With a name like Ori and the Blind Forest, one can infer that the game is filled with a grand sense of whimsy and adventure. It’s a title for an unpublished C.S. Lewis book or the album title of a progressive rock band. It alludes to the promise of an epic journey that can only exist in the realm of a fantasy world. Austrian indie developer Moon Studios thought it wise to design their fanciful creation in the Metroidvania genre, a prevalent trend among many indie titles in the mid to late 2010s. Typically, games in this niche sub-sector of 2D platformers are fairly confined to claustrophobic spaces consisting of walls that hinder the player’s freedom to progress as they please. At least, this is the design philosophy Nintendo spurred for their immortal Metroid series, the undisputed godfather of the Metroidvania subgenre. The “blind forest” part of the game’s title may connote a blinding darkness that could appropriately convey the same sense of tension and dread similar to Metroid. However, the developers of Ori and the Blind Forest wanted to present a sprawling untapped landscape for the player to marvel at. While one could argue that Metroid achieves this through its wearisome “stranger in a strange land” initiative, that doesn’t seem to be the direction Ori’s developers wished to take with their approach to the Metroidvania game. Given that the genre’s gameplay tropes are rooted in Metroid’s oppressive weight, aren’t all Metroidvania games inherently limited to the scope that Metroid laid out? Wouldn’t Ori and the Blind Forest be more suitable for the open-world genre with more liberal boundaries? By 2015, the Metroidvania genre hit a conceptual peak, and the genre’s evolution transcended the cramped atmosphere associated with its inception. As early as Symphony of the Night, Metroidvania games proved to be expansive as an open-world game, even with the choice parameters these kinds of games uphold. In fact, Ori and the Blind Forest is a Metroidvania game that challenges the preconceived limitations of the Metroidvania genre. Ori and the Blind Forest presents a world that demands to be explored thoroughly, and the Metroidvania genre is the perfect venue for the developers to implore the player to absorb the full extent of the game’s artistic achievements.

As par for the course, the narrative of a fantasy tale needs to be opulent to accommodate the realm. The eponymous Ori is a luminescent, simian/feline forest nymph adopted by the fuzzy, rotund Naru, who resembles a bear if a bear had an unnaturally friendly demeanor and wore a mask. A booming omniscient narrator details these two's simple, happy life in a montage consisting of picking berries, cuddly cat naps, and Naru flinging Ori up and down like an infant child. The opening sequence of the game is reminiscent of the beginning of the acclaimed Pixar film Up, a highlight reel that condenses the storied relationship between two people over a lengthy period. Also, like Up, the sequence ends in tragedy as Ori returns from her daily berry retrieval to find that her wooly guardian has died. Naru’s death was a premature occurrence as the forest they reside in is in a destitute state of decay and it's the dearth of natural resources had caused it to die of starvation. The feeble Ori is alone and helpless, passing out from exhaustion. Even though things look grim, Ori is resuscitated by the fabled Spirit Tree and is set on a quest to restore the prosperous state of the forest by collecting the three elements located on opposite corners of the land. Ori’s introduction wonderfully sets the scene by juxtaposing the humdrum happiness of life before the disastrous event and the severity of the situation Ori is left with afterward. If the opening was paced a little more languidly, the scene could’ve been as devastating to the player as the infamous opening sequence to the Pixar film that was previously mentioned.

Immediately, the player can easily see that Ori and the Blind Forest is a gorgeous game. No matter where Ori is on the map, the individual districts that makeup Nibel Forest are as immaculate as an impressionistic painting. Ori’s forest is a lush, splendorous wooded world whose beauty can be attributed to the meticulous effort of visual fidelity and detail from the developers. Each shot from every angle displays a lavish background that shows the scope of the setting, supporting its overwhelming magnificence. Even in more cramped spaces like caves where the outside world is obscured by walls of earth, the looping area is spacious enough to still retain that resplendent scope. Foreground settings are so intricate that the player can ascertain every wrinkle in the wood, every crag on a cliffside, and every buoyant bubble in the various bodies of water. Color and lighting choices are consistently lurid and never clash with Ori’s bright, white presence, so the player never has trouble seeing her. Impressive as the visuals might be superficial, what interests me more is how the game uses its presentation to convey mood. As early as the menu screen, The Spirit Tree, the zenith point of the entire forest, is used as a visual refrain throughout the game, a point of reference for scoping out the breadth of the forest and the land’s state of being. The game’s menu presents the widened scope of the mystical tree with the looming mountain tops in the background supported by the aura of a tangerine-colored sunset, a scene suitable for the subject of a work from Degas. Once the player pushes start, the shift of tranquil end of the day turns to a frightening, blustery night that illustrates Naru’s adoption of little Ori as a valiant rescue mission. The joyous comradery between Ori and Naru during their time together is illustrated by a clear, sunny afternoon atmosphere. Naru’s death scene is blanketed by a sheet of blue melancholy. The opening sequence exudes a strong enough impression with its color choices that, for the rest of the game, any scene or environment that faintly shares the same shade triggers a particular emotion in the player.

The game’s eye-catching visuals are enough to entice the player to explore every crevice of the map. Still, the inherent design of a Metroidvania game will foster this anyways, especially if it's a selling point for fans of the genre. Ori’s world is separated into various districts like most Metroidvania titles, and each of these areas has a myriad of distinguishable topographical features. The starting point of the Sunken Glades is a depleted mire that I would describe as dismal if not for the striking purple aura surrounding it. Ascending from the Glades to the grand peak where the Spirit Tree lies is the Spirit Caverns, and a change in elevation marked by steeper terrain and brighter sunlight signals a steady rate of progression. The Moon Grotto is beautifully illuminated by the sparse sunlight that seeps through its sheet of thick foliage, and the Thornfelt Swamp houses a voluminous pool of water so clear that the player would be tempted to drink it (I still wouldn’t). The pea-soup fog surrounding the Misty Woods is thick enough to obscure it on the map, leaving the player to their own devices to navigate this oddity of an area. Forlorn Ruins in the icy mountains is a marriage of the primitive and the futuristic, with anti-gravity platforms serving as a unique gimmick. The two previously mentioned districts show the player that they offer more than video game eye candy. The extended optional areas of Black Root Burrows and Lost Grove are highlights due to their particular inclusion. The Burrows can be accessed even before Ori stands before the Spirit Tree, but the absolute jet-black darkness of the area should give the player the impression that they should be visited at a later date, a tried and true mark of Metroidvania-level progression. Once the player is ready to blindly lead Ori into the darkness, the challenge of liminal sight pays off with the breathtaking beach shore of the Lost Grove at a dead end. The progression of this optional area reminds me of the connection path of The Great Hollow leading into Ash Lake from the first Dark Souls. Their inclusion wasn’t entirely necessary, but the additional venture paid off wonderfully with what seemed like an astounding secret. Nibel Forest is as eclectic as it is attractive, so much so that the developers decided it would be practical to have the player stand in awe of its full glory when they zoom out on the map screen. I think seeing the entirety of the map would be more practical, considering how vast the world is.

As captivating as Nibel Forest is, it’s still the grounds of a hostile wilderness. After the opening cutscene, the primary source of initial conflict is how poor little Ori will survive the uncaring forest elements without Naru's burly, loving arms to protect her. Fortunately for Ori, the game conveniently provides Sein as her new guardian to accompany her on her quest. Sein is a sentient light spirit assigned by the Spirit Tree who is so microscopic that its only discernible feature is its glow like someone is poorly aiming a laser pointer over Ori’s shoulders for the entire game. Sein is the minimal guide and the voice for the mute protagonist. By this description, everyone who played Ocarina of Time and still suffers from Navi PTSD just clicked off this review in a rush. Fear not, for unlike Navi, Sein is a functional tool imperative to Ori’s gameplay. Sein acts as the game’s combat mechanic by spurting blasts of spirit energy at enemies. These bursts can either be administered in rapid-fire spurts or by holding down the ball of energy to engorge Sein and release it as a stronger, loud blast.



One would think that Ori would be doomed as a tasty snack without Sein, but the cute, cherubic creature is capable of more than someone would initially think. Ori’s prime strength is her nimble dexterity. Platformer characters' controls should feel polished, given the accuracy needed to perform acts such as jumping onto platforms, and Ori is so smooth that it seems like her glow is due to being slathered in butter. Most of her full potential is subdued at first because of the cumulative nature of the Metroidvania title, but plenty of her growing pains still show promise. Before climbing up surfaces and other inclines, she can scale up them simply by jumping at a rhythmic pace, which achieves the same effect. She can jump a total of three times at her maximum level, but the single jump ability at the start is breezy enough for a fair range with effortless accuracy. Abilities such as the bash can launch the projectiles from enemies back at them for severe damage, and the ground pound shakes off enemies' defenses and shatters vulnerable openings. Ori still probably can’t fend for herself entirely without Sein, but at least her own offensive moves do enough to diversify the combat. Ori’s extra abilities are unlocked via Ancestral Trees: glowing miniature trees located across the map that grant Ori a different ability with a stream of cleansing water and light. Experience points are earned by defeating enemies and collecting orbs, and the player uses these points to upgrade Ori’s abilities in three separate chains. Unlike Dark Souls, the player doesn’t have to commit to one category as they’ll most likely earn enough experience throughout the game to maximize Ori’s well-roundedness. The game does its duty as a Metroidvania title by making Ori feel impervious by the end of the game, and it’s relieving that Ori is already competent enough at the start.

However, competency isn’t enough to overcome the obstacles presented in Nibel Forest. Even for a Metroidvania title, Ori and the Blind Forest has a strange difficulty curve. Checkpoints earned through achievement in any other game are manually used by the player at any time as long as they have enough energy and are in a spot without any danger in their direct vicinity. The checkpoint is represented by the Spirit Flame, a fiery blue figment that serves as a reference point. Checkpoint wells where the player can warp are also present, but most likely, the player will use the Spirit Flame more often because of its convenience. However, the player always has to remind themselves to save often because one deadly mistake can reverse the player’s progress back to god knows how long. Multiple collectibles have been lost due to not keeping track of saving, which isn’t a concern in most other games. Puzzles in the game are relatively straightforward, but the true tests in proficiency revolve around the player’s skill with Ori’s abilities. Prickly vegetation is an obstacle seen as a dangerous obstacle that depletes Ori’s health, appropriate for a woodland setting. More artificial inhibitors, like the influx of lasers seen around the map, will kill Ori on contact, and both are implemented everywhere. The game also seems to enjoy implementing sections where the player has to endure a series of gymnastics without the privilege of saving at every step as the climax for each element is obtained. Not only do they present blasts of energy and thorns galore, but there is always a special aspect of strain that Ori must race over, like the rising water in the Ginso Tree and the erosion of the Sorrow’s Pass. During these sections, the player must use a combination of the bash, dash, and Kuro’s feather with split precision to escape with Ori intact. For a game where the player can save whenever they please, it still forces the player to prove their might.

The environment will most likely be the only substantial hurdle in the game because the enemies can be brushed off. Usually, the most disconcerting aspect of being in the woods is a frightful encounter with the untamed wildlife, but the creatures that reside in Nibel Forest barely have a vicious bone in their bodies. Creatures like the sluggish (no pun intended) crawlers remind me of similar enemies from Metroid, docile cannon fodder usually engaged with for repleting ammo. Hoppers and Darkwings will attack Ori dead-on, but their jumping trajectory is too obvious, leaving themselves vulnerable for too long. Dealing with Spitters is a matter of bashing their constant spit streams, and the other projectile-spewing enemies like Mortar Worms and Arachne feel more like a part of a platforming section rather than a standard enemy. In fact, the only instances where the enemies in the game are a pain to deal with is if they are placed inconveniently in a tight platforming section. Also, the game is lacking in area-specific creatures that fit a specific climate. Does it make sense that Hoppers can live in both the Forlorn Ruins' frigid peaks and the humid Thornfelt Swamp? I think the lackluster roster of enemies is the reason why Ori and the Blind Forest don’t have any boss battles. However, Kuro the Bird is almost imposing enough in the scheme of the narrative to compensate. Kuro is a colossal owl (or perhaps colossal on the small scale of the forest) whose shadowy, deep indigo coloring and giant stature make her utterly terrifying. On top of that, she’s also got malicious intent behind those unnaturally white-hot eyes as she stalks Ori with a vengeance, as her perusal is the subject of many frantic escape sequences. Sein believes that Koru is just a blind, malevolent force, but we learn that her true motive for hunting Ori is because the Spirit Tree killed three out of four of her children during the process of finding Ori in the introduction. Once we learn this, Koru’s intentions are understood, and we give her some leeway with her will to keep the last remaining of her eggs out of harm's way. The sympathetic villain trope is prevalent in Ori and the Blind Forest, as the same can be applied to the gangly, mischievous Gumo, who inconveniences Ori with his tomfoolery because he’s profoundly lonely due to his entire kind being wiped out.

As much as I can appreciate the angle at which the game approaches its villains, I still wanted just one boss fight to satiate my gaming needs. Unfortunately, even in the climax, the game still leaves me unsatisfied. After retrieving the three elements, Ori ascends past the peak of Hollow Grove to Mount Horu. This volcanic ruin screams “final level” from its harrowing summit, with safe ground sparsely placed amongst lava constantly spurting like an everflowing stream. Individual rooms of the ruins offer some of the steepest, puzzling challenges that put all of Ori’s skills to work with only marginal room for error. After draining the lava and reaching the apex point, Koru confronts Ori again, and it’s yet another chase sequence. It’s certainly the tensest and longest of these various sections, but I wish Ori had fought back and made Sein create a wrecking ball-sized orb of energy and blasted it in Kuro's face. As it is, Ori evades the dark bird’s clutches and restores the sacred elements to the Spirit Tree, restoring balance to Nibel Forest and disintegrating Koru with a revitalizing supernova of light. The defeat of the game’s main antagonist is always a satisfactory wrapping point for any fantasy narrative. Still, Ori and the Blind Forest decide to cap off Ori’s grand adventure with a cop-out. Apparently, the restorative energy released by the Spirit Tree resurrected Naru, and Naru, Gumo, and Ori will raise Kuro’s surviving egg as their own. As sweet as some might find this ending to be, it compromises on the emotional weight that served as an effective catalyst when the game began. As a result, the impact of Naru’s death is negated entirely. Ori caring for the creature incubating in the egg herself would’ve been a better resolution. Doing so would’ve illustrated her growth throughout the journey, for once she needed to be protected, and now she’s fulfilling the parental role. For a title whose gameplay emphasizes aggregate character growth, the ending sullies it with a stark regression.

