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This review contains spoilers

I am not immune to propaganda. Show me a trailer for an indie JRPG featuring scripted encounters on the field maps, dual techs, and guest tracks by Yasunori Mitsuda, and I'll go "oh, a Chrono Trigger inspired indie JRPG, I sure hope they actually learned the right lessons from the classics" and drop $30 to see if they did.

They didn't.

(Full spoilers for both Sea of Stars and Chrono Trigger.)

I criticized Chained Echoes for being overly derivative of various golden age JRPGs, but to its credit: it feels purposeful in its imitation. It re-uses elements from older games wholecloth, smothering its individual identity under a quilt of influences, but I can appreciate the craftsmanship and intent behind it. It's clearly made from a place of love.

I don't get that vibe from Sea of Stars at all. I complained about some tediously self-aware dialogue in the early hours, and while it only dips down quite that low once or twice more, it colored the entire game with a feeling of self-aggrandizement. In fairness to what I wrote then (and based on a lengthy speech in the hidden Dev Room) it sounds like the devs truly did want to make a JRPG and pay homage to their childhoods. But to me, harsh as it may be, Sea of Stars feels like the devs thought making a JRPG was easy: just copy the greats (specifically, Chrono Trigger), and it'll work out. Based on sales and reviews, it is working out for them, but I'm the freak out here with highly specific ideas about why Chrono Trigger was good and Sea of Stars doesn't seem to agree with my assessment. This inherent friction lasted across the game's entire 30-35 hours.

You play as Zale and Valere, paired Chosen Ones whose innate Sun/Moon powers allow them to do battle against Dwellers, ancient beasts left behind when the villainous Fleshmancer set his sights on this plane of reality. He has since moved on to another world, but Dwellers left unchecked evolve into World Eaters, planar monstrosities that do exactly what it sounds like they do. The Solstice Warriors must hold a never-ending vigil in case previous generations missed a Dweller, battling them when their powers peak during an eclipse.

Joining them is Garl the Warrior Cook, the pair's childhood friend and the only character with anything resembling charisma; Seraï, a masked assassin of mysterious origin; Resh'an, a former companion of The Fleshmancer; and B'st, an amorphous pink cloud with almost no relevance to the plot a-la Chu-Chu from Xenogears.

Battles happen on the field map, like Chrono Trigger, and their main feature is essentially the Break system from Octopath Traveler. When a monster is charging up a special move, they gain "locks" that can only be broken by hitting them with specific types of damage; break them all, and they lose their turn. It's frequently impossible to break all the locks - you simply do not have the action economy to put out that many hits - and so you're usually playing triage regarding which special move you're willing to take to the face.

The battle system also takes a page from Super Mario RPG and includes timed hits and blocks for every attack. Tutorial messages insist to not worry about these and just think of them as bonus damage, but most of your attacks (especially multi-target spells) won't function properly unless you're nailing the timing. You'll often still do some damage, but the number of hits is the most important thing when you're dealing with Locks. There is an accessibility option (purchasable with in-game currency) to make timed hits always land in exchange for lower damage, but that only works for basic attacks.

Only a handful of skills have a message explaining when to push the button, and for the rest? Tough luck, figure it out. It's inconsistent at best and opaque at worst. And I mean literally opaque: because of how the field maps and graphics are constructed, character sprites (especially Seraï) often end up entirely offscreen or covered by other sprites when you're meant to time a press. This wasn't a problem in SMRPG or Mario & Luigi because those had bespoke battle screens with fairly consistent framing for timed hits; the concept isn't very compatible with CT style battles without a way to maintain that consistency.

I legitimately enjoyed the battle system for about the first 30% or so of the game, at which point the startling lack of variety in the battle options began to chafe. Every character has a basic attack, a mere three skills, and a Final Fantasy summon-like Ultimate attack that requires a bar to charge up. There's around a dozen "Combo" moves (read: Dual Techs) across the entire party, but the meter to use them charges so slowly they might as well only exist during boss battles. Your maximum MP caps at around 30 (at the max level, which requires a lot of grinding), skills cost anywhere between 4 and 11, and your potion inventory is limited to 10 items, meaning you're going to almost always rely on basic attacks - which recover 3 MP on a hit - for most battles. Landing a basic attack lets you imbue another basic attack with a character's inherent elemental attribute, which is the only way to break most locks once you're in the mid-game.

