tokumei
27 reviews liked by tokumei
Cross Channel
2018
Hello, to anyone who reads this. I’m not sure if you can hear these words, brought to you from my heart to this keyboard, and from these keys to this screen - but, if you can read me out there, uh, thank you for taking the time to listen in. I’m カケラSKY, and I’d like to share this moment in time with you to talk about this game I played recently that had a pretty tremendous impact on me. If you can read this, if you can feel me… why don’t you stay a while? Let’s talk about CROSS†CHANNEL, and my experience with it, together… or, I guess, I’ll talk to you, and I hope it reaches you out there. I hope something I have to say about this experience touches you, even if I won’t ever really know.
CROSS†CHANNEL, developed and published by the now defunct Flying Shine, is the fourth major eroge work written by legendary scenario author Romeo Tanaka, known previously for his classic debut title Kana ~Imouto~, as well as the much-beloved Kazoku Keikaku. As of right now, I’ve only played the first few hours of Kana, which I really enjoyed - and I plan to complete that work in due time - but I am otherwise new to his work. Despite this, CROSS†CHANNEL is a game that has haunted me and had my curiosity on edge for quite some time. Having studied Japanese for a solid amount of time now, Tanaka’s work was always a bridge I’d meant to cross when the time felt right, if only due to the fact that I’d heard how challenging and creative his prose gets - and how deeply flawed the majority of the translations of his work into English have been.
CROSS†CHANNEL is unfortunately the most troubled of all of his projects in this transition, having received three English localizations, each of which are at best largely unrepresentative of Tanaka’s pen and littered with inaccuracies, and at worst outright nonsensical and abhorrent. I cannot in good faith recommend any of these experiences as a suitable means to engage with CROSS†CHANNEL. Even if there isn’t much they could do to sway the graphics, music and events from telling the elements of the story the translated words cannot, there is little hint of Tanaka’s masterful language and wordplay in even the most capable moments of these localizations. I don’t mean to speak poorly of the efforts of the fans who have attempted to localize this title in the past, Ixrec the least of which considering how early into his translating career this project came. There are elements of CROSS†CHANNEL that simply do not work outside of the Japanese text without the removal of subtext, depth, nuance, or even outright explicit second or third meanings; some instances ranging as important as titles of entire chapters. I will not claim to be a master of the Japanese language at the time which I have experienced CROSS†CHANNEL - far from it, there were large chunks of the game I spent nose-deep in cultural context notes, dictionaries, and Wikipedia pages… but I feel that this drive to learn, to seek out the heart of this experience, crossing borders in order to grasp this work, that effort was so integral to both the themes of communication and the effort to understand one another that the plot leans on so heavily, as well as making the experience I had playing CROSS†CHANNEL for my first time a truly challenging, powerful, and memorable one.
Simply put, Tanaka’s prose is arguably the highlight of the entire CROSS†CHANNEL experience, and I say that as someone still confidently in the “student” phase of their life with the language. He has such a way with words, sentence structure, kanji and kana play, subtext, cultural worldliness, pacing, and emotional tug-and-pull that for me, falling in love with his work felt akin to a true coming-of-age moment where I feel like surmountable progress has been made in my studies, and a deeper and more appreciative love of the Japanese language has been achieved through reading his work. Arguably the next most powerful aspect of CROSS†CHANNEL’s presentation is Funczion SOUNDS’ fantastic soundtrack, marked by cool, distant, and often minimal and ambient compositions. Some of my favorites include title screen theme “Crisscross”, the ethereal and mysterious “Starry Heavens” and “Fated”, and of course, the haunting, heart-crushing “Signal”, a piece simply unlike anything I’ve heard in the medium - the vocals-only piece feeling like something out of late-series Evangelion more than your standard eroge fare. Matsuryu’s art is rather beautiful, particularly notable for the almost watercolor-like pastel palette and grounded but memorable character designs. The warm lighting and great framing of the CGs left several scenes particularly fresh in my mind, with the sweet scene of Nanaka holding Taichi to her chest being probably my favorite. All of these elements set a well-lit stage with which CROSS†CHANNEL allows its plot and cast to shine, and they shine brilliantly.