Ori and the Blind Forest is a game that sufficiently exudes all of the awe-inspiring wonders one would associate with its title. Every frame of the game’s arboreal world could be framed and displayed in the Louvre. The exploration initiative found in the Metroidvania genre incentivizes the player to uncover every beautiful inch of it. All the while, the picturesque setting houses a splendidly diverse and challenging environment with one of the most agile and precious video game protagonists to ever hop across a series of platforms. While Ori and the Blind Forest succeeds in offering a solid Metroidvania experience with flying colors, some aspects of the game feel as if the developers were a bit hesitant. I can’t say if they dialed back the combat and narrative weight to appeal to a younger, more impressionable demographic or if the lighthearted fantasy world they created didn’t foster bleak tones or bloody battles. I wholeheartedly disagree if it’s the latter, as they would’ve enhanced the player’s immersion, or at least they would’ve enhanced mine.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

Conker’s Bad Fur Day was the perfect swansong for the N64. What better game to send off the console other than with a crass, anarchic romp that wiped its ass with the family-friendly foundation that Nintendo facilitated and by the third-party developer that arguably made the greatest contribution in cementing its accessibility? Unsuspecting consumers assumed that Conker’s Bad Fur Day was yet another innocuous 3D platformer due to its Rareware pedigree and the fact that the game featured a furry, anthropomorphic protagonist. However, they were all flabbergasted at the game’s true colors underneath its intentionally squeaky-clean surface, even though the game box art featured an M-rating along with a disclaimer explicitly stating that this was not a game for children. All the while, Conker is holding a frothy mug of beer with his disturbingly voluptuous girlfriend, Berry. Even if someone is experiencing Conker’s Bad Fur Day knowing full well that the game is intended for mature audiences, the content is still pretty shocking. Rare created a game that shifted the light-hearted tone of their smash hits Banjo Kazooie and Tooie on its head without altering the cherubic visuals, inflicting obscenities on its storybook fantasy world and the cuddly characters that reside in it. Conker’s Bad Fur Day snuck in viscera and vulgarity into the pristine 3D platformer genre like a trojan horse, and uneducated parents were mortified when they inadvertently exposed their children to it. Grand Theft Auto III, another game released in 2001 that also garnered levels of contempt from the PTA boards around the world, at least made it obvious that children shouldn’t play it. On the other hand, Conker’s Bad Fur Day villainously duped parents with a level of deception that shattered their trust in the gaming industry, even though Nintendo did its best to warn them. All controversies aside, the provocative premise of Conker’s Bad Fur Day made it a breath of fresh air. The N64 was overflowing with many bright, cutesy 3D platformers thanks to Super Mario 64. The adult content of Conker’s Bad Fur Day acted as a self-effacing parody to signify that the genre had stagnated and needed to be buried alongside the console that harbored them. If Conker eviscerating the N64 logo with a chainsaw in the game’s introduction isn’t emblematic of its ethos, I don’t know how they could’ve conveyed it more overtly (okay, maybe Banjo’s severed head hung up on a plaque over the bar in the main menu). No one will argue against Conker’s legacy as a subversive title, but whether or not the game is up to snuff with its fellow 3D platformers mechanically is a point of contention.

Rare didn’t just whip Conker out of their ass when they sat down to devise the components of Conker’s Bad Fur Day. Squirrels are certainly an appropriately adorable animal, but it’s questionable where they fit on the hierarchy of cuteness next to cats, dogs, or even other woodland critters. Conker was once a budding IP Rare introduced by making Conker a playable character in the 1997 N64 title Diddy Kong Racing. The Conker IP debuted on the Gameboy Color with Conker’s Pocket Tales, a simplistic action-adventure game marketed towards a very young demographic, as one would expect from a game featuring a cartoon squirrel. Rare was initially developing a fully-fledged console follow-up on the N64 titled Twelve Tails: Conker 64, but the early reception was less-than-enthusiastic. Developers were worried that kiddy Conker would wilt under the overcasting shadow of Banjo-Kazooie, for the game mirrored the inoffensive, mirthful atmosphere of the Banjo games to the point where it seemed derivative. In order to give Conker an identity of his own, Rare pulled what Hannah-Barbera did with obscure 1960s cartoon superhero Space Ghost and reinvigorated him into the realm of maturity, albeit with crude humor as opposed to dry, off-kilter absurdism. Immediately, Conker’s Bad Fur Day illustrates the squirrel’s transformation in the opening cutscene when he leaves his girlfriend Berri a message from a bar payphone to tell her he’s coming home late so he can buy another round with the boys. He gets sloppy drunk, ralphs on the ground, and loses himself in a drunken stupor. Whether it's a matter of lying to his girlfriend or binge drinking, Conker is clearly an adult putting himself in adult situations.

Ironically, Conker’s Bad Fur Day excels the most in the least edgy aspect found in the game, and that’s its surface-level presentation. The most fortunate thing about being the last hurrah in a console’s lifespan is having the advantage of hindsight paved by the shortcomings of your predecessors who were busy finding their way through uncharted territory. In the annals of gaming history, there hasn’t been a more arduous terrain to trek through than buffing out the cracks of 3D graphics in the N64 generation. Conker’s Bad Fur Day couldn’t transcend the rudimentary snags that beset the N64, or at least to the point where the player could clearly discern every strand of fur on Conker’s body. After five years of developing early 3D games on a console that looked like blocks of airbrushed chunks of cheese, Rare flaunted their experience in developing for the N64 and made a game that proved to be the pinnacle of the system’s capabilities. Conker’s Bad Fur Day is, bar none, the most gorgeous N64 game from a graphical standpoint, something unexpected from a title that brandishes such vulgar content. The graphics here don’t look too unfamiliar to the typical N64 aesthetic, but Conker’s Bad Fur Day pushes itself beyond its contemporaries through an elevated scope. I’ve always claimed that early 3D games that adopted a more fantastical, cartoonish style looked the most appealing. The developers could render something fittingly unrealistic under the confines of early 3D instead of attempting to emulate actual humans and real-world environments to expectedly lackluster results with such games as Goldeneye. Conker’s Bad Fur Day could essentially function as an interactive cartoon like all of its fellow 3D platformers, but the secret ingredient lies in taking the wide scope of some of Banjo’s levels and using that design consistently. The area of Conker’s Bad Fur Day that acts as the nucleus of the game’s world is a hub whose grassy valleys and hilly peaks create a diverse range of elevation, making Conker look small and insignificant. Interior areas such as the gothic castle and the prehistoric chamber are magnificently spacious, and the inner sanctum of the dung beetle’s operation is like a poopy Paradise Lost. Even the cliffside waterfall in the tutorial section looks splendorous. The best levels from the Banjo games were those with a wide proportional setting and expansive parameters. Conker’s Bad Fur Day makes something relatively cohesive with the same design philosophy. With a few refinements to the shape and tints of character models and settings, Conker’s Bad Fur Day makes it apparent how far the N64 has come since Mario was hopping on a series of colored blocks in the N64’s infancy.

Another contributing factor to Conker’s stellar presentation is its cinematic flair. The game doesn’t present itself as if Hideo Kojima is at the helm, but like with its graphics, Conker’s Bad Fur Day makes due with what the N64 obliges and delivers spectacularly. A substantial portion of Conker’s Bad Fur Day’s humor is delivered through dialogue during cutscenes interspersed between gameplay moments. On the screen, dialogue is presented through speech bubbles, a fittingly comic touch that accentuates the game’s cartoon visuals. Bubbles with text that pop up on the screen never overflow and become jarring because the text refreshes with every spoken line, and conversing characters are never shown on the screen simultaneously. As you can probably guess, a strong facet of the game’s vulgarities is the foul language that spews from the mouths of the characters. Funny enough, Conker’s dialogue is saintly compared to every single NPC character's colorful stream of verbal sewage. Maybe this was done to make Conker seem more like a stranger in a strange land, a hostile environment marked by inhospitable rudeness. Either way, the language in Conker’s Bad Fur Day is caustic enough to make an aging schoolmarm say seven hail marys. Another surprising choice from the developers regarding the dialogue was to censor the word “fuck.” Don’t worry: the mother of all swear words is used frequently by the characters in a myriad of varieties, but any utterance of the word is bleeped like it’s on TV with a series of violent characters obscuring the word in the speech bubble. Somehow, keeping the overall language PG-13 by censoring “fuck” makes the game sound more explicit, with the grating sound of the bleep ringing louder in the player's ears than if they kept the dialogue as is. I’m surprised none of the NPCs ever told Conker to see you next Tuesday if you catch my vernacular. Rare is a British company, after all. Speaking of which, a mere three voice actors deliver the profane lines, and they all struggle to mask their British accents. Some voices, like Conker, occasionally seep in a British inflection on what seems like an accident, while others, like the dung beetles, sound like the Gallagher brothers from Oasis. Whether or not the voice actors are making an attempt to veil their accent, the cadence of the line deliveries consistently sounds like the voice is an improvised impression that is slowly deflating. Do not expect vocal performances with range or emotion; I’ll give the developers the benefit of the doubt that perhaps it’s another mark of the game’s wacky eccentricities rather than bad direction.

Also, do not expect Conker’s Bad Fur Day to amaze the player with an extravagant plot. Conker’s mission throughout the game is just to find his way home, like a scatological Homer’s Odyssey. Conker’s journey is a roundabout trek through a no man’s land where each step onward won’t lead him closer to his goal but provide another distraction with its own secondary arc. Any characters Conker comes across have a perfunctory presence whose transient impact on the story leaves no lasting impression. Sections of the game’s story are listed in chapters, divided by notable scenes like how the aforementioned Greek epic is structured. Similar to how everyone remembers individual parts of The Odyssey, such as the bout with the Cyclops or avoiding the Sirens, the player will similarly recognize the events of Conker’s Bad Fur Day. The pinnacle moment of each chapter is obtaining dollars: hopping, cigar-smoking stacks of money that serve as the game’s one collectible. Adult Conker is a man’s man who is motivated by money, alcohol, and poontang, so of course, all three of these things are featured in his mature breakout title in some capacity. The cutscene that triggers when the player collects these wads of cash shows Conker’s pupils shifting into dollar signs as they scroll up in his head like slot machines, with Conker expressing an ecstatically wide, toothy grin. If you’ve played any other 3D platformer game, you’ll know this is a nod to the brief, victorious celebration that a character performs when they earn another one of the main collectibles (Super Mario 64, Banjo, Jak and Daxter) and Conker’s expression never fails to amuse me. I’ve heard that collecting the money unlocks new areas and progresses the game, but I found this inconsistent. Judging from the placement of these chapters in the main menu, I completed the section with the barn way before the game was intended, and the game did not direct somewhere else on the map.

I’d claim that Conker’s Bad Fur Day is a deconstruction of the archetypal hero’s journey, like the cash collectible is for gaming tropes, but I feel I’d be giving the game too much credit considering the half-assed conflict scenario they conjured up. Meanwhile, the Panther King, the mighty monarch of this land, notices a problem while sitting on his imposing throne. The table on which his glass of milk resides is missing a leg, and he cannot hold it due to its irregularity. His scientist advisor deduces that placing a red squirrel as an alternative for the missing leg is the only logical solution, for a red squirrel is the optimal size and color. The Panther King’s weasel army sets out to capture Conker so their snarling highness can drink his milk in peace. Is this really the best source of conflict you could come up with, Rare?

Perhaps I can’t be too critical of the game’s arching plot because it seems evident that Conker’s Bad Fur Day is a series of events that serve as a collective. Because the nature of this kind of story is episodic, a good ol’ highlight reel is needed to detail Conker’s finest moments. Calling Conker’s Bad Fur Day crude is a statement that even Captain Obvious wouldn’t bother to utter. Each chapter in the game involves a fresh slew of characters and scenarios, so the game has plenty of opportunities to be uniquely offensive. For those of you who are particularly squeamish, chapters like “Windy” and “Barn Boys” feature the visceral combustion of precious farm animals. Conker feeds an irritating rat so much cheese that the gas built up by lactose causes him to inflate and explode like a watermelon, while the cows are disposed of by the ramming of an irate bull after they defecate enough for the dung beetle’s liking. Several local villagers are abducted by Bat Conker in “Spooky” and are liquidated by a spiky, medieval contraption in a room of the Count’s mansion as a means for the ancient vampire to feast on their gushy remains. Conker sacrifices an infant dinosaur he hatches to gain further access to the “Uga Buga” level, where a giant stone slab crushes the adorable beast into bloody mincemeat. To be fair, the creature had blood on his hands as he devoured every caveman in sight until he was pulverized. If blood and guts don’t turn your stomach, Conker’s Bad Fur Day also offers up a slew of raunchy moments involving intimate bodily fluids and lewd, sexual content. One of Conker’s adult vices that I briefly touched upon was alcohol, and the stupid bastard didn’t learn his lesson from the night before. In two sections, guzzling booze from a keg will get Conker sloppy drunk, and the objective is to unzip his pants and douse enemies with his piss. Do I need to comment on the content involving fecal matter any further? Actually, the shit in Conker’s Bad Fur Day stacks up so high that it hits the fan with The Great Mighty Poo, a magnificent mass of sentient poo so grand that it developed a singing voice to match its immense size. This boss fight that also factors as a musical number is one of the greatest boss fights in gaming history, and I will not dispute this claim with anyone. There is no explicit nudity in Conker’s Bad Fur Day, but the game still teeters with the western world’s most touchy taboos. The Boiler Room boss inside the vault brandishes a pair of iron testicles that Conker must wallop with a set of bricks. The fight against Buga the Knut, the king of the cavemen, involves making his pants fall down like King Hippo, only this neanderthal isn’t wearing underwear, and Conker must make the miniature T-Rex he hypnotized chomp off chunks of flesh from his big, naked ass. After that, Conker takes a crack at his tall, buxom cavewoman, for the well-endowed sunflower he encountered earlier weirded him out (as it did for the rest of us). Look at Berri and tell me with a straight face that she’s a dynamic character and not a trope of sexual objectification (you can’t). People nowadays might take offense at a Beavis, and Butthead duo of a paint can and brush bullying a pitchfork into hanging himself, which he fails because he doesn’t have a neck.