Play SMRPG sometime (perhaps the upcoming remake, even) and you'll figure out quick that Timed Hits are cool because if you do them properly it makes battles faster. You aren't trying to get 100 Super Jumps in every single battle because that would be exhausting and slow. Sure, in Chrono Trigger I'm solving 80% of encounters with the same multi-target spells, but that also means they're over in less than a minute. In Sea of Stars, if I mess up an early button press with Moonerang or Venom Flurry, it might not even hit every enemy, which probably means I won't break the locks I need to, which means they'll do their long spell animation. A trash mob battle will probably take two full minutes of me carefully trying to land my timed hits and manage my MP. That shit adds up.

I wouldn't quite go so far as to say Sea of Stars disrespects your time, but a lot of shit adds up. The backgrounds and sprite work are universally great - really beautiful stuff, great animations - but there are tightropes/beams scattered everywhere around the game world, seemingly placed only so you're forced to slow down and look at the backgrounds. From a purely quality of life standpoint, I don't know why you have to hold the button for so long when cooking something, especially if it's a higher-tier restorative. The overworld walk speed is agonizing. The narrative flails in several bizarre directions, only cohering in the broadest possible sense of "we need to beat the bad guy".

Comparatively, Chrono Trigger never stops moving. Your objectives in CT are clearly signposted and make logical sense, even when they string together into longer sequences. To save the world from the Bad Future, we need to defeat the big monster, and we learn the monster was summoned by an evil wizard. To defeat the evil wizard, we need the magic sword, but the sword is broken. To re-forge the sword, we need an ancient material, so off to prehistory we go!

It may sound tedious when written out this way, but the crucial element is that this only takes something like 4 or 5 hours. You're never stuck in any individual location longer than 45-60 minutes, and that's if you stop to grind (which you don't need to). Working at a leisurely pace, you can 100% Chrono Trigger in somewhere between 15 and 20 hours. My most recent playthrough - in which I deliberately walked slowly, grinded out levels, and talked to every NPC for the sake of recording footage - clocked in at about 17.

Sea of Stars doesn't stop introducing new plot elements until the middle of the end credits and makes little effort to tie them together in a cohesive way, instead relying on the inherent fantasy of the setting to smooth over any bumps. For example, take The Sleeper, a massive dragon that once ravaged the world before being sent into an eternal slumber. It explicitly isn't a Dweller, being little more than a curiosity on the overworld map. It bears no relevance to the plot other than as a mid-game side objective to earn the privilege to progress the actual story.

Zale and Valere, despite having speaking roles, do not possess an iota of personality between them; they are generically heroic and valiant and stop at every stage along their quest to help the weak and downtrodden as JRPG Protagonists are wont to do. The idea that Garl should not join them on their dangerous journey - as he is a mere normie - is raised once or twice, but ultimately disregarded due to Garl's endless luck and pluck. He barrels through any possible pathos or character development by simply being the Fun Fat Guy at all times, whether or not the next step follows logically.

No less than three times do the characters visit some kind of Oracle or Seer who reads the future and literally tells them what is going to happen later in the story, sometimes cryptically and sometimes giving explicit instructions. At one point a character awakens from a near-death experience having suddenly gained the knowledge of how to restart the stalled plot, launching into a multi-stage quest that has no logical ties to the party's objective. It's just progression, things happening because something has to happen between points A and B.

Another example: a late game dungeon introduces a race of bird wizards complete with ominous side-flashes to their nefarious scheming atop their evil thrones. They are relevant for only that dungeon, which is broadly just an obstacle in the way of the party's actual objective. I don't understand the intent. Is it supposed to be funny that this guy looks like Necromancer Daffy Duck? If so, why is the story genuinely trying to convince me of the sorrow of their plight and how it relates to the lore (in a way that also isn't relevant to the current events of the plot since it's shit that happened like 10,000 years ago)? How am I meant to react to this? Why is it here, in the final stretch of the story? I was asking these kinds of questions the entire game.