The story of CROSS†CHANNEL focuses on the perspective of one Taichi Kurosu, a student at the Gunjo Academy - framed as an academic institution, but in actuality a means for the government to isolate students seen as unfit for assimilation to larger Japanese society. Taichi and the other members of the school’s broadcasting club have just returned from a camping trip that he devised in a failed attempt to reconcile ill-will between the group in the hopes of reigniting their lost friendships, only to find their city completely and utterly barren. The eight students basically immediately break off into their own cliques and isolated activities, but Taichi remains determined to both bring these people together regardless of either their individual traumas or feelings on the matter, as well as help club president Misato Miyasumi complete the broadcasting tower atop the school’s roof and send a message by airwaves to the outside world in hopes of discovering what has happened to humanity. However, the plot of the game takes a quick turn and opens up its true intentions for the story to follow - this week of return to Gunjo Academy is looping, and the members of the student body lose their memories and development gained that week, resetting back to the fragmented place they left off at the start of the game. This initially includes even Taichi himself, and as a result CROSS†CHANNEL manages to pull off a route-based eroge system that is in fact also linear in progression… or, if you choose to look at it this way, canonically it resets in the way visual novels would metaphysically upon selecting “New Game” after each completed route.
The purpose of Gunjo as a host for the mentally “unfit” is a theme that permeates all of CROSS†CHANNEL. The eight students within its walls are deeply complicated, emotionally and neurologically distressed people, and from understanding this immediately arises one of the core themes of the narrative - although some members of the cast may be moved by Taichi, or come to some appreciation of him, the goal of reuniting this group of people is a task far out of his control, and frankly it’s none of his business to attempt to enforce that change to begin with. Several members of the cast have legitimate reasons to not engage with one another, particularly with Taichi himself - and ultimately it is their call, their choice to make, as to whether or not that bridge should be crossed. And yet, he persists, and this is when another element of CROSS†CHANNEL that I found so unique is also brought to light: Taichi Kurosu is arguably the most broken, most morally condemnable person in the academy, and it is through his eyes we parse this barren, empty world. Society at large has written off the Gunjo student body as monsters, and it’s a word they’re not afraid to lob at Taichi from time to time. And why shouldn’t they? Even if some find his PC-9800-era eroge protagonist humor and absurdities oddly charming, there’s still much to be said about his arrogance, possessiveness, dictatorial sense of command, and a deep streak of manic violence seemingly brought on by the sight of blood. CROSS†CHANNEL does much to show Taichi at his absolute worst, sinking to the depths of truly reprehensible actions… but it also shows him at some of his best.
For all of the awful things Taichi says and does, he’s still very much a human - no matter what anyone says about him, they cannot strip that from him. No one can. Although he is arguably the furthest removed from what is deemed “acceptable humanity” by the government, he still makes great and genuine effort to connect with the people he considers close to him. He tries to shield people he cares about from truths that he knows might hurt them in the name of protection. He suppresses much of his own trauma from the cast, and even the player themselves, for the sake of enforcing a lighthearted tone where the infinitely-looping week at Gunjo can be spent lackadaisically. And most importantly, despite his insistence to himself and through the narration of his point of view that he wishes dearly for a world where he can be entirely alone, removed from everything and everyone he feels strips an individual of their “real humanity”... he’s shown to genuinely love people, and spending time with them. Every individual member of the cast is shown to struggle with expressing their feelings, their desire to be understood, given sanctity, or saved from the weight of their own baggage - arguably, none more so than Taichi himself. There is a feeling through much of CROSS†CHANNEL that in spite of monologue upon monologue, page upon page of vindictive rambling from Taichi, he’s still suppressing how his heart really feels, and how badly he wishes to be something he already is - a living, breathing member of the human race.