The million-dollar question on the content of Conker is if it is still funny after all these years or if it was funny, to begin with. During the late 90s and early 2000s, comedy’s initiative in raising the bar included the foulest and most deplorable things that media in the past wouldn’t dare to display. One could probably compare Conker’s Bad Fur Day to South Park, for they both broke ground in the vein of depravity for their respective mediums around the same time. However, Conker’s Bad Fur Day doesn’t mold its crude humor into a satirical substance like South Park tends to do. All we can do with Conker’s content is marvel at how these perversities managed to elude the censors for shock value. On top of the shlock, the meta humor, film references, and other humor tropes common at the time make me groan. The A Clockwork Orange Kubrick stare and the D-Day recreation from Saving Private Ryan are effective, but I’ve seen these parodied countless times. Am I not seeing the comedic genius because I am experiencing this game twenty years after it was released? The most amusing aspect of Conker’s Bad Fur Day is how much it borrows from Looney Tunes as its prime source of cartoon inspiration. Conker is essentially a more sociopathic Bugs Bunny, treating all the people around him with sarcastic glee and derision. Just substitute a beer for a carrot, and the word “maroon” for “wanker” and the resemblance is uncanny.

I can forgive the dated humor in Conker’s Bad Fur Day, but I cannot overlook the game's severe mechanical problems. One would expect an adult-oriented 3D platformer to offer more of a challenge, but I feel Conker provides one unintentionally. Overall, the game is fairly lenient, with difficulty in terms of approaching obstacles and with error. In another attempt to jab at video game tropes, actions in the game are reserved for “context-sensitive pads” seen everywhere with the letter B. A lightbulb will appear over Conker’s head, and he’ll proceed to whip anything out of his ass to solve a problem. Usually, these instances are pretty straightforward. The video game trope of multiple lives is explained by a diminutive, churlish depiction of the Grim Reaper once the player dies for the first time. Apparently, a squirrel is an animal with multiple lives like those blasted cats he despises, and extra lives are tails hanging off of random places around the map. To stave off bothering Grim, tabs of chocolate are displayed as the game’s health item, totaling up to a maximum of six. Chocolate is everywhere, and thank the lord because Conker constantly depletes it due to falling. Even the most tepid of tumbles will hurt Conker, which isn’t fair, considering he’s a character with the power of flight. The player can execute a high jump and glide for a short distance, hurting Conker. Don’t believe me? Try it out for yourselves. The chapter of “Bat’s Tower” was especially tense because of this. On top of this, aiming Conker’s flight trajectory is a finicky task due to Conker’s base control feeling like years of drinking have made him half-paralyzed. Add a restricted, uncooperative camera in the mix, and the game reminds me less of Banjo Kazooie and more of Super Mario 64. Ouch.

Controlling Conker already sounds bad enough on a base level, but it’s made much worse anytime the game features anything outside the realm of platforming. Unfortunately, this happens a lot. Notorious examples include swimming underwater in the vault and the blistering lava race, but these end quickly as opposed to the game’s shoddy shooting controls. Getting rid of the hostile dung beetles at the beginning with a slingshot is an early sampler of these, and it’s uneventful due to the sluggish speed of the bugs. The hive turret is sort of uncooperative, but the one-shot damage of the bullets does enough to compensate. The pinpoint accuracy needed to kill the zombies in “Spooky” is excruciating, but it’s only a small factor of the entire chapter. The lengthy period of the game that makes shooting a core mechanic is the WWII-inspired “It’s War.” War is hell enough, but having to mow down gangs upon gangs of evil Tediz as a one-man army feels like we’ve plunged into the seventh circle. The shooting controls in Conker’s Bad Fur Day are some of the most slippery and unresponsive I’ve seen across any game I’ve played. The Tediz do not have to adhere to piss-poor controls, so they’ll easily bushwack Conker while he’s lining his sights. This especially becomes a problem during the chapter’s escape sequence on the beach, where the Tediz can obliterate Conker with one bazooka shell, whereas Conker has to stop and carefully aim. This chapter made me feel like I just underwent a campaign overseas and started feeling the stages of shell shock. Conker can't be a renaissance man if he already struggles with his main mechanic.

I’ve given up on making sense of Conker’s plot, but the ending of the game bothered me. Once Conker returns from war, the weasel mob boss wants him and Berri to complete a bank heist, and this operation is a full-on Matrix reference, complete with all of the action sequences we’ve seen parodied to death. At the end of the vault is the Panther King, who has become impatient waiting for Conker and decides to face Conker himself. Unexpectedly, his contemptuous scientific underling has slipped his boss a mickey in the form of yet another film reference: the xenomorph from Alien who bursts from his chest. Not an alien with a striking resemblance to H.R. Giger’s creation, but the alien itself. How did Rare not get sued? Conker even duels the alien as the game’s final boss in the yellow mech and says, “get away from her, you bitch!” when it hovers over Berri’s lifeless body. The fight proves too formidable for Conker, but before he is torn to shreds, the game freezes as Conker uses this opportunity to request more accommodating circumstances for this scenario. He decapitates the xenomorph with a katana and succeeds the Panther King as the land’s royal leader. A postmodern meta moment like this is not surprising, but placing it in the game’s climax feels rather contrived. Then again, the game’s plot was already contrived. One thing I like about the ending is swinging the xenomorph by its tail in an homage to the Bowser fights in Super Mario 64. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most clever reference in the game.

It goes without saying, but Conker’s Bad Fur Day certainly stands out from the rest of its 3D platformer contemporaries. The game perches itself on the tower of backs made from its N64 brethren to poke and prod their foundations while excreting an unspeakable cocktail of piss and shit down their trail. Games like Super Mario 64 and Rare’s Banjo games walked so Conker’s Bad Fur Day could run, and the game has shown through its presentation that it can run pretty fast. Unfortunately, the game did not have the stamina or gaming competency to do the hundred-yard dash, making it a fellow contender instead of the undisputed king. Conker’s Bad Fur Day is a case of style over substance, and even then, the smutty style that launched it into the stratosphere is a bit too sophomoric and is ultimately a product of its time. Nevertheless, Conker’s Bad Fur Day is still a unique experience not for the faint of heart, and rest assured that there won’t be another game like it released in the future.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

What’s an irreverent, ironic way of saying “yeehaw!” because West of Loathing, a game developed by indie studio Asymmetric, is attempting to scream it from the mountaintops. West of Loathing is yet another western odyssey in the gaming medium, but Red Dead Redemption, it ain’t. One can immediately tell from the game’s minimalistic presentation that West of Loathing’s initiative is not to compete with the likes of Red Dead Redemption or any of its ilk but to subvert the tropes of the western epic with lo-fi silliness. I’ve always admired games that verged in the direction of a tongue-in-cheek borderline parody of popular video game genres. Earthbound lacked the polished RPG mechanics compared to its more orthodox JRPG contemporaries like Final Fantasy, but its quirky, absurd sense of humor and irreverent mechanics separated it as something unique to the genre. Judging from the preconceived notions one might have while looking at West of Loathing, we can infer that the game borrows more than a spoonful of Earthbound’s essence. West of Loathing’s intent is to have the player grinning from ear to ear with jaunty absurdism. As I expressed in my review of Earthbound, this directive often tends to be grating, and I found this to also be the case for West of Loathing. In fact, West of Loathing grated so hard on me that I loathed it. Okay, perhaps that’s too harsh a word in an effort to express my feelings on the game while attempting to reference the game’s title cleverly. Still, West of Loathing is still bogged down with a myriad of flaws.

As the adage goes, minimalism is a legitimate art form. In gaming, it’s usually indicative of a smaller or non-existent budget made by a one-man developer or a modest coalition of people. Indie titles do not display the magnificent frills of triple-A production, but they still compensate with an endearing, humble art design with some unique mechanics to boot. West of Loathing takes the deprived budget of an indie game and revels in it, like accidentally stepping in a puddle of mud on a rainy day and then deciding to swim in it. West of Loathing cranks the minimalistic aspects of indie games up to 11, or rather, it twists the knob of visual decadence down to negative 11. The black and white, doodled setpieces and stick-figure characters are about as minimal as a game can look. The developers could’ve commissioned one of their kindergarten-aged children to craft this game’s visuals. West of Loathing’s style reminds me of a flash game from the pioneering flash website Newgrounds, which included a bevy of flash games involving anatomically-sparse stick figures. It recalls a wondrous aspect of those flash games in that one didn’t need expensive equipment or a studio to make something fun and engaging to play. West of Loathing’s art style is its most intriguing feature a first glance, and the silly charm of it never wavers.

Despite the minimal presentation, the grand scope of adventure with the western genre is not lost on West of Loathing. Our customizable RPG protagonist (of the tiniest variety, with long hair being the one distinguishable feature between a male and female protagonist) lives in his hometown ranch with his family in a podunk area of little significance. He/she lusts for the thrill of adventure, and to their convenience, the frontier valley of the American wild west is a few miles yonder. They pack their bags and set out to the nearby town of Boring Springs to prepare even further. Here, the protagonist seeks out their horse and partner (sorry, “pardner”). I chose the googly-eyed horse from the Boring Springs stable and named it Budweiser, something I thought was appropriate for my protagonist, which I named Truck Balls. As for my sidekick to assist me on my quest, I chose the no-nonsense cattle rancher Susie Cochrane who is out on a mission of vengeance against a herd of demonic cows that slaughtered her family and burned down her ranch. Once you leave Boring Springs, the protagonist is at a point of no return as the vast, dry wasteland of the wild west is the domain for the game's duration. The triple-A game I’ve been comparing West of Loathing to so far is Red Dead Redemption, but the wild west on display reminds me more of Fallout (not New Vegas specifically). The map is littered with a smattering of locations with icons representing a thematic consistency, like towns, caves, forts, etc. The objectives here range in significance as most of them are tied into sidequests, and many of them are discovered as distractions on the way to the destination. Still, this is precisely how the Fallout series achieves a sense of intrigue in discovery. Even though the player can’t travel in West of Loathing unless they select an area by pulling up the map and travel is exhibited by the clip-clops of horseshoes, West of Loathing still manages to make the world feel as extensive as one from a Fallout game and offer the same level of immersion.

Another of West of Loathing’s core mechanics that also reminds me of Fallout is its character-related RPG system. On top of increasing physical attributes, the RPG mechanics in Fallout also extend to personal traits that help in various instances. The protagonist in West of Loathing uses his experience points not only to boost his strength and defense, but traits like intimidation, lock picking, forging, etc., are just as essential to excavating the uncharted realm of the wild west. Unlike Fallout, the player doesn’t have to stick with the values they assign for themselves before the game even begins. The player’s experience points can be used to enhance these assets. The game allows micromanaging where experience points are spent, but who would want the game to mother them like this? Besides, the three classes present in West of Loathing should try to put their eggs in their respective baskets based on their unique properties. These three classes are inspired by typical classes seen across most RPG games: the cattle puncher is a warrior class, the beanslinger a food-oriented wizard, and the snake oiler a thief, the most crafty shyster during frontier times. Each of these three classes coincides with muscle, mysticality, and moxie, respectively, and one would think that focusing on one stat for the class they choose would garner success in the game.



However, the equal division of stats as the game’s default seems to be the only practical way of remaining balanced as the player will need a certain level of competency with all three attributes to progress in the game, especially near the end of it where the experience needed to perform tasks ratchets up exponentially. West of Loathing presents multiple ways of approaching a problem, but they all seem to involve grinding in some capacity. For example, one quest that irritated me as much as it irritated the protagonist’s eyes was finding a cure for the ant-eye virus. A man named Roy Bean sells a cure for a whopping 6,000 meat (the game’s currency), but he lowers the price for every bean you recover in a series of sidequests. An issue arose when a goblin obstructing the path to a bean requested that I retrieve a syrup to comply with my demands, and the only source of this syrup was a sieve leaking from the next room that I needed a staggering fifty moxie to extract. I ultimately ended up grinding for a discounted 4,000 meat, for I was desperately trying to fix the vexatious altered screen that looked like a broken kaleidoscope because of the ant-virus affliction. So many progress impediments seen in West of Loathing also involve picking two poisons of forced grinding, and it really gets on my nerves.

The other half of West of Loathing’s turn-based combat, and this factor falters even more severely than the leveling system. To say West of Loathing’s RPG gameplay is undercooked is an understatement. West of Loathing’s RPG gameplay isn’t even sashimi wrapped in seaweed and rice: it’s the raw fucking fish still flopping about on the cooking table. Turn-based combat in West of Loathing is so simplistic that it’s boring, and this is coming from someone whose select favorite turn-based RPGs include Paper Mario and South Park: The Stick of Truth. Most battles will be over in a matter of seconds, regardless of their chosen class. Thankfully, combat ensues mostly at the player’s pace. The protagonist approaches the enemy, usually prompted by a scroll of text. Fighting them is an option if the player cannot scheme any other way out of the situation. I highly suggest the player stock up on stats that aren’t strength related because the situations are unpredictable. It’s a coin flip as to whether the enemies will be offensive powerhouses with advantages strong enough to bulldoze over the protagonist or vice versa. At least the player can prepare themselves for a scripted fight, but the frequent ambushes while traveling across the map forces the player to engage in combat randomly as they might not have the specific attribute needed to bypass it. The protagonist can’t give in because it counts as a defeat, and three of these will cause the protagonist to black out from anger as he’s resuscitated from his rented hotel room in Dirtwater. A day also passes, and I’m unsure of the consequence for causing too much elapsed time by failing. Still, the uncertainty of the severity of failure in combat is another hole in the crooked, shoddy combat system West of Loathing displays.

Even though West of Loathing’s makeup stems from the JRPG genre, the game’s true calling is with the point-and-click adventure genre. In a game where the extent of kinetic involvement is stick figures walking about, the game reverts to an archaic tactic found in the earliest days of gaming: reading. Not only are there long swaths of text dialogue in West of Loathing, but most of the action outside of the turn-based battles is read by the player in a second-person play-by-play account. The text is primarily where the humor in West of Loathing blossoms, either detailing an action or through dialogue. Some of my favorite instances across the game include the horrifically descriptive plunges into a spittoon for an item and the suspiciously anxious “bed and breakfast” manager Chuck who fumbles over every word in an attempt to deflect your suspicions that he’s a serial killer. While these and other instances are relatively amusing, the game does not win me over with its humor. Maybe I can chalk this up to my broad, twisted sense of humor (which might explain the few I chose to highlight), so I can’t fault the game too much. Slight bemusement is arguably more refined and collected than causing the player to bust a gut at every moment. After all, that’s how Earthbound did it, and that game wouldn’t have been the same if the developers were attempting to make the player burst out in hysterics.