Presumably, the plot is like this because it's trying to imitate JRPGs of the time, which had a reputation for sending you on strings of seemingly random errands to defeat monsters or fetch items. You know what game doesn't do that? Chrono Trigger! The game Sea of Stars is obviously trying to position itself as a successor to!

Is it fair that I criticize the Solstice Warriors for being flat characters when Crono literally does not speak and his party consists of a bunch of genre caricatures? Yes, because CT doesn't try to be more than that. There's no need for wink-wink "did you know you're playing a JRPG? eh, ehhh?? aren't they so wacky with plots that barely make sense bro???" writing in Chrono Trigger because it knows that you know that it knows that you know you're playing a damn JRPG. It's got Akira Toriyama art like Dragon Quest! It says Squaresoft on the cover, those dudes made Final Fantasy!

You're on a roller coaster through time and space! You're here because you want to see knights and robots and cavemen do exactly what knights and robots and cavemen do. Of course Ayla the weirdly sexy cavewoman will say "what is raw-boot? me no understand" after Robo the robot shoots dino-men with his laser beams. It's comedic melodrama, it's operatic in a way that leverages genre familiarity.

Sea of Stars isn't willing to fully commit to this approach, undercutting its own pathos with half-measures and naked imitation. I'd be so much more willing to accept the sudden-yet-inevitable betrayal at the end of the first act if the game didn't then whip around and say "haha, we sure did the thing, huh?" Yeah, I saw. We both clearly know that you're not being clever about it, so why is it in the game?

The answer is usually "because it was in Chrono Trigger", without any examination of what made it work. Like, okay, everybody knows Chrono Trigger is "a good game", but do you know why it's a good game? I could see someone playing it and just thinking, "I don't get it, this is an incredibly generic JRPG," but what you have to understand is that CT is an immaculately constructed generic JRPG. Simply using the same ingredients isn't going to create the same result.

Take the most famous twist of CT: at a critical moment, silent player avatar Crono sacrifices his life to get the rest of the cast to safety, removing him from the party lineup. In the context of 1995, this is a shocking, borderline 4th-wall-breaking twist. Permanent party member death wasn't unheard of - take FFIV or FFV - but the main character? Crono was the mandatory first slot of the party, a jack-of-all-trades mechanical role akin to a DQ Hero. Even though he doesn't have a personality, Crono's consistent presence and the story's inherent melodrama lend a tangible feeling of loss.

Using the power of time travel, the player can undertake a sizeable sidequest to bring Crono back to life, replacing him at the instant of his death with a lifeless doll. He rejoins the party, no longer a mandatory member of the lineup. At this point in the game, you arguably don't even want to bring him along on quests, because he still doesn't have dialogue. Crucially, the entire quest is optional; the first time I played CT, I accidentally did the entire final dungeon (also optional!) first, assuming it was a necessary step.

Sea of Stars tries to do this with Garl. He takes a fatal blow for Zale and Valere then dictates the plot for the next two hours of the game while living on literal Borrowed Time. You journey to an ancient island floating in the sky (sick Chrono Trigger reference bro!) and split the party to pursue multiple objectives in multiple dungeons, culminating in a whole sequence complete with bespoke comic panels of the party mourning their best friend for months offscreen.

This didn't work because I, the player, had no attachment to the character. Garl is the least mechanically useful party member, dealing the same damage type as Valere but without any elemental type to break locks; his heal skill is more expensive than Zale's and his repositioning skill is unnecessary once you have all-target attacks. I dropped him for Seraï at first opportunity and literally never put him back in the main lineup.

Nor do I buy into Zale and Valere's feelings. Protecting Garl is supposed to be one of their main motivations - it's a major scene in the prologue, and leads to an entire dungeon detour in the first act - but they haven't put forth any genuine effort to prevent him from hurling himself into danger's way throughout the game. As noted, he just repeatedly barrels his way through the plot by demanding it continue, even after he's fucking dead.