“Connection” is the core of CROSS†CHANNEL, and it is explored in every possible avenue to tremendous effect. The obvious urban horror and denpa influences on CROSS†CHANNEL’s narrative invert the traditional stand-bys of passed rumors, broadcasted paranoia, and overwhelming waves of noise, thought and sound for the almost cosmic terror of radio silence. I’d liken the sinking dread of each week of CROSS†CHANNEL to an experience like Ever17, where the true horror comes from the loneliness and emptiness felt in the vacant corridors of LeMU, trapped and abandoned with no S.O.S. response in sight. Where in Ever17 the claustrophobia of the underwater theme park comes into play, the opposite may be said of CROSS†CHANNEL. There could not be enough space for Taichi et al to run around in, and in typical teenage fantasy fashion, all the hedonistic and self-serving tendencies come out to play. Piles and piles of stolen junk food, driving around in the principal’s sports car, and lots and lots of gross, messy sex on school grounds. In fact, with such a dangerous and carnally-driven presence as Taichi around, there’s a feeling of distrust or fear of being too close to our point of view that comes off of many characters. Sex is indeed another facet of CROSS†CHANNEL’s themes of connection, and I’ll comfortably call the 18+ scenes among the best I’ve read in the medium. Tanaka will often treat sexual intercourse in a mechanical, analytical way - one of the earlier consensual moments treating two peoples’ joined organs as a singular nervous system, a true joining of mind and soul into a single mechanism - perfect connection. Sex is weaponized as power, as a means to try and coerce mutual harmony and understanding, and as a hazy grasp at one’s own identity and a reclamation of things lost in the scramble to figure out what that looks like. Love is often present in these scenes but in a way that feels hopeless, and oftentimes like an intentional stroke of “obligation” between two characters to create a grounds for that theme of communication. Whether or not some members of this cast are people capable of that kind of love… that’s for you to analyze and decide. But the fact that they can express that desire, the fact that they have the potential to feel, to want, to crave, and to yearn - those are all undeniable proofs of their humanity.
To get back to the core themes of “connection” and “communication”, the structure of CROSS†CHANNEL essentially demands that they be addressed in order to maintain kinetic progression. You as the player do have the potential to waste weeks away stuck in the same section of the loop, and in order to progress further requires the actual completion of each route. All of these routes require Taichi digging into the pasts and psyches of the route’s lead heroine - forging a connection with them that if not permanent is in that moment tangible. Very subtle shifts occur with each step through the loops, with ever-so-slight bumps and shifts leading further and further down the road to the true ending - and with it, the dilapidation of the show Taichi put on at the very start. As the plot progresses, the world deteriorates, metaphorically speaking .The drama and open terror of the cast’s circumstances becomes ever more real and pressing, tensions rise higher and higher as more and more awful truths are revealed and pasts are dug into, and most of all - we as an audience as exposed to more and more context and background revolving around the group, most especially Taichi. Simple exposure to a handful of scenes from Taichi’s formative years immediately shifts entire dynamics, plot points, and angles with which to view the story askew, and therein lies one of the strongest components of CROSS†CHANNEL’s meta-narrative: Taichi is having done to him through our eyes what he is trying to do to the cast. We are scraping into his memories, his thoughts, his mind, in the hopes of understanding what he has been so reluctant to accept and understand about himself - we are discovering the human life of Taichi Kurosu, a young man who despite himself, despite his so-called ideals, wishes deeply to be understood. As the full picture begins to become clear, and as CROSS†CHANNEL begins its final act, this aspect of the story truly begins to take form into something both absolutely unique from storytelling and thematic perspective across this entire medium, and also deeply moving, personal, and profound.
For the sake of not robbing you of the experience of witnessing how the events of Gunjo Academy’s infinite week play out, I won’t dip into spoiler territory here - but please, note that I firmly believe CROSS†CHANNEL to have one of the most impactful, powerful endings to any story I’ve ever read. It is at this moment, listener, if you’re still with me, that I believe this crossing of our signals is beginning to fade… so I’ll try to leave you with something to think about before I end my broadcast.
