The year is 1984, and you’re off location scouting in Northern Japan. The Sea of Okhotsk is looming and wrought with purpose. One designer ponders on the meaning of digital interactivity, with an inkling that we can provide something we cannot experience elsewhere. An effective creator can offer the outline, but a player should be the one to fill in the sketch. With opportunity, everyone has their own unique perspective of the work, do they not?

Shrouded in secrecy, without significant praise or fanfare in the West, lies a modest game called Hokkaidō Rensa Satsujin: Okhotsk ni Kiyu. Portopia had ushered in the mystery detective frenzy, and this would act as the second game in Yuji Horii's ADV trilogy. The proverbial building blocks were set with Portopia, but it’s Hokkaido (Note, I use the shorthand name from here on out) that represents the complete picture, a proper refinement in every sense of the word. At the crossroads: A rapidly moving games industry and the burgeoning ideas of a young creator. The picture becomes clear, in which a defining work serves as the missing frame.

In the mystery of Hokkaido Island, we find meaning, a glimpse into the mind of Yuji Horii. With an air of thoughtfulness, he understood that communicative worlds were the future, letting Hokkaido & Okhotsk serve as the backdrop -- the outline for the adventure. This was a doorway into the chilly depths of Northern Japan, with vivid shades of early graphical tourism. Real-life settings are depicted in an earnest manner, every screen swelling with a sense of place, drawing you right into the heart of the open-ended investigation.

Building lifelike worlds of connected characters has always been a strength of Horii’s design philosophy; there’s a real sense of how impactful his early work on ADV games was on his later efforts; particularly the nature of systematic storytelling. There is great attention to detail of the world and dialogue, all wrapped up in small vignettes to-go. Conversations are abundant, and the flow of information varies depending on who you’ve spoken to, whereabouts in the game scenario and specific actions taken by the player. The game finds itself in a flux, and you’ll find that no dialogue is without meaning, with red herrings to keep you alert. Information is pertinent to later events; as foreshadowing; or the link that binds the entire string of murders. The supporting cast and perpetrators are well defined, with genuine motivations underpinning the narrative. Subtle animations are on full display, especially in the Famicom version. The weary eyes of the washerwoman, or the sweating brow of a man who knows more than he’s letting on. The main scenario is a fairly standard detective thriller, but given the constraints of text space and graphical interface, it’s a marvel of imaginative craftsmanship.

The adaption of a command selection system was the big game changer; meaning verb selection was done on a menu instead of a text parser. Navigating screens became a more fluid experience, giving players keywords to choose from instead of brainstorming from scratch. Players could focus on what designers felt was critical for ADVs, scenario progression and open-ended navigation. In Horii’s own words on the decision to change: "it was like reading a novel while doing a crossword puzzle on each page”. The workload on designing parser-heavy puzzles was a nuisance, but even more so in the Japanese langauge. Let me clarify here, and say that text parser games do have their place (with often more freedom), but for the purpose of where the Japanese industry was transitioning towards, it was an unorthodox dead-end. We can do our daily thanks for Wizardry, as that (and other RPGs) was the basis for the command selection system. This would be used in the reworked home console version of Portopia, where it found immense popularity with the two-button scheme, and later, the Dragon Quest series. The simplification of what was a complex system for computers is an underlying innovation in all of Horii’s games to follow, and a new age of software was born out of this trait. I had a longer piece on this section, believe me, it’s an immensely notable contribution to Japanese game design. The tangible applications are obvious, and it’s easy to see why overseas developers like LucasArts arrived at a similar conclusion for their ScummVM engine.

Worth noting: These games are not strictly the first implementation, but the one that revolutionized the trend. Design is often not an isolated case, with many different viewpoints refining a functional concept, so let’s give credit to the developers who are lost to memory and/or poorly documented. The earliest known games that used the command selection system would be Tridental (Pax Softnica/1983) and Planetary Mephius (T&E Soft/1983). The first Japanese developed adventure game was Omotesando Adventure/1982, relying on the conventional parser.