The true ending of Sea of Stars requires beating the game once, then completing numerous optional objectives which lead to... can you guess? Going back in time, replacing Garl at the instant of his fatal wound with a body double (which means B'st was pretending to be Garl - someone he's never met - during that entire segment, a completely absurd notion), and pulling him back into the present. You do another lengthy sidequest to get an invitation to a fancy restaurant, and then you can fight the true final boss, again, because Garl simply demands it when you get there.

If this CT retread had to be in the game, it would have obviously been better served by Garl being the main player character; go all the way with the imitation. Any vague gesturing the narrative makes towards not having to be The Chosen One to still fight for justice would carry more weight if you weren't playing as the Solstice Warriors, instead scrambling to keep up with them as the worst party member. As things stand, it's just a big ol' reference to a better game, a transparent play for Real Stakes that rings hollow.

An even more egregious example is The Big Thing at the start of Act 3, once the cast finally sets sail upon the eponymous Sea of Stars. Leaving their world of fantasy and magic, they enter a post-apocalyptic sci-fi world, complete with a brief graphics shift into 3D and a full UI overhaul. It's intended to be a shocking twist, a mind-blowing reveal... but it doesn't work, because A) it's a blatant crib of CT, and B) it's all in service to a punchline.

In Chrono Trigger, once the game has fully established the time travel concept by sending you to 600 AD and back (about three hours of gameplay), the party is forced to flee into an unknown time gate. It spits them out to 2300 AD, a wrecked hell world in the depths of a nuclear winter. Here, the party discovers an archive computer recording that sets up their goal for the entire rest of the game: prevent the apocalypse by stopping Lavos, a titanic creature buried deep within the earth.

It's important that this happens at the beginning of the game. You're expecting some form of going to the future to see goofy robots - it's a natural extension of time travel as a plot device - but 2300 AD is a genuine shock in the moment. It serves as a constant reminder of the stakes: this is the bad future, and you're trying to stop it from ever happening. After gallivanting through medieval times, the contrast really works.

In Sea of Stars, you probably aren't expecting to suddenly fight a robot when you're chasing The Fleshmancer across worlds. It's a potentially cool swerve, but what's actually gained by having the final act be in sci-fi land other than some kind of "dang, didn't see that coming" factor? He isn't even actually in control of the robots or anything, he just hides his castle here because... well, it's unclear why, because even once you restore the sun and moon and fight him in the True Ending, he only seems momentarily inconvenienced.

But it sure is a CT reference! And it's also a joke, because your mysterious sometimes-assassin-sometimes-swashbuckler companion Seraï reveals that this is her home world, pulling off her mask to reveal her metallic endoskeleton. You see, she used to be human, but had her soul chewed up and put into this mechanical body. She is a literal Ninja Pirate Zombie Robot.

You know! Ninja Pirate Zombie Robot! Like TVTropes, lol? Wacky JRPG party members!

How do you expect to maintain any investment after that? There's like four more dungeons in sci-fi world - including aforementioned Necromancer Daffy - and I just couldn't give a shit about any of it. The post-apoc stuff doesn't add any stakes, because we already know the Fleshmancer has ruined countless worlds and we're just chasing him to this one in particular because Seraï asked us to (and I guess they want revenge for Garl). I wasn't having fun, I was just annoyed.

I'm baffled. Sea of Stars clearly knows how to outwardly present itself as a quality JRPG. At a glance, the game looks like everything I could want: beautiful artwork, smooth gameplay, fun characters. Something that gets why I fell in love with the genre in the first place, and why I hold up Chrono Trigger as its crown jewel.

But it just isn't that, at least not to me, and that's... I dunno, existentially troubling? Based on the reviews I've seen, I'm clearly in the minority for feeling this way. I do believe the dev team and all of these players also love JRPGs. But if they do, it must be in a way fundamentally different from the way I do, because otherwise I simply don't understand the creative choices in Sea of Stars. I want more than this.

Maybe one day, hopefully sooner than later, we'll get the Disco Elysium of JRPGs, but today sure isn't that day.