In being an artist, in being someone who tries to express themselves, and in being someone who has had their fair share of bouts with mental health and traumatic experiences, I can attest to many of the feelings expressed in the text of CROSS†CHANNEL. I’ve had plenty of times where I’ve struggled with the feeling that the things I do to share, express, and explore myself in the world ultimately land in the infinite void of radio static. I’ve felt silly for trying to pursue recreational experiences that ultimately don’t add anything to a resume, or a degree, or an advancement of my socioeconomic position. I’ve felt like I’ve had no future before. I’ve even felt like I don’t deserve to be alongside other members of the human race, like I was unfit for love and care the same way I desperately tried to show the people I cared about that they were loved and cared for. I have always, always felt stupid when I get too wordy or passionately expressive about the things I care about, things that moved me or that I was affected by. But in stark contrast to that, I’ve been allotted amazing luck in finding amazing friends, family and loved ones who don’t compromise in showing me the humanity and the goodness that I should’ve been able to see in the mirror all along. There’s a CG that shows up a few times in the game where Taichi and Yoko are displayed in a mirror in the school bathroom, Taichi’s eyes completely void of emotion or feeling… and I can’t say that’s a feeling I haven’t felt before, but it’s also one I don’t feel anymore. Everyone has the right to try and get out there and express themselves. Everyone has the right to try and be understood. Everyone has the right to put art, music, writing, performances, and yes, erotic visual novel computer games out there with the intent of shouting into some cloudy, vast world, “is there anyone alive out there?” Everyone has the right to cross channels with someone else, no matter how brief that window, and know that we as people have the ability to touch each others’ hearts. We may not ever truly, fully understand another person, we may not even ever truly understand ourselves, but we have an obligation as a singular human race to explore, to think, to love, to know, and to touch upon those crosses in signals, those flickers of mutuality, and respond, “we are alive”. CROSS†CHANNEL’s most recent release comes with the subtitle “for all people”, and I cannot think of a better way to possibly summarize its intent.
This is a static moment in time, that will continue to remain well after I've typed it in the hopes of connecting with you. I won't know if you read this unless we connect somehow, and you have no obligation to reach out and make that happen. As long as you receive this broadcast, and you've read all that I've had to express and emote to you... I am truly grateful. This is where my line continues in another direction as yours, forming an "X" of trajectories where we met in a brief pocket of time.
So, I ask in the hopes that you hear this…
Is there anyone alive out there?
Do you feel the way I do?
Until we cross channels again.
I’ll see you next week.
CROSS†CHANNEL, developed and published by the now defunct Flying Shine, is the fourth major eroge work written by legendary scenario author Romeo Tanaka, known previously for his classic debut title Kana ~Imouto~, as well as the much-beloved Kazoku Keikaku. As of right now, I’ve only played the first few hours of Kana, which I really enjoyed - and I plan to complete that work in due time - but I am otherwise new to his work. Despite this, CROSS†CHANNEL is a game that has haunted me and had my curiosity on edge for quite some time. Having studied Japanese for a solid amount of time now, Tanaka’s work was always a bridge I’d meant to cross when the time felt right, if only due to the fact that I’d heard how challenging and creative his prose gets - and how deeply flawed the majority of the translations of his work into English have been.
CROSS†CHANNEL is unfortunately the most troubled of all of his projects in this transition, having received three English localizations, each of which are at best largely unrepresentative of Tanaka’s pen and littered with inaccuracies, and at worst outright nonsensical and abhorrent. I cannot in good faith recommend any of these experiences as a suitable means to engage with CROSS†CHANNEL. Even if there isn’t much they could do to sway the graphics, music and events from telling the elements of the story the translated words cannot, there is little hint of Tanaka’s masterful language and wordplay in even the most capable moments of these localizations. I don’t mean to speak poorly of the efforts of the fans who have attempted to localize this title in the past, Ixrec the least of which considering how early into his translating career this project came. There are elements of CROSS†CHANNEL that simply do not work outside of the Japanese text without the removal of subtext, depth, nuance, or even outright explicit second or third meanings; some instances ranging as important as titles of entire chapters. I will not claim to be a master of the Japanese language at the time which I have experienced CROSS†CHANNEL - far from it, there were large chunks of the game I spent nose-deep in cultural context notes, dictionaries, and Wikipedia pages… but I feel that this drive to learn, to seek out the heart of this experience, crossing borders in order to grasp this work, that effort was so integral to both the themes of communication and the effort to understand one another that the plot leans on so heavily, as well as making the experience I had playing CROSS†CHANNEL for my first time a truly challenging, powerful, and memorable one.