Part of my motivation for playing this game was to provide a reasonable documentation, but also a genuine account of playing it for the first time, far distant from its initial 1980’s context. It’s one thing to appreciate a foundational work, but the merit should always be found in the enduring qualities. Regardless of our context, good game design reigns supreme. It was no surprise that the game was appealing; after all, it was a pioneering spirit, but I was taken aback at how relatable/relevant it still felt. Much like Dragon Quest and RPGs, it's served as an enjoyable bite-sized journey, a testament to Yuji Horii's outlook on game software.

For the purpose of this review, I’ve played both the PC-88 and Famicom versions, in their native langauge. There is an additional PC-98 conversion with a pastel look, released in 1992. As of writing, none have received an English translation. However, there is encouragement in the simplicity of the text, and the nature of the selection system helps in offering context for each action, but you will need an advanced understanding to proceed. By all means, give it a go if you feel comfortable, a briskly paced ADV of this caliber can be an adequate learning tool, with repeating text and (mostly) lack of fail-states in the home console release. Worth mentioning you will need to memorize a 20-character password in the FC version to continue and pass in-game time, and there’s a couple segments of text parser usage in the computer versions. (For the password, take a photo and try your best).

Moving onwards, there are significant differences between the original computer versions and the later reworked Famicom version. The outline of the narrative remains the same, but storyline differences will occur at various points. The FC version is less open-ended and a bit more reasonable to approach, with chapters that separate areas to ease in new players. Characters are more cartoon-like, with enhanced graphics and portraits from Kiyokazu Arai, a manga artist and contributor to Login Magazine. Production is lavish and a definite step up. That said, there remains appreciation for the original computer version’s suspenseful atmosphere; the way screens slowly shift like pages of novel; the dark hues of the surroundings and people; even the minimalist BGM contributes to the ambiance. There is an abstract loneliness that is difficult to define, reflecting the era and imagery Yuji Horii and co. dreamt up on their trip to Hokkaido Island.

And so it comes to a close; the meaning of the Nipopo Dolls and their relationship to Abashiri Prison; the mystery of a sinking ship, and a man fascinated by conversations with technology. What began as a journey into Northern Japan lead to a wellspring frontier for the video game industry, a transformative game unto itself. When we see modern games using the selection system or other particularities of Hokkaido, we should ask ourselves what we can learn and why these design lessons are still relevant. Yuji Horii’s timeless distillation of an outline, the tools and the sandbox. Let the player form their own perspective. Across the world, Roberta Williams had her own story to tell with King’s Quest. The fundamentals are different, but they both hint with sincerity at a player-driven future, with cascading events that shape the adventure. As designers, we can offer the sketch, we can provide the outline, but the remaining should be in response to the various actions of the players. That’s where the fun lies, in the heart of interactivity.

The year is 1984, and you’re off location scouting in Northern Japan. The Sea of Okhotsk is looming and wrought with purpose. One designer ponders on the meaning of digital interactivity, with an inkling that we can provide something we cannot experience elsewhere. An effective creator can offer the outline, but a player should be the one to fill in the sketch. With opportunity, everyone has their own unique perspective of the work, do they not?

Shrouded in secrecy, without significant praise or fanfare in the West, lies a modest game called Hokkaidō Rensa Satsujin: Okhotsk ni Kiyu. Portopia had ushered in the mystery detective frenzy, and this would act as the second game in Yuji Horii's ADV trilogy. The proverbial building blocks were set with Portopia, but it’s Hokkaido (Note, I use the shorthand name from here on out) that represents the complete picture, a proper refinement in every sense of the word. At the crossroads: A rapidly moving games industry and the burgeoning ideas of a young creator. The picture becomes clear, in which a defining work serves as the missing frame.

