Yakuza Zero, the one that started it all. And by "it all", I mean the Yakuza series.

First and foremost, that's what this game is; the first in the order of release and the foremost in time. Everything people would come to love about Yakuza, Yakuza 2, Yakuza Kenzan, Yakuza 3, Yakuza 4, Kurohyo 1 and 2, Yakuza Dead Souls, Yakuza 5, Yakuza Ishin, etc. has its roots in this legendary and primary game. You simply got to give it up for when a great game launches a great series.

It establishes the beloved characters and memorable settings, with later games taking their cues from this introductory chapter. If you're gonna dive into the Yakuza series, take a hint from Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music and "start at the very beginning, a very good place to start".

Some series like to start with a game just called "Series Name" or if they're ambitious "Series Name 1"; maybe throw in a subtitle for good measure like "Series Name: Origins". But the Yakuza series--as it continues to be called to this day even after eight years of classic games--always likes to take the road less travelled, hence the decision to name its first entry Yakuza Zero. Can't get earlier than that.

Looking forward to playing the next game in the series, Doki Doki Panic.

Though I never spent a summer there, I was viscerally reminded of the town my mother grew up in while playing Boku No Natsuyasumi 2. Like Tonomi, it was an oceanside town with an elderly population, forested hills with trails and wildlife, bridges, beaches, an old man who was involved in World War 2, and a nearby highway that put the ferry out of business. Most eerily, my mother's parents had styled their house for their nine children as a sort of bed and breakfast with themed rooms for the "guests", with it built into a hill such that the ground floor towards the back opened up to elevated balconies facing the water. I imagine it's easy for anyone to get buried in their own memories playing a Boku No Natsuyasumi game, though for me it felt auspicious that the game that was translated to English first was the one most resembling a place from my own life.

When I was five years old, my mother's father passed away. I have a handful of fuzzy memories of him that all feel pale compared to the day of his funeral. My family and I stood outside a church on a hill, the sun hotter and brighter than I had ever known it to get at that age. All my older cousins were there, between four and twenty years older than me; my mother was the youngest of nine, and I was her youngest child. My relationship with that side of the family has always been somewhat distant by extension, shaped by childhood experiences of looking up at tall goofy people who mentioned they last saw me when I was only this big and had inside jokes I was on the outside of. Granddad looked waxy and unnatural in the coffin.

For the rest of my adolescence, my mother and her siblings would spend weekends with her mother in that town. My siblings and I were brought along, often requiring my brother and I to take claritin all weekend to counteract the old family cat's shedding. We'd play around the house and the backyard, pick up rocks and shells along the beach, drop sticks in the estuary and see which one passed under the bridge first. My oldest sister got lost in the woods once. Grandma's sight and hearing weakened gradually, and often only left the house for church. She'd join any card games though.

In "The Promise: The Making of Darkness on the Edge of Town" we see archival footage of the Holmdel, New Jersey house where Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band rehearsed in the mid 70s, as well as the Haddonfield home of Frank Stefanko where the album cover photoshoot was taken. I always subconsciously associated the floral wallpaper of the album cover with my mother's hometown and the surrounding area, and the documentary revealed they were similarly quiet and isolated houses. It can be simultaneously invigorating and unsettling to see a place in art that you so strongly connect to a place from your life, only to find the reality that inspired the art was truly similar and not imagined. Boku 2 struck a similar nerve.

Yet a place and its wallpaper only matters so much. Boku 2 is not a story about the grief experienced by a child, rather a child's perception of grief in others. It is not about disconnect from relatives but becoming closer to them. It is not about a place you visit for a weekend and see in different seasons, it is about a full month of experiences strung together artfully through a specific month of a specific year in history. Yasuko is about as old as my mother was in 1975, though I didn't know my mother then. In turn, Tonomi is what you make of it: the moments you find and the moments you miss, alike in their passing you by. Already passed and already past.

I played through the game one in-game day per one in-reality day. Looking back from the end of my November 2023/August 1975, I'm glad I did. Encouraged to play honestly and see how I got by on my own instincts, I found myself roleplaying a child who wakes up excited to do something and forgetting what they had wanted to do tomorrow yesterday. I got a lot of the collectibles but not all of any category. A few plot threads lay untied at the end (like what was up with the cat shack), while others seemingly could have gone a bit differently, and more felt fully explored but left deliberately ambiguous in their details. Though it was not particularly sentimental nor tragic, the ending eked out a few tears.

Like the song goes, "It's easy to get buried in the past / When you try to make a good thing last." And like the youtube comment goes, we need more games like this.