Without divulging too much about my own mental health, I can at least safely say that Milk inside a bag... is eerily relatable and arresting for me. Metatext aside, I think it adequately achieves what it sets out to do for a very specific subset of people who in turn have processed their own traumas in a very specific way. I don't feel comfortable rating it because it's so personal and so affecting for me. I understand the sense some might get that this glorifies mental illness in some regard, and I even agree in part, but I think some of that is going to be inevitable when trying to transmit a piece of yourself for wider consumption. These things necessarily need to be gussied up due to the limits of language and the lived human experience. My red is not the same as your red. Maybe I wouldn't be as fond of it if I couldn't relate, it's impossible to say.

I was going to trauma dump but that's not fair to myself or to anyone else. The fact of the matter is I don't have to explain why this resonated with me. I am grateful this is (mostly) not my life anymore, but it certainly was my lived experience.

A day of my life in a day of my life in a day...

After the first hour, the gameplay loop goes stale. The fish aren't weird enough. By design, every quest is to 'fetch' and to backtrack. An adroit player can completely ignore the ambient threat of 'insanity'. I don't like being prescriptive in my reviews, but just one extra mechanic--an ability to choose and set bait, or build a "home base" dock, or go fishing as different characters with strengths and weaknesses--would've kept things interesting.

Talos Principle deserves credit for compelling puzzles and a narrative that discusses religion and determinism without the arrogant snickering of The Stanley Parable.

Nevertheless, Talos' insistent Gnosticism (the view that reality is always obscured by capricious power-brokers), while sincere, is rendered tiresome by the larger entertainment industry's obsession with this one esoteric strand of Christianity. The game's weakest parts involve conversations with a Milton-esque Satan figure, in which the player is forced to choose various dumb, canned responses. That Talos is one of the better games about faith and metaphysics is a little disheartening.

Wonderful game. Most of the criticisms leveled against the artificiality/simplicity of the language puzzles fail to take into account that these are necessary to make Sennaar a better game. The fact that you can brute force answers when stuck prevented bottlenecks and kept the game going forward; the lack of variety in lexical structure across languages allowed a lot of the other puzzle elements to shine (e.g. The math of the Alchemists' floor). The final floor was way too short, but it came at a perfect time just before tedium began to set in, capping the game with a high instead of letting it drag out more.

What surprised me the most was how emotional I felt in the path toward the true ending. I didn't expect to feel catharsis translating toddler-speak across different floors, but seeing the people slowly come together as one once they understood each other was a true joy. To set the glyphs of each language to perfectly allow this is a credit to how much planning had to be done behind the scenes for this game.

My complaints lie in the times when the game tries to add gameplay variety for the sake of it (stupid stealth sections, the 3rd floor sewer), but these are otherwise minor flaws in a great work of art.

Far and away the most egregiously misguided attempt at myth-making in games history. This isn't the worst game ever. It's not the weirdest game ever. It is not the 'first American produced visual novel.' Limited Run Games seems content to simply upend truth and provenance to push a valueless narrative. The 'so bad it's good' shtick serves only to lessen the importance of early multimedia CD-ROM software, and drenching it in WordArt and clip art imparts the notion that this digital heritage was low class, low brow, low effort, and altogether primitive.

This repackaging of an overlong workplace sexual harassment/rape joke is altogether uncomfortable at best. Further problematising this, accompanying merch is resplendent with Edward J. Fasulo's bare chest despite him seemingly wanting nothing to do with the project. We've got industry veterans and games historians talking up the importance of digital detritus alongside YouTubers and LRG employees, the latter making the former less credible. We've got a novelisation by Twitter 'comedian' Mike Drucker. We've got skate decks and body pillows and more heaps of plastic garbage for video game 'collectors' to shove on a dusty shelf next to their four colour variants of Jay and Silent Bob Mall Brawl on NES, cum-encrusted Shantae statue, and countless other bits of mass-produced waste that belongs in a landfill. Utterly shameful how we engage with the past.