I’d be willing to praise the game’s humor more if the story of West of Loathing was more substantial. The protagonist’s goal in his adventure out west is totally nebulous. His ambiguous goal is simply to “find adventure” in the wild west, which could really count as anything the player does in the game. However, there is a main quest with an overarching goal: to continue the train venture led by conductor Schmee. The train's trajectory is halted by various hindrances, and the third one is a little more frantic. “Emperor Norton,” the old lunatic who burdened the player with the ant-virus, has somehow stolen the train and taken every passenger hostage as it careens backward on the track. Fighting his crazy ass three times before he submits to defeat and the train is recovered is the climactic point of the entire game. While this moment felt far more enthralling than every moment leading up to it, the lack of narrative development supporting this finale makes this ending feel sudden and unearned. I guess that’s what comes with a story where a guy sets off to the wild west out of sheer boredom. Given that West of Loathing offers a prime selection of options for “pardners” and horses that the player must choose one of, one would think West of Loathing would warrant a second playthrough. When the player watches the credits in the ol’ timey theater to signify completion, the protagonist walks out with only all the sidequests still on his plate. I assume that since Susie’s mission with the hellcows is still unresolved by the end, any pardner’s quest is nothing but a trivial setup, so there is nothing left to explore by retreaded progress with a second or third playthrough anyways.

West of Loathing is a game with a lot of charm. I was dazzled by its lo-fi visuals and assumed that the game could deliver the same exceptional quality seen by other atypical RPGs like Earthbound. Surprisingly, my experience with the game led to an adequate adventure game similar to the point-and-click variety. The elements borrowed from that genre allowed the game’s comical irreverence to flourish. Unfortunately, the RPG hybrid is the colossal ball and chain that drags West of Loathing down. Just because the game looks like minimal effort was put into it doesn’t mean the gameplay and plot should be indicative of that preconceived notion. I don’t loathe West of Loathing, but I wish the developers put more weight and substance beneath its offbeat surface.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

I’ve never been a huge fan of Kirby. Nintendo’s spherical, sentient wad of Bubble Yum has always fulfilled the role of the 2D platformer series that one could regress to if Super Mario was giving them a hard time. Admittedly, the Super Mario games on the NES had some instances that caused players to throw frustrated tantrums and shout expletives at the TV. Still, these were few and far between compared to the stinging roulette of torment that most NES games provided. Beyond the days of the NES, Mario softened its difficulty, but there were still some occasional hefty challenges. On the other hand, Kirby has remained consistently easy throughout the years. The series is facile to a fault. As much as I might groan and grit my teeth when I’m faced with arduous obstacles, the challenge is one of the most appealing facets of the gaming medium. Without at least a reasonably substantial challenge, a fraction of one’s prerogative to play video games is compromised. Kirby’s titles often feel pointless due to most players breezing through the levels with the ease of a Sunday morning drive, or at least that’s how I see it as someone who plays video games consistently. Kirby’s Adventure is a special title in the franchise, and it’s not because it’s his console debut. Kirby’s more lenient approach to difficulty compared to its contemporaries bestows a unique placement in the NES library.

I sometimes forget that Kirby’s Adventure is a sequel to the pink puffball’s inception on the Gameboy only a year prior. That is, I know from years of hindsight and countless examples that Kirby is pink because the original Gameboy only offered black-and-white visuals. Kirby’s Adventure affirms Kirby’s canon color by being developed for the NES, and the 8-bit system always featured a broad color palette akin to a pixelated rainbow for its games. In color, Kirby’s world looks delightful. A rejuvenated Dreamland looks so delectable that one could sink their teeth into it, and I mean that literally. Kirby’s world shares a startling resemblance to The Land of Chocolate from The Simpsons, a joyous, edible wonderworld reflecting the gluttonous, childish fantasies of Homer Simpson. In all fairness to Homer, any average adult would probably revel in The Land of Chocolate’s sweet ecstasy, which is why Kirby’s Adventure’s aesthetic is widely appealing. Land masses have more of a likeness to assorted colors and textures of birthday cake than earthly ground, water sparkles like soda, and the platforms run the gamut of hundreds of flavors of taffy. Visually, Dreamland is the video game equivalent of a candy store. The marvel of it is a splendor for the senses, associating pleasant tastes and smells with the spectacle of it. Considering the seven worlds have direct food references, the connection was an overt effort on the part of the developers. We can at least be thankful that Kirby’s adventure provides something similar to the yummy aesthetic of Mr. Gimmick, for the latter did not emerge on American soil.

Kirby is not a complicated character in terms of gameplay. The guy is but a pudgy circle with eyes, a mouth, flappy little arms, and two bulbous feet fitting snugly in some clown shoes (are they shoes?). The game’s intro further illustrates (no pun intended) how simple Kirby is in a brief step-by-step drawing that details each previously mentioned body part. As a video game character, Kirby couldn’t do much of anything past platforming. He certainly can’t hold a gun with those thumbless nubs he calls arms. For as unrefined as Kirby’s character design is, he possesses a few special gimmicks that separate him from his fellow 2D platforming contemporaries. Firstly, he can inflate himself like a pufferfish by inhaling oxygen, which allows him to ascend upwards. Kirby’s flight is essentially limitless as the only vertical parameter is the wall the developers draw, and the horizontal trajectory is boundless until the natural point of reaching the level’s end goal. Only careening into enemies or their aimed projectiles can interrupt Kirby’s ascent, sometimes causing Kirby to crash like a falling rock. Platforms in a Kirby game almost seem like safety nets for the few moments when this occurs because Kirby certainly doesn’t need them to climb the terrain or circumvent death like other platformer characters. Kirby’s ability allows him to bypass almost everything, and he’ll get away with it, too, because the enemy fire is more lethargic than a children’s little league team. The firefight to effectively bring Kirby down would have to be equal to the blitzkrieg of D-Day, but that would compromise on the intentionally brisk difficulty level. In times when Kirby must land because the level progression leads to a grounded doorway, the interior space with tighter parameters still doesn’t confine him to the physical regulations of the typical platformer. What is stopping Kirby from hugging the wall here as tightly as he does out in the open? Not much, even though Kirby doesn’t have as much legroom to stray away from enemies in these more cramped boundaries. Kirby’s innate set of skills is something that players in the NES era would implement as cheat codes for more grueling and demanding games, and nothing presented in Kirby’s Adventure would warrant using a cheat code to surpass.

The fun aspect of Kirby’s gameplay, whether or not you are a seasoned gaming veteran or not is the ability to copy an enemy's ability, a distinctive talent of Kirby’s that debuted in Kirby’s Adventure. Kirby’s ability to use his gullet as a vacuum to suck up the denizens of Dreamland and spit them back out as star-shaped projectiles were present in the previous Kirby game on the Gameboy, but digesting them by pressing down on the D-Pad allows Kirby to emulate their primary offensive attributes. Dreamland’s ecosystem consists of a diverse array of cartoonish creatures who have seemingly adapted to the ethereal land differently. Elemental powers of ice, fire, and electricity (spark) are granted to Kirby from their respective hosts, changing the properties of Kirby’s breath or creating a field of energy. More melee-intensive enemies will have their weapons stolen by Kirby, which mostly includes some variant of a blade that Kirby either swings with the elegance of a matador or crudely chucks like a boomerang. Kirby can turn into a wheel that speeds through levels, puff up a mound of spikes to compliment his puffiness, and the laser is the closest a Kirby game will come to having him use a gun. Kirby shouting into a microphone (Corpsegrinder death growls rendered in 8-bit audio, most likely) is powerful enough to briefly stop time and clear the screen of enemies. Swallowing “normal” enemies like Waddle Dees and Poppy Bros. will not net Kirby any extra abilities, but they are equally integrated with the eclectic range of “special” enemies to the point where there will be plenty of opportunities to use these abilities. Some may gripe at the fact that Kirby will lose the ability upon being hit. Still, I think it’s a fair trade off considering the ability will materialize into a star that Kirby can easily retrieve. I just wish there was a trigger to manually remove a power instead of tanking damage to experiment with another one.

While I enjoy the gameplay diversity the copy ability adds, I still have to question whether or not it’s merely a gimmick. Without swallowing enemies, Kirby can still damage enemies just as effectively by exhaling onto enemies while flying, which also doesn’t halt his airborne momentum. All common enemies perish in one hit regardless of what attribute Kirby is currently gallivanting around with, including his base ability. Often, I’d forsake altering Kirby’s genetic makeup with the creatures in his environment. Flying while blowing onto the occasional airborne enemy kept up a certain rhythm to Kirby’s gameplay that felt smooth and natural. Humoring the suck mechanic only occurred as a lark rather than implementing a strategy to succeed through the course of a level. Bosses are the only enemy types where the copy abilities are helpful, and they shred the tissue paper through their health bars no matter the ability Kirby holds. Is their shaky defense against the abilities a reward for maintaining them up to a certain point? Either or, fighting these bosses without the abilities still accommodates the player with stars they generate to use as offensive measures against them, almost like visual cues of vulnerability. It’s the only consistent example of Kirby’s Adventure providing a substantial challenge. The sole boss that forces the player to use a specific power is Meta Knight, Kirby’s rogue rival who dons a cape and silver mask. After so many fruitless attempts to stop Kirby by sicing his impotent gang of medieval minions on him to no avail, Meta Knight implores Kirby to pick up a sword and duel with him honorably like the mysterious gentleman he is.

On top of every other factor in Kirby’s Adventure that makes the game a walk in the park, the game is loaded with accommodating features and extras. For one, the game includes a save battery that lets the player continue at any given point after taking a break, a rare perk seldom seen across games on the NES. The median length of Kirby’s Adventure arguably warrants a save feature, but the difficulty does not. Continues are limitless in Kirby’s Adventure, and Kirby’s maximum six hit points will guarantee that his lives will not be quickly expunged. Extra lives are given out like pamphlets at an airport in Kirby’s Adventure. Ample opportunities will be found on the field, the ending mini-game with the trampoline, and the minigames located in the hub of each level. Even though I find all of this to be unnecessary, the minigames in the hub are fun little breaks in the gameplay regardless of the rewards they grant. The western dueling minigame is actually tense, and the minigame where Kirby mustn't eat a bomb among the flood of eggs requires sufficient reaction time.

Surprisingly, Kirby’s Adventure possesses a veneer of depth that comes to fruition near the end of the game. I haven’t touched on the story of Kirby’s Adventure, for it’s merely the jejune plot of Kirby recovering the sacred Star Rod Macguffin from King Dedede and his droogs so the capacity to dream can be restored to the land of Dreamland. In order to unlock the true culprit, Nightmare, as the final boss, the player must find a series of large buttons strewn across the levels. I fought Nightmare at the end after King Dedede without seeking these buttons knowingly, so I guess the search needn’t be too thorough. Still, it’s impressive that an undemanding game like Kirby’s Adventure offers something like a true ending, and the shadowy Nightmare is defeated across three phases in which the player will need a standard of dodging accuracy and aim with the Star Rod to conquer. Fighting Nightmare should be required not only for the slight story but as a final test to see that the player wasn’t skating along through the course of the game too smoothly.

Concerning the candy store analogy, I guess my main issue with Kirby is that the series is too sweet for my liking. The visuals are spectacular, but the aspect of Kirby’s sugariness that becomes sickening is how it mollifies the NES-era 2D sidescroller to a juvenile degree. A cherubic tone is one thing, but constantly carrying the player through the game with too many perks in a game with a protagonist whose abilities fracture the foundation of the 2D platformer is borderline patronizing. I realize this is the point of Kirby, and perhaps I’m not the target demographic. Kirby’s elementary direction has persisted throughout his time as one of Nintendo’s prime IPs, solidifying that alienating an experienced gamer like myself has always been the intention. I give Kirby’s Adventure more clemency and respect because the NES library needed something carefree and effortless among a library of notorious ballbusters. After spending too much time at the Salty Spitoon (Castlevania, Ninja Gaiden, fucking goddamn Battletoads), sometimes it’s a relief to visit Super Weeny Hut Jrs. for a while. Kirby's Adventure is still a joyful experience.

Super Mario is regular Weenie Hut Jrs. in the metaphor if you were wondering.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

Zelda fans are evidently hard to please. Since the series debuted to overwhelming, groundbreaking laudation in the third dimension with Ocarina of Time on the N64, a contentious breed of Zelda fans were unsatisfied with the subsequent entries. Majoras’s Mask was initially brushed off as a morsel of extra Zelda content on the N64, while The Wind Waker, the prodigal main entry to succeed Ocarina, shocked and appalled fans with its strikingly different setting and art direction. Meanwhile, the new top-down Zelda titles that recalled the pixelated games of the franchise's past, like the twin Oracle titles and Minish Cap, weren’t seen as contenders in carrying Ocarina’s mantle. While the following two 3D Zelda games were exemplary in their own rights and Nintendo’s gumption to deviate from Ocarina was admirable, Nintendo should’ve expected some blowback by alienating a large percentage of their consumers for the sake of artistic integrity. Nintendo decided to placate the deprived masses with one last hurrah on the Gamecube while simultaneously using the next 3D Zelda to usher in an exciting, revelatory era of the Nintendo Wii. The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess was the Ocarina of Time sequel, much closer to that expo trailer that aroused everyone’s attention in the year 2000. Zelda fans were again shaking with anticipation.

