Y'know Chrono Trigger? It's a true classic, but despite being a millennium-spanning, astoundingly scored, perfectly paced epic, it only contains a single line of dialog that I actually remember. There's a little girl standing in an item shop, who, when spoken to, simply exclaims: "Don't overdo it!"
In Earthbound, after Ness obtains the eight melodies, he's transported to Magicant, a realm constructed as a physical manifestation of his memory. This world isn't what you might think based on its premise. Instead of portraying flashbulb memories, the kind commonly believed to shape a person's psyche, the stuff in Magicant seems almost unimportant. We don't learn Ness's origin story, we learn about snowmen that he built and comic books that he read as a child. Magicant isn't filled with the memorable, but instead the arbitrary, a perfect encapsulation of the game it's contained in.
That's not to say Earthbound is forgettable in any capacity. For my money it's the single most enjoyable journey ever captured in a video game, but, amazingly, the sequence of events is hardly its most memorable aspect. Earthbound isn't one of my favorite games because of Buzz Buzz or the Runaway Five or Saturn Valley or Moonside or Dungeon Man or Giygas's incomprehensible attacks, but because of the stuff that happens in between. Video game comedic writing reached its pinnacle here, and yet the citizens of Eagleland hardly ever tell jokes. Instead, the game's humor primarily comes from unconventional word choice or sentence flow. Animals don't get defeated, they "become tame," enemies approach with their "cohorts," and instead of a game over, you "get your head handed to you." Crows are spiteful, moles play rough, flies are no-good, and mushrooms are ramblin' or even struttin'. A guy in the lobby of a Fourside skyscraper simply states "I'm an elite businessman who works in Mr. Monotoli's office" and it's somehow hilarious. Why would he tell me that? How is so so confident in assessing himself as elite? Wouldn't an elite businessman have anything better to do than stand around and talk to elementary schoolers? Earthbound is typically seen as a child's perspective of the adult world because of stuff like Onett's police force and the Happy-Happy cult, but I'd argue that this theme is more prevalent in its everyday text boxes. No matter how zany or off the cuff any line of dialogue is seemingly written, it's delivered in such a plain, matter-of-fact tone, like this is simply elite business as usual.
This juxtaposition of the absurd with the mundane is so integral to Earthbound that I'm genuinely baffled by those who complain about the game's habit of inconveniencing you. Actually, 'habit' is the wrong word here, because that implies it's not deliberate and that Earthbound doesn't take a great amount of pleasure in bringing itself to a screeching halt. In my Mother review I talked about that game's usage of practical jokes at the expense of the player, a concept that ends up being much more effective here, due to the increased scale. This time, it's established that you're the chosen one on a continent-spanning quest to eradicate the embodiment of evil from the universe, in other words, it's a typical JRPG. But, fans of typical JRPGs don't want to have to withdraw money from an ATM or rely on a deliveryman to store unwanted items. And for good reason, stuff like that would detract from the adventuring, the battling, the questing. Earthbound acknowledges this, and instead seems to question which side is more valuable, which side you're going to take home with you when all's said and done. What do you remember more? Actually fighting Master Belch, or having to stand still for three full minutes in order to get to him? Earthbound's soundtrack is, in my opinion, as essential as any in gaming, partly because of how much it embraces this theme. Hotel music that's eerie instead of welcoming. Desert music that's groovy instead of hostile. Christmastime music that's lonely instead of jolly. Maybe, just maybe, your own home sounds less like anyone else's and more like the overworld of your favorite Famicom game. What exactly DO we take away from our life experiences, anyway?
For having such a focus on inconvenience it's ironic that Earthbound features several quality of life elements that are still missing from modern JRPGs. Encounters that you'd be able to win in one turn are skipped from the overworld. Enemies avoid you once you've defeated the dungeon boss. Multiple normal battle themes. It doesn't feel like it should take an Orange Kid to figure this stuff out. Maybe an Apple Kid, but still. These improvements aren't the game's only twists on an established genre. Limited, character-specific inventories mean that you can't win battles just by hoarding a hundred potions and you're rewarded for taking the time to plan out who carries what. The rolling health bar creates legitimate panic moments where you're left scrambling through menus, trying to use Paula's dying breath wisely. Earthbound's battles are genuinely fun, but the game's sole blemish remains its inability to shake certain JRPG customs. There's too many abrupt difficulty spikes, too many obnoxious status conditions, too many painful dungeons. It breaks my heart, but I can't recommend the game to any and everyone like I can with a Chrono Trigger or with a Mother 3.
Earthbound has my favorite ending out of any, uh, thing ever. And as you might guess, this isn't because of Giygas, although trauma as the final boss of memory is particularly clever, but because of what transpires when he's been prayed away back to whatever dimension he came from. Any promise of a hero's welcome for saving the universe and stuff is put on hold while you're given your final task: walking home with Paula. Retracing your steps back to Twoson and then Onett and realizing that every single person along the way still has their own problems, their own stuff going on, their own lives outside of your little adventure, and the game's true focus becomes crystal clear. And then, Fuzzy Pickles. The cameraman is covertly Earthbound's biggest stroke of genius. Even if he wasn't reincorporated in any capacity, he wouldn't stick out. He'd just be another Mother-ism, a triviality that you may or may not find funny. But, as it stands, the reveal that his pictures decorate the end credits is the most vital part of the whole experience. For a game so insistent on questioning how and why we make memories, the realization that you've been doing it the entire time is the perfect conclusion. The importance of a good upbringing (i.e. a good MOTHER) has always been central to the series, but it's here where this thesis advances. If there's one thing to take away from Earthbound, it's that, while we do stand on the shoulders of giants, those giants may very well be a lot smaller than we realize.