How did a game with so much attention to simple gaming pleasures somehow miss every opportunity for emotional resonance?

astounding to see this amount of meaningfully impactful player choice in a game about playing with stickers

my one analgesic blind spot and one im so angry i didnt correct earlier,,,almost certainly the height of their 2D game design for one, with a bold eccentricity that nonetheless feels constantly self-reinforcing and even intuitive...and as always, dovetails absolutely gorgeously with the larger picture. a rly common mental image in analgesics games is the individual standing in front of the incomprehensible and massive forces that have shaped them and their actions, and while this is by any measure the Bleakest of those in their catalog its also affirming in small ways...in particular the energy system. which even as u are filled with dread doing things u know u probably shouldnt (a feeling harnessed to similarly great effect in anodyne 2, god i love how many connections and filled gaps in this ludography finally playing this filled out for me), the energy balancing still illustrates that on an individual inherent human level, we are Different then systems, we know how to live well and are just forced pretend that the same rules dont apply to those above us. the pendulum swings between the intensive gameplay sections and the colorful intimate narrative sections are especially stunning here. as with all their games, a million tiny little moments of narrative and aesthetic and design that will stay with me forever.

This review contains spoilers

One of my biggest gamer eye-opening moments of the past few years was realizing that movement can, and should be fun in any game. Analgesic Productions' previous title, Anodyne 2, was one of the titles which furthered that train of thought, and made me realize that if a game has a cool, weird movement system, it allows for a whole new world of possibilities I was unaware of previously. Sephonie continues this tradition, while also presenting a whole new talking point from a two-dev-team with some of the most unique perspectives in gamedev today.

The platforming can be described in several ways, it is sometimes floaty, sometimes bouncy, sometimes heavy. It all depends on the situation, and the pace isn't even. It's weird, like I said. The world reflects this; the level design is very abstract, the shapes of what you are running on are not always round or straight. They're uncohesive. Other platforms stick out, there are bulges which you may or may not run alongside with your wallrun ability. It's prone to experimenting, and there's a lot of joy to be found there. You are constantly occupied trying to wrap your head around a path, or thinking about where an item could be hidden. Some objects are not reachable with the rules the game itself set out, but once you discover it, the hunt is on.

Some platforming puzzles can be difficult, I wish there was a way to insert your own checkpoint to expedite the process somewhat, but the game does provide a plentitude of accessibility options, all ready to be toggled at your leisure. In fact, the game even provides a way to access debug mode in the epilogue, as it is seemingly incentivized in order to obtain all the collectibles. Not required, mind you, I don't think there is a single collectible unavailable through regular gameplay, but I did find it fun exploring each stage in debug mode. There are some pretty neat secrets here and there.

As I mentioned, the devs have a very unique perspective, similar to Anodyne the topics discussed are very modern and very rare, especially in games, making for a very exciting piece of media to experience. Here's what I wrote about it while playing and making notes:

Characters' individual stages intermingle with the others' stories. Sephonie, the island, is mixing them up, creating an idea of what the human world looks like from their memories. Cool as fuck.

Importance of barriers, as it is barriers that form differences. If we become too much of something else, is there even an individual? Isn't it the different perspectives that form a person, form love, desire? There is so much nations ask of us, and yet they usually cannot return back. But sometimes, there appears a feeling of a special kind of connection to things that were made in one's own country. To the people who speak the same language. It's very similar to stories of one's own creations, thoughts, they both excite in a similar way.

It is important to understand one another, that is obvious. Talk, come up with ways to work problems out. But the barriers are a part that perhaps most don't appreciate. Sephonie does. Sephonie values what brings people together and what brings them apart. Because beauty manifests through both, even if it is tough to comprehend. Sometimes they coexist, sometimes there's more of one than the other. Kind of like the creators of this game; the two have their own unique perspectives, barriers, yet they co-create this game. Difficult to describe. Play the game. See what you think.

"In small moments, we can strike a balance. In giving and taking, in seizing and yielding. Small deaths that fold into resurgent, gasping life."