When Twilight Princess was released, the game was met with positive reception all around, including that of the disgruntled faction of fans. Twilight Princess was praised for acting as a loyal follow-up to Ocarina's core essence and narrative arc. It was the antithesis of The Wind Waker in aesthetic and ethos, making that game null and void in the eyes of many now that a “worthy” delegate had appeared to represent The Legend of Zelda past the primitive 3D era. Ocarina fanboys could shut their traps now that Nintendo made a game to pacify them, and they remained content for years. After some time passed, however, the general public started to view Twilight Princess in a different light. Nowadays, Majora’s Mask and The Wind Waker are both commended for their initiative in taking Ocarina of Time’s gameplay and narrative and expanding on it creatively, while Twilight Princess is often derided for not weaning itself off of Ocarina’s teat. Even during Twilight Princesses release, some of the detractors underwhelmed by Wind Waker still weren’t satisfied with Twilight Princess because it was too similar to Ocarina, and now they retroactively malign Ocarina for “ruining the franchise” because of the stagnating template it serves as. Jesus Tapdancing Christ, people. Would their complaints be quelled if Nintendo just ported an enhanced version of Ocarina for every new console? Actually, Master Quest did splendidly on the Gamecube, now that I think about it, but Nintendo would be damned to let these vocal dissenters keep Zelda in a cyclical loop until the end of days. Admittedly, Twilight Princess is explicitly more like Ocarina than the previous two 3D Zelda games. However, Twilight Princess is not some cheap imitation with glossier graphics. Twilight Princess overtly expands on Ocarina’s setting, themes, and progression and almost surpasses its obvious inspiration. Almost.

We can assume that the developers attempted to make Ocarina of Time look as realistic as humanly possible with the primitive graphical capabilities of 3D technology. Two generations later, developers no longer needed to use pre-rendered backgrounds to mask the unrefined polygonal textures of Nintendo’s first 3D system. The land of Hyrule in Twilight Princess upholds a cohesive graphical fidelity without using awkward, albeit endearing, pre-rendered backgrounds as the bandages to patch the visual blemishes. What Twilight Princess chooses to display with generations of polygonal progress is a tad drab, to say the least. Any team of developers that strives to craft a game with “realistic graphics” always seems to lack the hindsight that in time, the visuals will age as gracefully as a withered prune. This problem became prevalent in the sixth generation of gaming as the refurbished 3D graphics gave developers enough confidence to earnestly render proportional human bodies and facial features with its characters. Sadly, except for Resident Evil 4, most games of the sixth generation that attempted to depict a sense of realism in their visuals now look shockingly crude. Alternately, games of this generation that adopted a more stylishly splendorous art direction, The Wind Waker as a prime example, could arguably contend with the graphics of games being released at the time I’m writing this. Every 3D game of the fifth generation looked primitive regardless of the developer’s artistic intentions, so it’s difficult to discern whether Ocarina and Majora’s Mask's rough aesthetical charm is a fortuitous coincidence. Given the severe backlash The Wind Waker received, because many felt that a cartoonish aesthetic wasn’t appropriate for a fantasy epic as opposed to Ocarina, we can infer that Twilight Princess is the logical evolution to Ocarina’s graphical tone. If this is the case, I fail to see the grandiosity of depleted colors, murky tints, and flat textures. Maybe I can blame Resident Evil 4 for popularizing realistic visuals that look victim to historic flooding, persisting for an entire generation. Still, I think it’s funny that The Wind Waker, a game derided for its visuals, looks far better than what Ocarina would most likely have looked like if it wasn’t on Nintendo’s first (competent) 3D console.

I suppose I should’ve made a disclaimer earlier that I have only played the Wii version of Twilight Princess, and it’s the version I’m basing this review on. Both the Gamecube and Wii versions of Twilight Princess are equally as definitive because they were released on the same day. In some cases, however, the exact same game is made radically different between the two because of the controls. The Gamecube version plays it safe by copying from the control scheme of The Wind Waker, an advantage of being the second Zelda title on the same console. The Wii version did not have the same privilege as it was assigned the daunting task of proving the functionality of the console’s main motion-control-centric peripheral. Considering how fervid Zelda fans tend to be regarding the sanctity of the franchise's foundation, implementing motion controls for a mainline Zelda title at the Wii’s inception demonstrated some seriously brass, meteor-sized balls on Nintendo. It didn’t help that fellow Wii launch title Red Steel, was doing its best to affirm people’s skepticism that motion controls were an ill-conceived idea. Unlike Red Steel, Twilight Princess succeeded by keeping the motion controls simple. Link’s primary weapon of choice already somewhat resembles the Wiimote, and all the player has to do is swing it gingerly to execute a sword swipe. Attaching the nunchuck to the Wiimote provides full analog control, Z-targeting, and a few extra moves with the sword. It’s mandatory to use the nunchuck to play the game, but my intention in highlighting its capabilities is to showcase how simple, and accessible Twilight Princess's control scheme is on the Wii despite how unorthodox and intimidating the Wii’s controller first seems. Swiping the sword while locking onto enemies usually resulted in Link doing that stab move multiple times instead of slashing vertically as he normally would, however. Fun fact: the Wii version’s map is mirrored as a roundabout way to shift Link’s usual left-handed sword wielding to the right to accommodate western players who are typically right-handed. A citation is needed for how Nintendo came to this conclusion, for my ambidextrous American self probably could’ve handled it. Still, I suppose holding the Wiimote in one’s left hand to retain Link’s preferred placement would’ve been awkward.

Nintendo was obviously confident in the Wii’s controls because the Wii version of Twilight Princess continues The Wind Waker’s greater emphasis on combat just as the Gamecube version does. The Wind Waker advanced Link’s fighting prowess because the rudimentary basics of 3D combat were established in Ocarina, and now they could revel in the potential finesse of using a sword. Even with motion controls at the helm of Link’s kinetic abilities, Nintendo assured that they wouldn’t regress the series. Twilight Princess is the first 3D Zelda game where Link doesn’t possess a playable instrument in his inventory. The method in which Twilight Princess transfers the music mechanic is rather unconventional, as is the way it expands on Link’s abilities with the sword. Howling Stones are small, arcane-looking structures with hollow circles in the middle, found erected from the ground on hills and other elevated stretches of land. Approaching these as Wolf Link will cause him to howl a familiar little tune that reverberates across the sky, but only if the player can memorize the three notes variables along with how long they are sustained. Echoing the melodies of Hyrule’s past will transport Wolf Link to the heavens of Hyrule, where a glowing, golden wolf joins Link in a chorus of howls and then requests that Link meet him somewhere on Hyrule’s map. Upon meeting the wolf, he’ll lunge at Link and transport him to an incorporeal realm where he reveals his true form as a skeletal warrior with hulking armor. Rumors speculate that this is the undead spirit form of Link from Ocarina and Majora’s Mask. Yet, I only remember the Wind Waker Link having masterful dexterity with a sword. Either or, the adroit ghoul will teach Link one move with the sword per Howling Stone.

Some learnable skills like the Jump Strike and Helm Splitter are taken directly from Wind Waker, only now they no longer have to be an opportunistic rebuttal to a countering strike from an enemy. Comparing how these skills were utilized in The Wind Waker, Twilight Princess approaches these skills even more tepidly than the previous game. The series pension for lenient damage intake still doesn’t foster the capabilities of Link’s newfound combat aptitude, and at least using these moves as counterattacks in The Wind Waker required more skill from the player. Link can still mow down armies of moblins with only one heart container depleted. The game never adds greater combat challenges because unlocking these moves are optional. Why wouldn’t the player want to execute flashy, gymnastic feats to defeat foes? Combat is still fluid and responsive even with motion controls, and I suppose I can be thankful for this all things considered. It’s still disappointing, considering there was nothing suppressive about the motion controls anyways, so they could’ve offered a meatier combat experience once again and didn’t.

Motion controls also translate well for many other tools in Link’s arsenal. The “mote” part of the Wii controller’s cutesy nickname connotes pointing it at the TV like a remote control. This peripheral function makes it perfect for aiming, which fits perfectly for the slingshot, bow and arrow, and clawshots. When these weapons are equipped, a conspicuous red target is shown on the screen, which helps the player guide their aim, with a yellow indicator present for clearer accuracy. The lantern from the top-down games makes its 3D debut here, illuminating dark passageways and igniting candles with a finite oil source that can be refueled at certain cauldrons or for a small fee from a guy with an afro in the Faron Woods. The Iron Boots feature new magnetic properties, and Link doubles his clawshots akimbo style, latching onto a series of scaffoldings and moving around like Spiderman. If the extra additions to familiar items sound like a tantalizing evolution, wait until you see the new items. Twilight Princess offers a varied array of new toys that stretch beyond the expectations of what is possible for Link to use on his quest. The Gale Boomerang is a blustering rendition of the regular ol’ boomerang that sucks in foes with its miniature cyclone grip and manipulates wind-power turbines connected to platforms and locked doors. The Hawkeye increases Link’s accuracy with the bow to the extent of a sniper rifle, and flailing the barbarically large Ball and Chain around demolishes both enemies and weathered structures. The most outlandish of these new items is the Spinner, a top that Link rides on that carries him through a series of grids off the sides of walls. Needless to say, it’s a fan-favorite item. 2006 marked a burgeoning future for the Zelda franchise, and these new items are this pinnacle. They are a blast to use, and the game gives them plenty of implementation.

Twilight Princess also introduces the matter of controlling Wolf Link, Link’s dimensional counterpart similar to his bunny form in the Dark World of A Link to the Past. Unlike the docile rabbit representing Link’s purity of heart, Twilight Princess sees Link transform into a carnivorous creature that coincides with this game’s prophetic notion that a mangy beast would aid in saving the land from evil’s grasp. The player will become efficiently acquainted with Wolf Link early in the game through consistent use. After a certain point in the game, the ability to organically switch between Link’s two forms is unlocked. Naturally, Wolf Link possesses certain qualities that human Link does not, including remembering smells, following a scent trail, and talking to animals. Link’s partner is only corporeal, while Link is a wolf which allows her to direct Link onto a series of high reaches and perform an attack that targets multiple foes while locked to a spatial radius. Swiping the Wiimote like a sword swing will cause Wolf Link to leap at an enemy, and pressing the A button will execute a larger leap that also adds Wolf Link lunging his teeth into an enemy for extra damage. It’s not as natural a translation as the Wiimote to the sword, but it still functions properly. Wolf Link was marketed as Twilight Princess's central gimmick, something unseen in the franchise used as an eye-catching hook to differentiate between this game and the older ones. However, those of us who remember Majora’s Mask beg to differ on Wolf Link’s supposed ingenuity. Wolf Link functions the same as any of the transformation masks in Majora’s Mask, a means to diversify the gameplay engaged through circumstantial moments. Wolf Link is satisfactory because he doesn’t become the game's focal point, a reasonable trade-off for mixing new forms of gameplay with the old.

The last time we saw the land of Hyrule in its traditional form, it was a vacuous field of nothing but grass with only slight peaks of hilly elevation. It was nothing but a monotonous, bland valley between the districts that fall under the same jurisdiction. Surprisingly, I often see the same criticisms for Hyrule Field in Twilight Princess, even though the developers have mended this problem sufficiently. Hyrule Field is not intended to be congested with creatures or off-road attractions, for a hub should still act as a median point separating all notable areas of interest. Besides simply increasing the size of Hyrule Field, the addition of trees, bridges, rivers, varied terrain, and consistent enemy placements on the map makes Hyrule Field mirror the similarities of the rolling, commodious badlands seen in the real world. Another change that aids Hyrule Field feeling more natural is that the nucleus of Hyrule has been shifted to Castle Town, the metropolitan capital of Hyrule that mirrors the marketplace from Ocarina, only busier with more expansive urbanity. If Castle Town is a more adequate nucleus due to its epicenter nature, then Hyrule Field functions well as its metaphorical outer wall.

All of the branching districts of Hyrule we’re familiar with from games prior are far more realized than they were in Ocarina, and this isn’t because of the graphical enhancements. Kakariko Village is a dusty wasteland that actually looks like it resides below a volcano, and the trek up Death Mountain to the Goron’s civilization feels substantially more harrowing. Lake Hylia is a behemoth basin situated so deep in the sunken crevices of Hyrule that Link must plunge into it from atop a bridge. The only means of returning from it is via being shot out of a comically-sized cannon. The Sacred Grove near the Faron Woods is even more mysterious than the Lost Woods, and the Gerudo Desert is particularly arid in its atmosphere and layout. These landmark Hyrule destinations are now incredibly fleshed out and detailed, thanks to years of progress in gaming hardware. My only slight grievance pertaining to neo-Hyrule is with poor Epona. Riding around Hyrule’s hub on Link’s trusty steed was a lifesaver in Ocarina, but her time in Twilight Princess is entirely situational in the early game. At the halfway point, Link’s partner grants him the ability to mitigate travel with a warp option, and as much as I adore Epona, warping around pretty much any location on the map is too convenient. Link can’t even summon Epona unless he finds a blade of grass to blow her song into that is only found in certain spots, and the horse whistle item that gives him full access isn’t given to him until very late in the game. Uh…thanks? I hate to say it, but the ol’ gal would be more useful at a glue factory.

With all of the enhancements Twilight Princess implements in mind, it should be a no-brainer that it excels over Ocarina of Time. Unfortunately, Twilight Princess exudes other undesirable traitsTwilight Princess mainly falters in its attempt to outshine Ocarina because its initiative to broaden Ocarina’s properties tends to bloat the narrative. Every new Zelda adventure begins with our hero, Link, in his humble place of origin before his existence is elevated by prophetic circumstances. Link is not a preadolescent boy in Twilight Princess but a young man in his late teenage years, similar to the age he was in his adult form in Ocarina. He also lives among other human beings as a country bumpkin in the rustic southern district of Ordon instead of fraternizing with the stunted Kokiri elves that reside in the shadiest parts of the forest. I guess the reveal that Link is a Hylian instead of a Kokiri is the Zelda equivalent of revealing Samus as a woman: it’s a revelation that is effective only once. Because Link is an adult throughout the entirety of this iteration, he is tied to more labor-intensive obligations, unlike his child predecessors, who sat around idly twiddling their thumbs until opportunity struck. The unfortunate aspect of Link’s farm-centric adulthood is that it has to be subjected to the player. The player spends the first hour or so of Twilight Princess performing Link’s chores and other mundane tasks, such as herding some stubborn goats into a pen, retrieving a bassinet that fell into a river, and returning a cat to its owner by catching the cat a fish that it covets. Fishing in Twilight Princess is reasonably more functional than it was in Ocarina, but the game still makes the mistake of emulating the tedious wait of catching a fish similar to real life. Grab a beer or another frosty beverage because it’s going to be a while. I understand that the impetus of this prologue is to highlight the juxtaposition between Link’s humdrum lifestyle and the epic scope of the hero’s journey he will partake in for the duration of the game. Still, Ocarina and Wind Waker already accomplished this without an elongated slog of boring tedium. It’s an off-putting way of introducing the game that excruciatingly drags on for far too long.