In the mystery of Hokkaido Island, we find meaning, a glimpse into the mind of Yuji Horii. With an air of thoughtfulness, he understood that communicative worlds were the future, letting Hokkaido & Okhotsk serve as the backdrop -- the outline for the adventure. This was a doorway into the chilly depths of Northern Japan, with vivid shades of early graphical tourism. Real-life settings are depicted in an earnest manner, every screen swelling with a sense of place, drawing you right into the heart of the open-ended investigation.

Building lifelike worlds of connected characters has always been a strength of Horii’s design philosophy; there’s a real sense of how impactful his early work on ADV games was on his later efforts; particularly the nature of systematic storytelling. There is great attention to detail of the world and dialogue, all wrapped up in small vignettes to-go. Conversations are abundant, and the flow of information varies depending on who you’ve spoken to, whereabouts in the game scenario and specific actions taken by the player. The game finds itself in a flux, and you’ll find that no dialogue is without meaning, with red herrings to keep you alert. Information is pertinent to later events; as foreshadowing; or the link that binds the entire string of murders. The supporting cast and perpetrators are well defined, with genuine motivations underpinning the narrative. Subtle animations are on full display, especially in the Famicom version. The weary eyes of the washerwoman, or the sweating brow of a man who knows more than he’s letting on. The main scenario is a fairly standard detective thriller, but given the constraints of text space and graphical interface, it’s a marvel of imaginative craftsmanship.

The adaption of a command selection system was the big game changer; meaning verb selection was done on a menu instead of a text parser. Navigating screens became a more fluid experience, giving players keywords to choose from instead of brainstorming from scratch. Players could focus on what designers felt was critical for ADVs, scenario progression and open-ended navigation. In Horii’s own words on the decision to change: "it was like reading a novel while doing a crossword puzzle on each page”. The workload on designing parser-heavy puzzles was a nuisance, but even more so in the Japanese langauge. Let me clarify here, and say that text parser games do have their place (with often more freedom), but for the purpose of where the Japanese industry was transitioning towards, it was an unorthodox dead-end. We can do our daily thanks for Wizardry, as that (and other RPGs) was the basis for the command selection system. This would be used in the reworked home console version of Portopia, where it found immense popularity with the two-button scheme, and later, the Dragon Quest series. The simplification of what was a complex system for computers is an underlying innovation in all of Horii’s games to follow, and a new age of software was born out of this trait. I had a longer piece on this section, believe me, it’s an immensely notable contribution to Japanese game design. The tangible applications are obvious, and it’s easy to see why overseas developers like LucasArts arrived at a similar conclusion for their ScummVM engine.

Worth noting: These games are not strictly the first implementation, but the one that revolutionized the trend. Design is often not an isolated case, with many different viewpoints refining a functional concept, so let’s give credit to the developers who are lost to memory and/or poorly documented. The earliest known games that used the command selection system would be Tridental (Pax Softnica/1983) and Planetary Mephius (T&E Soft/1983). The first Japanese developed adventure game was Omotesando Adventure/1982, relying on the conventional parser.

Part of my motivation for playing this game was to provide a reasonable documentation, but also a genuine account of playing it for the first time, far distant from its initial 1980’s context. It’s one thing to appreciate a foundational work, but the merit should always be found in the enduring qualities. Regardless of our context, good game design reigns supreme. It was no surprise that the game was appealing; after all, it was a pioneering spirit, but I was taken aback at how relatable/relevant it still felt. Much like Dragon Quest and RPGs, it's served as an enjoyable bite-sized journey, a testament to Yuji Horii's outlook on game software.

For the purpose of this review, I’ve played both the PC-88 and Famicom versions, in their native langauge. There is an additional PC-98 conversion with a pastel look, released in 1992. As of writing, none have received an English translation. However, there is encouragement in the simplicity of the text, and the nature of the selection system helps in offering context for each action, but you will need an advanced understanding to proceed. By all means, give it a go if you feel comfortable, a briskly paced ADV of this caliber can be an adequate learning tool, with repeating text and (mostly) lack of fail-states in the home console release. Worth mentioning you will need to memorize a 20-character password in the FC version to continue and pass in-game time, and there’s a couple segments of text parser usage in the computer versions. (For the password, take a photo and try your best).

