glue holding these hazy frames together isn’t sticking and making the pictures slip. In fact, we aren’t even privy to who is behind the phone messages until “Biker,” a boss battle whose death was only a fabrication in Jacket’s fleeting consciousness, confronts the two men responsible in the game’s epilogue. This is why Hotline Miami’s greatest theme is dissociation, a prevalent topic among the morally questionable protagonists from the films that comprise the game’s major influences. While Jacket is yet another unhinged renegade bound to enact (several) killing sprees, how Hotline Miami takes advantage of the video game medium to present Jacket’s dissociation from reality is utterly genius. You see, video games can get away with having a fractured, surreal narrative because at least it’s supported by the gameplay elements to hold the foundation. In most character-driven films, the entire plot arc has to be linear and cogent to prevent it from collapsing. All the player has to understand from the gameplay is that Jacket is climbing up the proverbial ladder to reach the tip of the Russian mafia tower, and the ascent is going to become more hectic the higher they reach. The lack of context and frazzled construction of the plot makes the player as dissociated with reality as Jacket, a deeper, symbiotic connection with the character than simply engaging with them from afar as a viewer. Jacket’s motives for assigning himself the onus of assassinating the entire Russian mafia are unclear but then again, what is the player’s motives for directing him through all the blood he spills in the first place? Dissociation isn’t a one-way street for the protagonist for the cogent viewer to assess from a clearer perspective; they are as confused and mentally incongruous as Jacket is, equally dissociating from the damnable ethics of the heinous sprawl of bloodshed.

If Drive was the first stepping stone in establishing the “synthwave” aesthetic that was popular in the 2010s, Hotline Miami most likely launched it into primetime. It’s no wonder as to why it resonated with so many gamers considering the extent of how inspired the game feels. Hotline Miami’s influences are conspicuous, but it is anything but pastiche. Hotline Miami borrows the similar themes, characters, and grizzly tone found in films like Drive and Taxi Driver and re-blends them into the realm of gaming like a fine cocktail on ice. It understood that it could accomplish what those films feasibly couldn’t in another medium, with exceptionally engaging and unique mechanics that future indie developers will be emulating from now until the end of time. If Hotline Miami’s goal was to create an interactive Drive, the developers managed to supersede its initial source. If one doesn’t mind reaching down into the depths of depravity and enacting ambiguous acts of ultraviolence, Hotline Miami is a landmark for gameplay and narrative innovation for gaming.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com