Starting slowly with the prologue at least gives the player the benefit of the doubt that once it’s over, the rest of the game’s momentum will rocket into the stratosphere without fizzing out and plummeting. Unfortunately, they’d be wrong. The prologue is emblematic of Twilight Princess’s pacing issues. While none of the pacing upsets in Twilight Princess delve as deep into being mind-numbing as the prologue, hefty exposition is often inserted in between dungeons. Any Zelda veteran will express that the dungeons are the piece de resistance of The Legend of Zelda, and any Zelda game that meanders from the dungeons for lengthy periods has to compensate with something substantial like in Majora’s Mask. It also helped that the side content in Majora’s Mask can be approached with an illusion of freedom that comes with the three-day cycle. Twilight Princess, on the other hand, forces the player through long swathes of restricted linearity supported by the narrative, especially in the earlier sections of the game.

Link’s call to adventure is relatively exciting at first as the backwoods rube gets an opportunity to deliver a package to Castle Town, the big apple of Hyrule, where Zelda resides. His golden ticket is granted to him a bit unceremoniously with a knock on the head by a band of Moblins that ransack Link’s village and kidnap every child resident. He attempts to save the children when he awakens from his stupor. As he furthers closer into a mystifying light their captors have entered, he alarmingly transforms into a wolf and gets captured himself. Inside the cell his captors have tossed him, a peculiarly curvy imp named Midna rescues Link from the lonesome prison in exchange for his servitude. The imp rides around on Link like a toddler does the family dog through the sewers and across the castle rooftops until they reach Zelda’s chamber. The series' titular princess is seen leaning over a window in her quarters, veiled in a cloak to either protect her from the outside elements or conceal her identity. Light and dark have converged over Hyrule and have blanketed the land in an otherworldly mystical…well, twilight. The culprit is Zant, who usurped Zelda’s throne and reduced Hyrule’s denizens to ephemeral spirits that wisp in the glow of twilight. With Midna’s guidance, Link must return the favor to Zant and restore Hyrule to its regal, prosperous self.

The restoration process of Hyrule is what the content between dungeons is mostly comprised of early in the game. Link and Midna seek out the Tears of Light, globules composed of both light and liquid found within the insides of Shadow Insects scattered around the Twilight Realm. After collecting sixteen tears per district in the luminescent grapevine called the Vessel of Light, the district’s respective light spirit will use the completed set to reinvigorate that district to its original earthly state. Because the Twilight Realm encapsulates the district before its reformation, the player is meant to complete this task as Wolf Link without the ability to revert back to his human self until the process is done. The Shadow Insects also can only be detected via the keener sense of a canine, so human Link would be hopelessly clueless anyways. Still, these sections of Twilight Princess feel awfully restrictive. As stated before, Wolf Link’s effectiveness as an alternate form of Link is in diversifying the gameplay, not supplementing it. Human Link develops and adapts like in any other Zelda game, while Wolf Link’s base attributes are never upgraded or expanded upon. Sure, Wolf Link is utilized throughout the game, and his instinctual talents are always an asset. In saying this, the nature of Wolf Link is still a curse, and a prevalent facet of this curse is feeling less capable as a quadrupedal animal rather than a human being with flexible limbs and opposable thumbs. Once the player descends into the pernicious air of the Twilight Realm, there is no escape until the mission is complete, meaning that there is no chance to abscond from the confined path the game places for the player. The freedom of exploration that Zelda fostered in its early days has been stifled exponentially.

One aspect of these sections that I enjoy is the Twilight Realm's atmosphere. It suspends Hyrule in a state of still purgatory, ethereally depicting Hyrule as if it were a dream. Matter flows upward like rainfall in reverse, and the outside light that permeates through the conductive color prisms creates a tint of sepia tone to add to the realm’s mystical nature. The spirits of human beings seen in this state are not the spectral remnants of the deceased, but their greenish, feathery forms that lack a mortal substratum look as if they could disseminate into the ether of the Twilight Realm at any given moment. Perhaps the spirits are willfully wispy as a means of protection, hiding away from the grizzly Shadow Beasts and aerial Shadow Kargaroks that patrol the Twilight Realm’s haunting grounds. The Twilight Realm is controlled chaos in that anything tangible in reality seems to hold no substance or dominion. The stillness and dearth of organic substance evoke a potent melancholy fitting for the land’s common quest of collecting tears. Some claim the Twilight Realm gives credence to giving Twilight Princess the title of the darkest Zelda game, but I still have to make an objection using Majora’s Mask as an example. The intended aura of gloominess conveyed through the Twilight Realm is effective, but it falters compared to the creepy subtleties from Majora’s Mask that get under my skin. It’s like comparing The Crow to the works of the Marquis de Sade, and the more disturbing content of the latter is likely to stick with you rather than the portentous former.

Thankfully once the player accomplishes bringing gleaming hope to Hyrule, they are treated to the greatest lineup of dungeons seen across the entire series. Tell me if you’ve heard this one before: Link must conquer three dungeons in the former half of the game with elemental themes coinciding with the various races around Hyrule. The first three dungeons here even follow the direct course from Ocarina as the order is a forestry tree dungeon first, molten Goron dungeon second, and watery Zora dungeon as last. Even though we’ve seen this trajectory countless times at this point, it does mean that Twilight Princess is bereft of fresh ideas. These dungeons are more complex and varied than the Ocarina counterparts they draw comparisons from. The Forest Temple (no relation to the one from Ocarina) involves rescuing a group of caged monkeys that aid Link by creating a makeshift monkey rope that gets longer for each monkey Link saves, helping him over the dungeon’s spacious gaps. Goron Mines is a more linear dungeon, but magnetizing the iron boots and trekking through the mines while defying gravity is too cool. Lakebed Temple is a culmination of the centralized design of the Water Temple and the water flow mechanics of the Great Bay Temple. The dungeons in the latter half of the game, when Link must collect pieces of the Mirror of Twilight, also exhibit this level of quality. The crypt-like Arbiter’s Grounds is traversed through by sniffing out the locations of four cheeky Poes that have stolen the flame source from the main door that leads to the dungeon’s boss, and this offers the best employment of Wolf Link’s abilities in the game. The esoteric and pristine Temple of Time uses straightaway backtracking well to retrieve a statue with the Dominion Rod from the far end of the temple that is intended to sit parallel to its twin at the colossal door near the entrance to unlock it. City in the Sky is a breathtaking marvel situated in the clouds that would make Hayao Miyazaki proud, even if its residents are those obscene Ooccoo creatures that look like you’d want to put them out of their misery. My favorite dungeon that Twilight Princess has to offer is the arctic Snowpeak Ruins because of how unconventional the trek is through it. The yeti that resides here is making a soup for his sick wife and is missing a few essential ingredients for the most delectable pumpkin broth. They direct towards the piece of the Mirror of Twilight they hold, but Link’s mission keeps getting sidetracked with every pointed direction, inadvertently leading to more of the soup’s missing ingredients. This dungeon is downright silly and refreshing for this frequently dismal game.

The selection of bosses in Twilight Princess is also outstanding. Similar to the dungeons they reside in, each boss guarantees that Link will use the item he received in some capacity, which is what cements their excellency. Gohma, the phobia-triggering giant spider, has made numerous appearances across the series and uses a combination of the bow and arrow and the Dominion Rod to crush its thorax with the might of a gigantic stone hammer. Morpheel from the Lakebed Temple reminds me of Morpha from Ocarina of Time in that Link yanks its vulnerable, fleshy core with the hook/clawshot, with a dozen tentacles added so the player can’t camp for their opportunity like with the Morpha fight. Morpheel’s second phase reminds me more of Shadow of the Colossus, as Link clawshots onto Morpheel’s weak spot and stabs his sword into it as the hideous beast swims around the aquarium arena. Argorok is a steel-plated dragon who terrorizes the timid Ooccoos in their sanctuary, and Link must face him at his eye level to end his reign over the sky by ascending the ground via hooking onto Peahats during a wicked storm. Everyone’s favorite fight, myself included, is the reanimated dragon skeleton Stallord, whose strengths as a boss relate to the player’s use of the Spinner item. These are arguably the most electrifying bouts in a game that is filled with them, and their effectiveness as fun bosses lie in the scale of their mass and the wide breadth of their arenas. Conquering these foes may not be too challenging, but the immense scope brought about by all of its elements makes them genuinely epic.

While the dungeons and bosses in Twilight Princess are exceptional, the game doesn’t give them as much precedence to make way for a more character-centric narrative, the core of the game’s wider stretches of exposition. The player grieves through the insufferably unstimulating portions of the game to familiarize themselves with Twilight Princess's rich roster of characters. Link’s time in Ordon Village in the sluggish introduction helps the player get acquainted with his fellow farm folk. Ordon Village consists of a few adult characters that lead a resistance militia, namely a guy who commands a falcon. More important than the adults are the children of Ordona, who have a more substantial narrative precedence. The gang of rugrats is a breakfast club of personalities: the brash and excitable Malo and his stoic, chubby little brother Malo, the bratty, vain Beth, and the sensitive Colin. All of the children admire Link to some extent, but Colin kisses the ground Link walks on. Instead of being annoyingly sycophantic, Colin transcribes his hero worship to motivate him to emulate Link’s feats of heroism. He gets this opportunity when greasy, grotesque Moblin army general King Bulbin returns to Kakariko Village in an attempt to recapture the children. Colin pushes Beth out of the stampeding Moblin warthogs and gets captured as a result. After Link saves Colin, he sheds his meek demeanor as he’s met his goal of becoming a valiant hero. This moment was intended to be poignant, but Colin’s arc is fulfilled far too early in the game before the narrative relegates these kids to Kakariko for the occasional visit or side quest. An even more shoehorned effort to make the side characters applicable to the narrative is with Ilia, the only other teenager from Ordon besides Link. Some romantic chemistry between her and Link is implied before she is captured, and the process of restoring her memory after her kidnapping leaves her as an amnesiac is a task that spans longer than rescuing the kids. Still, the eventual resolution to this quest flounders because it seems secondary to the big picture. I would’ve allowed an overt romantic dynamic between Link and Ilia here, for it’s the only way the character would’ve worked. It's not as if Link's heart belongs to Zelda, even with the hero arc implications.

Among all Twilight Princesses characters, the one that holds the greatest importance exists in a role that makes this fact astounding. When discussing the partner characters that aid Link on his adventure, most of them aren’t even worth the breath one would exert with this practice. They are not characters but tools with vocal cords like a GPS or the Siri feature on a smartphone. The only reason I discussed Navi in detail for Ocarina was her irritable infamy, more than any substantial role she had in the story besides interrupting Link’s slumber at the beginning. Midna functions the same way as the other partner characters in the series past. She’s helpful in the field with a select few aspects, she nags Link about his primary goal, she can be used for quick travel, and none of the information she gives is remotely useful when the player asks when they are uncertain of how to approach an obstacle or what their course of action is. Yet, she greatly transcends the wooden, strained role as Link’s assistant because, for the first time ever, the partner trope is as fully fleshed out as any other character, if not more so. Midna is the most expressive character the series has seen so far, and I’m not exclusively alluding to her toothy smirks and snarls. Midna supersedes Tetra in sass, constantly making snarky comments to Link to jokingly undermine his mighty hero role as she’s an immortal being from another dimension that sees him as an insignificant meat bag. As the game progresses, Midna begins to shed her contempt for Link as he proves his worth to her and the human world by proxy. This illuminating character development strengthens Link’s relationship with her. Midna’s passion for reclaiming her rightful throne and saving her people from Zant's grubby, traitorous hands makes her exude a palpable fervor that I didn’t know was possible for Zelda characters. Unlike the slight concern I expressed for the children of Odon, moments where Midna was in peril had me on the edge of my seat. Wolf Link carrying Midna’s motionless, pale body after she’s attacked by Zant, made me charge urgently through Hyrule Field without even stopping to attack the enemies along the way. During the final battle with Ganondorf in his most intimidatingly evil iteration yet, Midna uses her full power to destroy him, only for Ganondorf to come out unscathed, holding Midna’s fused shadow headpiece as a hunting trophy. Plunging my sword into the wicked swine as a finishing blow and watching him writhe in agony felt so satisfying to avenge Midna. Ultimately, she resurfaced as her true androgynous self and took the breath away from all of us, especially Link, whose stunned expression warrants one last ribbing from Midna, and it’s such a fantastic moment. The game explicitly refers to Midna as the titular “Twilight Princess,” just in case we’d confuse the subtitle for Zelda. Even if they didn’t remove all doubt, Midna out charismas the series namesake to the point where Zelda becomes practically irrelevant. Zelda who? Who cares?