We're all still trying to figure ourselves out, right? I guess so. You think that maybe it's done this time but you're going to keep peeling back layers, then putting on new ones, an endless cycle until your last breath leaves. If you try to stop and think it's over for a bit, you'll eventually find yourself detached, leaving personal orbit to find yourselves without connection. Was that what was important? No, hold on, connection, that IS important. Let's dive deeper...
-----
Sephonie would like you to look at the painting again and see what you missed the first time. At first it was clear, every single piece here is meant to spark an internal reflection. That's how we might communicate with nature, or at least try. Connect it with us, and once we do that and consider what it means in terms of the whole island, maybe we can understand what we might move on with. Or, perhaps, we're all just trying to find meaning in the little things. That's not really the full story though, eventually we go home. The research is done, and we put up our dresses, and retire back from the day's work. Did the island come back with you? Or maybe you just box it, compartmentalize it as another 'day', send it to the back of your head. Obviously not every moment changes us, but eventually these bits combine, flashes of life that start to become distorted skyscrapers that interfere with the work ahead, and in connecting with others around you, you will find yourself confronting that. Maybe you'll spend hours, days, months, trying to piece those together back into an organized box. They fit before, they can fit again. At some point you have to reach out a hand for help, tie yourself to others that, whether you know or not, are on that same journey as yours.

In other, much less complicated and psuedo philosophical words, Sephonie wants to impart that connection isn't just a process in how it deals with yourself, but also how you might light the path for others by sharing your own memories, anxieties, and fears onto the beautiful greenery that are the lives around you. Boundaries still exist and we don't want to tear them asunder, less we become like dust, but we join hands and feel together, holding a steadfast, tightened grip. Whether near or fear, distant lights countries away or together in the same room staring into each other's eyes minutes before breaking down, we hope for beauty in the road ahead by trusting in each other.

I like that Sephonie was viscerally moved and shifted by the rise and eve of the pandemic. I like that as it gazed across the cities and towns who all had to isolate, it found that the biggest threat for a body that EXERTED FORCE, REFLECTED LIGHT, IN AN INSTANT COULD BE GONE, was releasing itself to nothing. Intimacy is our net, and a beating pulse of our heart. A strand of beauty linking you and I. How lucky!!!

what i crave more then just ab anything in my time as an Art Appreciator is pieces that resonate so intrinsically and cohesively with some aspect of my heart that literally every single moment spent with it is full of emotion, even when not prodded by some narrative or structural crescendo. video games r often uniquely suited to having relatively long stretches of breath and quiet inbetween everything (with the understanding that the engagement of Mere Interaction is enough to keep attention), and thus of all mediums have evoked this feeling for me perhaps the most. very very few have come anywhere close to this...the sobriety of its ending (even post-epilogue, to a lesser degree) hit me like a truck because of how completely on the wavelength i was: of the game, the heroes, the island. it did all still Matter ofc, and im glad for that catharsis,,,but if im to take the pre-epilogue ending at its word, i must also make do with being separated from its beautiful protective shell that i became so intimately entwined with. simultaneously analgesic's most spellbinding game and the one that breaks the spell to the greatest effect...just ab the most convincingly brechtian indie game studio out there. this is not anodyne 3, but it is a meaningful continuation of those games, specifically the original game's structural anti-crescendo.

i feel like i could write a book on this thing...i havent even rly discussed How it got me so intwined , from its extremely deliberate attention-demanding platforming/level design (a refreshing and gutsy design choice considering Maximum Effortless Flexibility tends to be the way indie 3d platformers are going), the calm but similarly attention-demanding puzzle segments, the dizzyingly layered writing, the peak of their Dreamy Lo-fi aesthetic from anodyne 2, melos' best music to date....i dont have it all in me rn. and if im being completely honest with myself, anodyne 2 does hit me a lot more specifically and personally, and winds up a wee bit more of a powerful text as a result. but this is almost certainly Analgesic's magnum opus, as game design, as storytelling, as the Realization That The Line Between The Two Is Kinda Meaningless. a better way to live, a correct way to care.

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

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

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

     The shakai tradition in Japanese crime fiction

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

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

     The paranormal to create a chilling horror

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

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

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

     On social representation through cultural references

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Technical marvel, would kill for a talk or 3 on the engineering work that went into this. Puzzle design was consistently passable, with a few fun high points.