Bottom line? It's the best one they is.
In Earthbound, after Ness obtains the eight melodies, he's transported to Magicant, a realm constructed as a physical manifestation of his memory. This world isn't what you might think based on its premise. Instead of portraying flashbulb memories, the kind commonly believed to shape a person's psyche, the stuff in Magicant seems almost unimportant. We don't learn Ness's origin story, we learn about snowmen that he built and comic books that he read as a child. Magicant isn't filled with the memorable, but instead the arbitrary, a perfect encapsulation of the game it's contained in.
That's not to say Earthbound is forgettable in any capacity. For my money it's the single most enjoyable journey ever captured in a video game, but, amazingly, the sequence of events is hardly its most memorable aspect. Earthbound isn't one of my favorite games because of Buzz Buzz or the Runaway Five or Saturn Valley or Moonside or Dungeon Man or Giygas's incomprehensible attacks, but because of the stuff that happens in between. Video game comedic writing reached its pinnacle here, and yet the citizens of Eagleland hardly ever tell jokes. Instead, the game's humor primarily comes from unconventional word choice or sentence flow. Animals don't get defeated, they "become tame," enemies approach with their "cohorts," and instead of a game over, you "get your head handed to you." Crows are spiteful, moles play rough, flies are no-good, and mushrooms are ramblin' or even struttin'. A guy in the lobby of a Fourside skyscraper simply states "I'm an elite businessman who works in Mr. Monotoli's office" and it's somehow hilarious. Why would he tell me that? How is so so confident in assessing himself as elite? Wouldn't an elite businessman have anything better to do than stand around and talk to elementary schoolers? Earthbound is typically seen as a child's perspective of the adult world because of stuff like Onett's police force and the Happy-Happy cult, but I'd argue that this theme is more prevalent in its everyday text boxes. No matter how zany or off the cuff any line of dialogue is seemingly written, it's delivered in such a plain, matter-of-fact tone, like this is simply elite business as usual.
This juxtaposition of the absurd with the mundane is so integral to Earthbound that I'm genuinely baffled by those who complain about the game's habit of inconveniencing you. Actually, 'habit' is the wrong word here, because that implies it's not deliberate and that Earthbound doesn't take a great amount of pleasure in bringing itself to a screeching halt. In my Mother review I talked about that game's usage of practical jokes at the expense of the player, a concept that ends up being much more effective here, due to the increased scale. This time, it's established that you're the chosen one on a continent-spanning quest to eradicate the embodiment of evil from the universe, in other words, it's a typical JRPG. But, fans of typical JRPGs don't want to have to withdraw money from an ATM or rely on a deliveryman to store unwanted items. And for good reason, stuff like that would detract from the adventuring, the battling, the questing. Earthbound acknowledges this, and instead seems to question which side is more valuable, which side you're going to take home with you when all's said and done. What do you remember more? Actually fighting Master Belch, or having to stand still for three full minutes in order to get to him? Earthbound's soundtrack is, in my opinion, as essential as any in gaming, partly because of how much it embraces this theme. Hotel music that's eerie instead of welcoming. Desert music that's groovy instead of hostile. Christmastime music that's lonely instead of jolly. Maybe, just maybe, your own home sounds less like anyone else's and more like the overworld of your favorite Famicom game. What exactly DO we take away from our life experiences, anyway?
For having such a focus on inconvenience it's ironic that Earthbound features several quality of life elements that are still missing from modern JRPGs. Encounters that you'd be able to win in one turn are skipped from the overworld. Enemies avoid you once you've defeated the dungeon boss. Multiple normal battle themes. It doesn't feel like it should take an Orange Kid to figure this stuff out. Maybe an Apple Kid, but still. These improvements aren't the game's only twists on an established genre. Limited, character-specific inventories mean that you can't win battles just by hoarding a hundred potions and you're rewarded for taking the time to plan out who carries what. The rolling health bar creates legitimate panic moments where you're left scrambling through menus, trying to use Paula's dying breath wisely. Earthbound's battles are genuinely fun, but the game's sole blemish remains its inability to shake certain JRPG customs. There's too many abrupt difficulty spikes, too many obnoxious status conditions, too many painful dungeons. It breaks my heart, but I can't recommend the game to any and everyone like I can with a Chrono Trigger or with a Mother 3.
Earthbound has my favorite ending out of any, uh, thing ever. And as you might guess, this isn't because of Giygas, although trauma as the final boss of memory is particularly clever, but because of what transpires when he's been prayed away back to whatever dimension he came from. Any promise of a hero's welcome for saving the universe and stuff is put on hold while you're given your final task: walking home with Paula. Retracing your steps back to Twoson and then Onett and realizing that every single person along the way still has their own problems, their own stuff going on, their own lives outside of your little adventure, and the game's true focus becomes crystal clear. And then, Fuzzy Pickles. The cameraman is covertly Earthbound's biggest stroke of genius. Even if he wasn't reincorporated in any capacity, he wouldn't stick out. He'd just be another Mother-ism, a triviality that you may or may not find funny. But, as it stands, the reveal that his pictures decorate the end credits is the most vital part of the whole experience. For a game so insistent on questioning how and why we make memories, the realization that you've been doing it the entire time is the perfect conclusion. The importance of a good upbringing (i.e. a good MOTHER) has always been central to the series, but it's here where this thesis advances. If there's one thing to take away from Earthbound, it's that, while we do stand on the shoulders of giants, those giants may very well be a lot smaller than we realize.
Bottom line? It's the best one they is.