The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess marks a grandstanding evolution in the franchise's history without even considering the implementation of motion controls in the Wii version. Ocarina of Time was a mechanical source that bled into the fabric of Majora’s Mask and Wind Waker. Perhaps those game’s subtle pinches of Ocarina’s salt didn’t taste acerbic enough for most Zelda fans, as their clear places as Ocarina’s successors went over their heads. Twilight Princess, on the other hand, uses the properties of Ocarina as subtly as a group of kids stacked on each other posing as an adult to sneak into an R-rated movie. The overall product of Twilight Princess is precisely what fans wanted from the 3D Zelda title that would surpass Ocarina as the rightful heir to its throne, and this notion was unequivocally felt when it was released. I’m certainly glad that Majora’s Mask and The Wind Waker are treated with more respect nowadays after their initial upset, but why does their newfound appreciation have to be at Twilight Princess's expense? Twilight Princess was the grandest Zelda game of its time, almost as if it had been in production since Ocarina of Time was released. Twilight Princess extrapolates on everything Ocarina presents and proverbially fills in the sizable cracks with caulk that compounds the narrative, gameplay, characters, and world design. Twilight Princess excels in the facets of Ocarina that I enjoyed, like the dungeons and bosses, and exceeds them spectacularly. Unfortunately, some of the fillings overflowed and made a mess of the game’s pacing, and it’s jarring enough to knock it down a few pegs. Twilight Princess should have triumphed over Ocarina of Time, but I can’t help but doubt this claim the more I ponder it. Still, The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, without comparing it to its predecessors, deserves all of the initial praise it received, and I’m one Zelda fan who isn’t going to change my mind with this sentiment.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

It’s difficult to say whether or not Metroid Fusion was Nintendo’s “plan B” if Metroid Prime had failed. Both games were released on the same day in November of 2002. Metroid Prime obviously took higher precedence over Fusion due to its status as the franchise's monumental leap into the third dimension after being absent for an entire generation. Under the general excitement for Metroid Prime, however, a malaise stemmed from a rookie developer at the helm of the ambitious project. Also, a whole generation of 3D adaptations gave us the precognitive ability to anticipate a series of transitions to 3D being less-than-adequate after so many rough ones. Metroid Fusion could’ve been a fail-safe to still maintain the reinvigorated Metroid hype if Metroid Prime affirmed the cynical notions of a choice selection of people. After all, it’s safer to build upon foundations that have already been established instead of starting from the ground floor. As it turned out, Retro Studios fired on all cylinders and crafted a spectacular 3D Metroid game and arguably the finest game that Nintendo produced for the Gamecube. Metroid Fusion became a handheld supplement for unfortunate occurrences on the road when Metroid Prime could not be played. I jest, of course, but Metroid Prime’s accolades eclipsed the impact that Metroid Fusion could’ve had. Metroid Fusion now had to prove that 2D Metroid could still coexist with its 3D twin that had surpassed it.

Metroid Fusion was still important to the franchise's evolution because it still had been eight long years since we had seen Samus, except for her role as a playable character in the first two Super Smash Bros. games. The franchise wasn’t in dire need of being revamped as Super Metroid practically perfected the rudimentary formula the NES Metroid laid out and was arguably the greatest game on the SNES. Still, eight years of gaming progress since Super Metroid’s release could’ve produced a new Metroid game whose advanced hindsight would expose all of the Super Metroid’s cracks that were not clear to gamers of the SNES era. Either that, or it could cultivate an experimental title that takes the Metroid series into a new, radical direction. Metroid Fusion proved somewhat of the latter, a sequel that deviated slightly in gameplay, atmosphere, and design philosophy while maintaining the core essence of the previously listed elements. Even though Metroid Prime had changed the course for Metroid for the foreseeable future, Metroid Fusion proved that 2D Metroid still had something new and interesting to offer.

Except for Metroid II on the original Game Boy, each subsequent game's sequential narrative has only been implied. Because Metroid Fusion was released on the same day as another Metroid game, the developers had to explicitly state that Metroid Fusion was another entry in the line of Samus’s story with the subtitle “Metroid 4” appearing in the title screen. This distinction between the 2D Metroid titles and Prime became even clearer once Prime became its own separate entity with two sequels, solidifying Metroid Fusion even deeper in the series canon with the previous titles. Metroid Fusion continues from the resolution of Super Metroid in a galaxy where Metroids are no longer a vital concern. As relieving and anticlimactic as this sounds, one must remember that space is infinite, so there could be an innumerable amount of intergalactic threats. Fusion’s face-hugger is the X, an amorphous, multi-colored parasite that feeds off its victim's DNA structure. Because their predators, the Metroids, have been eradicated, the X now run rampant due to the upset in their ecosystem. Samus almost succumbs to the draining force of the X but is saved via an inoculation containing a Metroid’s genetic material. She is sent to investigate the origin of an explosion in the abandoned BSL station where the X’s influence is a scourge on the facility. Metroid Fusion’s premise is somewhat ironic, but it still evokes chills nonetheless.

Any title on a handheld Nintendo console from a series usually seen on a home system was a case of relegation. The impetus for gaming on the go stemmed from convenience, unfortunately sacrificing the quality one would get on a home console. Super Mario Land and the Oracle games may emulate the experience effectively, but anyone who claims they are up to par with their mainline counterparts is kidding themselves. Metroid, on the other hand, seems to have a history of putting every other mainline title on a handheld console, or at least that’s the pattern I can discern. Sure, the GBA wasn’t comparable to the capabilities of the Gamecube, just as the original Game Boy couldn’t hold a candle to the NES/SNES. However, the GBA served as a turning point where its graphical prowess could compete with at least some of the home consoles, notably Nintendo’s pixelated consoles of the past. This is especially promising considering the last Metroid game was on the SNES, and a handheld Metroid could visually compete with the iconic Metroid we were familiar with without a jarring technical regression. Metroid Fusion’s pixelated graphics are as exceptional as we remembered them in Super Metroid, but there is a peculiar tone to them not seen in the previous game. The most appropriate way to describe Metroid Fusion’s graphics is…fleshy? They are bright, artful, and lurid, yet somewhat sickly and unnatural. It’s a distinct art style reminiscent of the classic anime film Akira and the album cover of Aesop Rock’s Bazooka Tooth, but I couldn’t tell you if the style had a name. All the same, it’s what slightly elevated Metroid Fusion in the visual department over Super Metroid. Eight years was all it took for a handheld game to surpass its console predecessor, a sign of gaming’s rapid growth.

Metroid Fusion does very little to deviate from Super Metroid’s gameplay, but then Super Metroid’s gameplay isn’t too dissimilar from the first Metroid. As early as the first title, Metroid crafted something unique in the 2D platformer genre and decided to persist with it for every subsequent game, even for the 3D Prime entries. Samus still acquires gadgets that help her traverse through an alien environment while blasting through a bestiary’s worth of extraterrestrial creepy crawlies using an eclectic arsenal of weapons. As stated before, Super Metroid’s gameplay formula would have withstood the test of time, yet Metroid Fusion still tweaks it slightly. For one, the X is a new type of enemy with a prevalent presence, surprisingly more so than the Metroid’s ever was in the previous games. Instead of being conveniently inserted near the end of the narrative, the X is a constant force to reckon with in every corner of the laboratory. However, Samus never fights the X directly. Strangely enough, they serve as Fusion’s source of health and replenishing ammo. Once an enemy is vanquished, the X essence floats around until Samus either latches onto it or darts off to resurrect enemies. Reanimating enemies is always an irritating factor of the X, and it’s the only instance in a video game (that I can recall) where units of health can cause harm to the player. As vexing as the X could be, I appreciate the system the developers have established using them. Three different colors of X can spawn from defeated enemies, with yellow restoring health, green restoring ammunition, and the rare red restoring an abundant amount of both. The number of restorations is significantly reduced from the bevy of ammunition types littered around Super Metroid. This coincides with Fusion’s proclivity to streamline Samus’s abilities and power-ups. Returning Metroid players might be disappointed with the lack of options Fusion presents, but I’ll gladly take it over scrolling frantically through Samus’s lengthy inventory in a pinch.

In some aspects, Metroid Fusion’s goal seems to veer towards making a more accessible Metroid experience. Stacking upgrades is one thing, but the most contentious method of accessibility the developers implemented is what they did with the game’s world design. Unlike the open-ended realm of Zebes with its interconnected districts, the BSL station takes an approach unseen in the series. Branching off of the entry point where Samus’s ship is docked are six sectors located south of the hub. Each sector varies in terrain and carries a unique set of challenges. The sectors do not overlap, and Samus returns to the hub via the same elevator she rode down on without any alternate paths available. While I understand the vocal criticisms that claim this butchers Metroid’s design philosophy, I have to disagree. Each sector’s sanctioned sandbox design still emulates how the districts of Zebes were formatted, even if all of them are enclosed. Players will still find the same amount of breakable walls, deep chasms, and tight crevices for maneuvering through with the morph ball. Not connecting the laboratory sectors almost exposes the illusion of seamless world design, something to consider when evaluating Super Metroid and Metroidvanias of the same ilk.

However, what I don’t like concerning Metroid Fusion’s design choices is how progression through these areas is executed. Metroid Fusion is brimming with exposition if the opening cutscene is any indication. Super Metroid expressed the events surrounding the game with masterful subtlety, using only two lines of spoken dialogue to set the harrowing scene and letting the gameplay and atmosphere take it from there. Zero lines of spoken dialogue are uttered through the compressed sound chip of the GBA, but there is enough text between the few characters in this game (including Samus) to fill the pages of a Hollywood script. I’m not sure if this is due to an accessibility initiative or a sign of video games becoming more dialogue-intensive since Super Metroid’s release, but Fusion’s constant need to keep the player informed on what is occurring is the antithesis of what made Super Metroid’s story impressive. Exposition infiltrates Fusion’s progression every step of the way as Samus is given a clear objective from the navigation rooms seen in each sector. Samus is then briefed by a federation official who not only explicitly marks the objective's location on the map but also asks her if she’d like her directions repeated to her a second time. How could a series that practically pioneered letting the player loose in a hostile void with unclear parameters become so patronizingly linear? As a result of dotting the trajectory for Samus, the player feels less inclined to deviate from the beaten path to find upgrades. Of course, Metroid veterans know better and will meticulously power bomb every room in a thorough search of the facility. Still, newcomers to the series will suffer from not knowing any better.

I realize that perhaps Fusion’s pension for hand-holding might be to uphold the game’s intended atmosphere. Metroid Fusion still exudes the feeling of claustrophobia, yet it stems from an entirely directional ethos. By diluting Samus’s autonomy, it creates a sensation of unease, as if she is always being watched. Samus is no longer at the mercy of the magnificent scope of outer space but a lab rat in an experiment conducted by uncaring hosts. As much as the narrative wears out its welcome, the growing mystery behind the circumstances of the explosion and the federation’s true intentions. The player’s suspicions are affirmed when Samus rejects the federation's directions and uncovers a section of Metroids that the federation was planning on releasing back into the ecosystem. Upon discovering this, the federation plans for Samus to abort the mission as they send in federation troops to finish the job, without even considering that they would all perish at the hands of the X. Metroid Fusion manages to be the most unsettling the series has ever been. While Metroid has always felt tense, Metroid Fusion feels sufficiently creepy.

Despite Metroid Fusion’s direction, by some miracle, it still manages to be more difficult than Super Metroid. Reaching the objectives isn’t any more obtuse than in previous games, although one particular section involving several bloated spike enemies and the space jump ability wore on my patience. The main reason for Fusion’s amplified difficulty is the bosses. They are why excavating the laboratory for upgrades is essential to success, even to the point where the player has to grind for them to stand a chance against the bosses. Serris X swims around the arena at breakneck speeds, the security bots only leave themselves vulnerable for a second, and I’m pretty certain that the munching jaws of the plants in the Plant Core boss room are inescapable. Ultimately, the damage output of each boss makes them so imposing, with the margin of error when fighting these bosses razor-thin. The gigantic size of bosses like the arachnid Gedo and the garishly grotesque Nightmare almost forces the player to tank an inordinate amount of damage as they ricochet off the walls like a bouncing DVD logo. The game’s obligatory Ridley encounter is possibly the hardest for any Metroid game for this reason. The bosses don’t compensate for any of the more facile aspects of the game, yet the fact that these bosses are in a game intended to be easier is a pleasant surprise.

The apex of these formidable foes and the crux of Fusion’s narrative is the SA-X, the uncanny clone of Samus conjured up by the genetic power of the X. You know how unstoppable Samus feels near the end of each Metroid game after all of her power has been recovered? That’s the potency of the SA-X, and it doesn’t have good intentions with Samus’s full potential. A sequence that introduces the SA-X, where the parasite causes devastation to a door only for the game to zoom in on its vacuous, inhuman eyes, is the best display of “show, don’t tell” the game offers. I got the impression from this scene that the SA-X would act as a persistent hunter like Nemesis or Pyramid Head, but the malevolent force only rears its unfeeling head on occasions, usually when Samus is out of sight. However, the fact that it could be lurking anywhere on the station aids the discomfort of always being watched by an omnipotent force. One exception is when the game forces the player to interact with the SA-X in close quarters, displaying how quickly it can eviscerate Samus and cause the player to wet themselves in fear. Another impression is that the SA-X must be stopped. With the power imbalance on display, the clearest overarching objective coincides with Samus’s unspoken goal of getting stronger. Fighting SA-X at the end is a cathartic duel after scurrying away from it in sheer terror for so long. For unclear reasons, the SA-X helps Samus defeat an evolved Metroid monster that keeps Samus from exiting the facility once that typical self-destruct countdown engages. Did the SA-X submit to Samus’s will after she showed it humility by defeating it, or was it something cheap in an attempt to give Fusion one last edge over Super Metroid? Considering the bosses, it’s most likely the latter.

Metroid fans could’ve simply played Metroid Prime to satisfy their deferred cravings and while it’s exciting to explore uncharted realms and possibilities, it's also imperative to get reacquainted with old ground. In saying that, the pixel art and 2D perspective were all Metroid Fusion had in common with its iconic predecessor. While its ambition to deviate from aspects seen in Super Metroid is valiant, it creates a whole new slew of perfunctory elements that still give Super Metroid the overall advantage. While Super Metroid is clearly the better game, this fact does not render Metroid Fusion insignificant or unworthy of holding Super Metroid’s mantle. For all of Metroid Fusion’s flaws, I still appreciate the finished project for its willingness to expand and innovate: the mark of a true sequel.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com

Destroy All Humans 2!, the sequel to my favorite childhood mayhem machine, was an exciting prospect at its release. I always deemed it a satisfying successor to the first game, but I always believed that the first one was still the superior of the two. The main reason for this was because the premise of alien invaders in a game spoofing the 1960s didn’t make any sense to me. Horror films of the 1960s catalyzed what I would consider the beginning of the elements we still associate with the genre. The 1960s revisited gothic horror and made it gorier, Night of the Living Dead laid the foundation for the zombie subgenre, and controversial movies like Psycho and Peeping Tom chilled us with killers that felt too close to home. The “atomic age” of horror films that featured alien invaders immediately became laughably quaint, and Ed Wood’s notorious Plan 9 From Outer Space only contributed a minute fraction of the cause. Obviously, the overall premise of Destroy All Humans does not represent the horror landscape of the decade. Fears regarding the Cold War still lingered, but events like the war in Vietnam shifted the context of our overseas tribulations. Alien invasions in the 1960s seemed all too out of place. However, I now realize that Crypto still has an integral role in the 1960s. Destroy All Humans! 2 (Make War, Not Love as the original additional subtitle) shifts the atomic age horror tribute direction from the first game to focus on the satirical aspects, with Crypto as the roastmaster general. Also, one must consider that sticking to the familiar ground of the 1950s could’ve inhibited the evolution that comes with a sequel, which Destroy All Humans needed.