Moving onwards, there are significant differences between the original computer versions and the later reworked Famicom version. The outline of the narrative remains the same, but storyline differences will occur at various points. The FC version is less open-ended and a bit more reasonable to approach, with chapters that separate areas to ease in new players. Characters are more cartoon-like, with enhanced graphics and portraits from Kiyokazu Arai, a manga artist and contributor to Login Magazine. Production is lavish and a definite step up. That said, there remains appreciation for the original computer version’s suspenseful atmosphere; the way screens slowly shift like pages of novel; the dark hues of the surroundings and people; even the minimalist BGM contributes to the ambiance. There is an abstract loneliness that is difficult to define, reflecting the era and imagery Yuji Horii and co. dreamt up on their trip to Hokkaido Island.

And so it comes to a close; the meaning of the Nipopo Dolls and their relationship to Abashiri Prison; the mystery of a sinking ship, and a man fascinated by conversations with technology. What began as a journey into Northern Japan lead to a wellspring frontier for the video game industry, a transformative game unto itself. When we see modern games using the selection system or other particularities of Hokkaido, we should ask ourselves what we can learn and why these design lessons are still relevant. Yuji Horii’s timeless distillation of an outline, the tools and the sandbox. Let the player form their own perspective. Across the world, Roberta Williams had her own story to tell with King’s Quest. The fundamentals are different, but they both hint with sincerity at a player-driven future, with cascading events that shape the adventure. As designers, we can offer the sketch, we can provide the outline, but the remaining should be in response to the various actions of the players. That’s where the fun lies, in the heart of interactivity.

Devilish mazes of single-screen puzzles greet the occasion.

King's Valley II is masked with ardent care for MSX tradition, and the 80's love affair for meticulously designed platforming challenges. Rooms serve a static puzzle box of wits and strategy, daring you to decode the message within. Peerless in the quality craftsmanship that Konami would bring to the table, there's an air of utter refinement to the work. The ask of engaging with a specific tool kit -- to solve -- is completely defined.

From a functional design standpoint, the nuance of these games was built out of direct limitation. Each fragment of the underlying game logic had purpose; obstacles, tools, enemies and so forth. The root is in the simple ingredients, with small tweaks adjusting the framework, escalating as you push the building blocks. The best way to examine the design is understanding how a single ladder or revolving door can drastically alter an entire level’s motive; and how those nouns interact to create deeper logical abstraction on the player's end. That philosophy is pushed to its utmost limit.

The question remains: If it doesn't enrich the head-scratching, is it any good?

Fortunately, the conceptual mixing pot of King’s Valley II runs quite deep, with each tool forming an adequate base, another layer of the puzzle to chisel away at. A breezy teaching method turns into a test of wits, with proper refinement to progression and further understanding of the basic ask. Design necessitates that you can lock yourself out of a solution, but levels will often have multiple ways to proceed, opening up the range of possibilities. Optimal solves exist, yet much of the fun of these games is navigating a setback or two. The magic is in the conflict — finding your respite out of the abstract puzzle box. When everything clicks into place, it's those little moments of brilliance that stay with the player.

There's a gentle slope up to the midway point, where levels become quite challenging and complex. Levels loop in multiple directions, disappearing floors, revolving doors that lock or lead you to salvation. Herding enemy patterns, with the guards having divergent behavior to navigate with comprehension. Hidden traps that alter the level. Little by little, you were expected to reason with every piece of the framework and have mastery over the tools. There's a lot to take in. Even a level editor to fool around with, where you could create and send your levels in to MSX magazines for the chance to win a gold cartridge. Only 20 in existence - all bearing the recipients name - who knows how many are left at this point. We all become consumed by the great pyramid king at the end — maybe the cover art was onto something.

Give it a go and find out if you got what it takes. It’s a puzzling treat.