A decade might be a lengthy period, but Destroy All Humans 2 is still a direct sequel that continues the story after the first game's events. Crypto’s unimpeachable reign as “president” of the USA has been swimmingly for the past ten years. Everything has been smooth sailing for the malevolent, pint-sized extraterrestrial until the KGB intercepts the location of the Furon mothership hovering over Earth’s gravitational pull and blows it to smithereens with a launch of heat-seeking ballistic missiles. Pox is pulverized on impact but manages to store his essence in a mobile holographic device as a convenient means of communication. Crypto’s mission of recovering the flotsam of the Furon mothership isn’t only a task spurred by necessity; it’s also fueled by vengeance to make the Ruskies pay for hitting the Furons closer than any other earthling ever has.

The areas in the first Destroy All Humans were confined to American soil. While the restrictions made sense in its attempt to concisely illustrate the culture of America during the 1950s, the narrative direction limited the span of areas the game could cover. We cannot forget that Crypto’s imperialistic endeavor in the first game was to conquer Earth, and simply seizing power over America is small potatoes for the Furon empire. Ten years later, Crypto’s mission of world domination is still a work in progress. Fortunately, the United States is a small fraction of the globe left unsubdued. One of the biggest appeals of Destroy All Humans 2 is expanding the settings of areas past the entrapments of America’s territories as the player gets to take Crypto on a world tour. The game starts on American ground in Bay City but soon after spending some time in Crypto’s kingdom, he will fly his saucer over the Atlantic to the cloudy streets of Albion in Britain, the Asian metropolis of Takoshima, the remote tundra of Tunguska, all the way to landing on Earth’s moon. An alien’s operation to overtake the Earth isn’t thorough enough without claiming our orbiting celestial body that shimmers in the night sky. Each of these areas directly correlates with real-world places that hold historical significance with the 1960s. Bay City is intended as a broad metropolis that could be any city along California’s central western bay, but it’s pretty obvious that it’s mirroring San Francisco, the de facto capital of the American hippy movement in the latter half of the 1960s. Albion, also known as London with the moniker of England’s original name, depicts the stylish Mod culture that ran rampant across the country's youths throughout the decade. Tunguska is a contrasting taste of the Soviet Union, and let’s just say that the moon setting coincides with the game’s time of July 1969 for a reason. The only area whose connections to 1960s counterculture and the historical relevance is unclear lies with the Tokyo-inspired Takoshima area, but who needs an excuse to be able to wreak havoc all over this picturesque island metropolis?

As one can imagine, broadening the range of Earth settings in Destroy All Humans 2 satisfyingly expands the bounded scope presented in the first game. While I much prefer laying waste to a wider selection of cultures, there is more substance to each of these areas besides being spaced out more widely on the globe. Each area in the first game acted as a compact sandbox for Crypto as he hops around, causing chaos. Santa Modesta was the only level in the first game that effectively exuded that sense of freedom due to its wide area and a reasonable level of backlash against Crypto. The wrath of the humans progressively became more immense as each subsequent area increased the rate of fire, which unfortunately created an imbalance of the earlier levels feeling too relaxed while the later levels could potentially trounce Crypto in seconds. Crypto’s continued presence across every area in the second game will progressively increase five alert levels instead of four. The forces that come with accumulating these levels are less defined. Nevertheless, they attack Crypto with the same amount of fervor. In the first game, Crypto simply walking among the humans was enough to garner the attention of the Majestic, the loftiest alert-level faction, in only a few minutes. The sequel’s highest alert levels will only commence if Crypto really flexes his might and does some serious damage. Police squadrons and military forces are also relatively the same in size and presence in every area, which greatly aids a sense of equal opportunity for freedom matched with its consequences across each area.

As for the areas themselves, the developers wisely chose to compound what Santa Modesta presented and used it as a template for every area in the sequel. Specifically, Santa Modesta offered a breadth that fostered more exploration than the other small compact areas in the first game. Capitol City might also be an exception, but it hardly feels fair when giant tesla coils immediately eviscerate Crypto’s saucer, and the entire Majestic agency is waiting for him with their guns locked and loaded at every landing site. Each area in Destroy All Humans takes inspiration from Santa Modesta’s example by offering vast playgrounds with a consistent geographical theme while presenting districts throughout the area to diversify the layout. Since most of these areas are thematically based on some of the most populated cities in the world, mapping out an assorted urban plain most likely wasn’t difficult. Bay City features the most notable San Francisco staples like the outdoor hippy mecca of Golden Gate Park, the steep streets of Haight-Ashbury, and the American base of the KGB situated in the middle of the map is vaguely similar to Alcatrazz Island. Takoshima presents the most congested city setting in the game, with backroad streets littered with beautiful cherry blossom trees that connect the concrete jungle to a maze-like Zen Temple. Off the main road, islets feature feuding ninja communes, a castle on a hill, and an active volcano. While the remote setting of the frigid Soviet industrial town Tunguska recalls that Destroy All Humans areas are better when they are sprawling, it still manages to exude the same design philosophy as the others. Solaris, the name of the Russian research settlement on the moon, is the only area not formatted like the others, mostly due to the barren nature of the setting. However, it can be excused here because the moon is the perfect last area, for no other place on Earth could serve as the pinnacle of the planet’s expedition. With the addition of a much-coveted map highlighting every district, the areas in Destroy All Humans 2 finally emulate the quasi-open world format of the first game consistently and adequately.

These areas also feel more lived in because they all offer more content. The main missions in the first game seemed implemented by the developers due to obligation more than anything. Most missions in the first Destroy All Humans end as quickly as they started, with only one or two objectives before the player could hightail off to murder people at their own leisure. Destroy All Humans 2’s story is far more intricate than the one from the previous game, so the developers accommodated the campaign with weightier missions. Every area has at least five main missions, and each of these offers a hearty range of objectives to keep the player occupied. One may assume that longer missions would bloat the experience, but elongating the tasks is exactly what the missions needed to uphold the story without seeming like an afterthought. A better sense of organization aids these missions because returning to the mothership to unlock the next mission in the first game and hopping around the map tended to be a jarring upset in pacing. Since the mothership has been wiped out of the stratosphere, Crypto begins a mission by conversing with Pox or another NPC somewhere on the field, and it feels much more like how missions are started in typical open-world games. All the missions in Destroy All Humans 2 are all killer with no filler and surpass any of the missions from the first game. The climactic point of Takoshima, where Crypto and Natalya scale Mount Seiyuki and take down a Kaiju rampaging through the city streets, is so bloody epic that the game runs the risk of peaking halfway into the campaign. Besides the main missions, the player can also complete odd jobs that range in objectives or Arkvoodle missions where Crypto manufactures an international cult using that lascivious idol who grants him places to land his saucer as its omnipotent figure. The missions across the game still have a difficulty curve wonkier than a slinky, but perhaps that’s just a trope of the open-world genre.

Action seems to take precedence over any other gameplay elements in Destroy All Humans 2. The James Bond-esque intro sequence in the main menu makes it easy to see which fictional 1960s icon the game draws its inspiration from. The bevy of stealth missions that the first game offered is blown to the wayside in favor of more overt destruction. Given that the game's name is “Destroy” All Humans and not “Evade” All Humans, the player can be eternally grateful. The game endows Crypto’s arsenal with new toys to foster a more bombastic direction. Every weapon from the previous game is back in its full glory, with an upgraded Anal Probe now serving as a useful weapon instead of an extraction tool. Destroy All Humans 2 doubles the total of Crypto's weapons on foot for what already proved to be an extensive bunch. The Dislocator launches discs that send people and vehicles on a nauseatingly bumpy ride, the mothership’s janitor, Gastro, blasts at foes from a hovering hologram, and the Meteor Strike summons a barrage of meteors that can level skyscrapers. Not since the peacemaker nuke from Jak 3 has a gun inspired so much awe with its destructive potential. The Burrow Beast is an optional weapon unlocked by completing the Arkvoodle missions. Unlocking a monster that gulps up people from under the ground would’ve been more exciting if the player didn’t have to beat the game first. Each saucer weapon from the first game also reappears, with only one lackluster Anti-Gravity Field added to the roster. The weapon selection in the first game was practical, but it’s hard to return to what is now a piddly number of options with so many tools of chaos at the player’s disposal here.

Even without weapons, Crypto can create enough of a commotion with just his mind. The essentials of Crypto’s psychic powers also carry over to this game, but they’ve been tweaked instead of being directly built upon like the weapons. Crypto’s abilities are no longer inhibited by a psychic gauge, so now he can continuously whisk anything off the ground and suspend them in the air. However, this does not mean that Crypto’s brain is an inexhaustible source of unlimited potential. Upgrades are much more commonplace in the sequel, with the plentiful Furotech Cells funding the expansion purchased at Pox’s mobile marketplace. Crypto’s psychic powers, however, are upgraded via the “gene blend” system, where he slurps up people across many nationalities and vocations using his saucer’s Abducto Beam and splices their genetic material. Although the process may seem like a fetch quest grind, Crypto’s perverse scientific experiment pays off because the ability to transmogrify any vehicle for ammunition is a godsend. Instead of using the transparent holobob, Crypto rather “body snatches” an unsuspecting victim off the street and can literally walk miles in their footsteps before their life meter depletes completely due to Crypto’s presence in their bodies. It’s disturbingly parasitic. To avoid causing attention while body snatching, Crypto can use a timely named distraction technique called “Free Love,” where every human in the vicinity will dance around nonchalantly to a groovy guitar lick. I appreciate all the new abilities, but psychokinesis was more fun in the first game. I don’t know what’s changed over a decade, but everybody in the 1960s is so resistant to being flung into walls by psychic powers that the impact barely leaves a scratch. One could argue that this was part of an improvement to fix something broken from the first game, but Destroy All Humans 2 is already rife with graphical glitches and framerate issues as is.

The satirical scope may not be as pronounced here, unlike the first game, but at least the sequel is as side-splittingly hilarious. I lamented that more missions in the first game didn’t feature conversations where the player could cycle through dialogue options, but in the sequel, the player can make Crypto spout countless lines of caustic comments while talking to NPCs. I never get tired of hearing him talk. I’d implore the player to try a drinking game whenever the game makes any timely pop culture references or intentional anachronisms, but I do not want to be responsible for any alcohol-related deaths. Some of the humor is racy (especially in Takoshima) and based in stereotypes, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t guffaw whenever Crypto made immature prank calls, a Japanese cop spoke unfitting jive, or when Crypto enacted his plan to sic the Russian cosmonauts on the Furon’s Blisk rivals by telling them that they plan to take away their vodka. Crypto gleefully rides away with the bedlam that this causes with the hippy-dippy song “She Changes Like the Weather,” playing like the stinker he is. It’s comedic gold. However, none of these humorous moments are enough to establish a concise ethos, but there is still something substantial here.

The prime point that Destroy All Humans 2 seems to convey with its satire is that even in what was perceived as a new age of enlightenment, mankind and the society they created hadn’t changed all that much. No amount of LSD can cure human vices or their stubborn obliviousness. Reusing some of the same jokes while reading people’s minds might have signaled a lack of new humorous material, but it could illustrate that nothing has changed. Crypto consistently comments that his cult is the “opiate of the masses,” a phrase that correlates drugs with religion. Dirty, hubristic iconoclasts that defined the counterculture of this era throw down their values in exchange for the most appealing thing Crypto can offer, which of course, is a bunch of empty promises. The first game expressed that people were stupidly impressionable, and the sequel comments that things like drug-induced “enlightenment” and “free love” are just as big of a farce as the patriotism that fueled the 1950s. Crypto’s status as an alien gives him a position of an outsider looking in, an unbiased being without the follies that beset mankind.

That is, Crypto was the perfect specimen for critiquing human nature in the first game. Crypto was an exceptional alien soldier with a sense of snarkiness behind his venomous contempt for the human race. In the sequel, he’s practically gone native. Too much time masquerading among the humans has caused Crypto to adopt a sense of appreciation for their ways of life and has softened him up quite a bit. One could argue that this is due to the sequel’s Crypto being a clone of the one from the first game after that one unexpectedly died, but Planet Furon just doesn’t possess the same frills of sex, drugs, and rock and roll as Earth does. That, and his newly acquired sexual appendage, almost makes him one of us, and Pox detests it more than anyone. Crypto’s character is explored thoroughly here as more than an intergalactic harbinger of death and persecution. His arc is detailed through his relationship with Natalya, a rogue KGB spy and Crypto’s love interest, who aids him throughout the game. Despite approaching Natalya in a sleazy manner that makes Andy Dick look gentlemanly by comparison, the two have an odd chemistry with one another that works. Eventually, she starts to warm up to Crypto’s advances and likes him. When Natalya gets killed by Blisk/Russian leader Milinkov at the game's climax, the player almost feels as devastated as Crypto. Maybe I can sympathize with Crypto trying to bat out of his league here, but maybe Crypto’s newfound admiration (in many forms) is a testament that Furons and humans aren’t so different. Through fraternizing with humans and understanding them, it could lead to a peaceful society between the two (although it's not likely). Crypto ends up saving the human race from the Blisk at the end of the game, and if that's not ironic, I don’t know what is. After all, Arkvoodle, the benevolent creator of the Furons, is just as self-righteous and hedonistic as any hippie.

It is now apparent to me that Destroy All Humans 2 is vastly superior to its predecessor. The game is a sequel that knew the previous title had much to improve upon and thus made an effort to do so and succeeded. Destroy All Humans 2 adds so much to the first game’s template and augments everything from the weapons, areas, missions, etc. I thought that continuing the premise of an alien imperialist taking over Earth in the 1960s was inappropriate, but delving into the material has proven to me that it can still work. The augmentation has even uplifted the B-movie fabric of the premise and presentation to a depth unseen in the first game. The most unfortunate aspect is that despite all of the improvements, the myriad of technical issues in Destroy All Humans 2 that were already present in the first game deter its overall quality. I wish I could overlook this with its positive attributes, but it’s too significant of a detractor. Nevertheless, at least Destroy All Humans 2 maintains the same maniacal thrills that the first game had.

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Attribution: https://erockreviews.blogspot.com