Simply put, Tanaka’s prose is arguably the highlight of the entire CROSS†CHANNEL experience, and I say that as someone still confidently in the “student” phase of their life with the language. He has such a way with words, sentence structure, kanji and kana play, subtext, cultural worldliness, pacing, and emotional tug-and-pull that for me, falling in love with his work felt akin to a true coming-of-age moment where I feel like surmountable progress has been made in my studies, and a deeper and more appreciative love of the Japanese language has been achieved through reading his work. Arguably the next most powerful aspect of CROSS†CHANNEL’s presentation is Funczion SOUNDS’ fantastic soundtrack, marked by cool, distant, and often minimal and ambient compositions. Some of my favorites include title screen theme “Crisscross”, the ethereal and mysterious “Starry Heavens” and “Fated”, and of course, the haunting, heart-crushing “Signal”, a piece simply unlike anything I’ve heard in the medium - the vocals-only piece feeling like something out of late-series Evangelion more than your standard eroge fare. Matsuryu’s art is rather beautiful, particularly notable for the almost watercolor-like pastel palette and grounded but memorable character designs. The warm lighting and great framing of the CGs left several scenes particularly fresh in my mind, with the sweet scene of Nanaka holding Taichi to her chest being probably my favorite. All of these elements set a well-lit stage with which CROSS†CHANNEL allows its plot and cast to shine, and they shine brilliantly.
The story of CROSS†CHANNEL focuses on the perspective of one Taichi Kurosu, a student at the Gunjo Academy - framed as an academic institution, but in actuality a means for the government to isolate students seen as unfit for assimilation to larger Japanese society. Taichi and the other members of the school’s broadcasting club have just returned from a camping trip that he devised in a failed attempt to reconcile ill-will between the group in the hopes of reigniting their lost friendships, only to find their city completely and utterly barren. The eight students basically immediately break off into their own cliques and isolated activities, but Taichi remains determined to both bring these people together regardless of either their individual traumas or feelings on the matter, as well as help club president Misato Miyasumi complete the broadcasting tower atop the school’s roof and send a message by airwaves to the outside world in hopes of discovering what has happened to humanity. However, the plot of the game takes a quick turn and opens up its true intentions for the story to follow - this week of return to Gunjo Academy is looping, and the members of the student body lose their memories and development gained that week, resetting back to the fragmented place they left off at the start of the game. This initially includes even Taichi himself, and as a result CROSS†CHANNEL manages to pull off a route-based eroge system that is in fact also linear in progression… or, if you choose to look at it this way, canonically it resets in the way visual novels would metaphysically upon selecting “New Game” after each completed route.
The purpose of Gunjo as a host for the mentally “unfit” is a theme that permeates all of CROSS†CHANNEL. The eight students within its walls are deeply complicated, emotionally and neurologically distressed people, and from understanding this immediately arises one of the core themes of the narrative - although some members of the cast may be moved by Taichi, or come to some appreciation of him, the goal of reuniting this group of people is a task far out of his control, and frankly it’s none of his business to attempt to enforce that change to begin with. Several members of the cast have legitimate reasons to not engage with one another, particularly with Taichi himself - and ultimately it is their call, their choice to make, as to whether or not that bridge should be crossed. And yet, he persists, and this is when another element of CROSS†CHANNEL that I found so unique is also brought to light: Taichi Kurosu is arguably the most broken, most morally condemnable person in the academy, and it is through his eyes we parse this barren, empty world. Society at large has written off the Gunjo student body as monsters, and it’s a word they’re not afraid to lob at Taichi from time to time. And why shouldn’t they? Even if some find his PC-9800-era eroge protagonist humor and absurdities oddly charming, there’s still much to be said about his arrogance, possessiveness, dictatorial sense of command, and a deep streak of manic violence seemingly brought on by the sight of blood. CROSS†CHANNEL does much to show Taichi at his absolute worst, sinking to the depths of truly reprehensible actions… but it also shows him at some of his best.
For all of the awful things Taichi says and does, he’s still very much a human - no matter what anyone says about him, they cannot strip that from him. No one can. Although he is arguably the furthest removed from what is deemed “acceptable humanity” by the government, he still makes great and genuine effort to connect with the people he considers close to him. He tries to shield people he cares about from truths that he knows might hurt them in the name of protection. He suppresses much of his own trauma from the cast, and even the player themselves, for the sake of enforcing a lighthearted tone where the infinitely-looping week at Gunjo can be spent lackadaisically. And most importantly, despite his insistence to himself and through the narration of his point of view that he wishes dearly for a world where he can be entirely alone, removed from everything and everyone he feels strips an individual of their “real humanity”... he’s shown to genuinely love people, and spending time with them. Every individual member of the cast is shown to struggle with expressing their feelings, their desire to be understood, given sanctity, or saved from the weight of their own baggage - arguably, none more so than Taichi himself. There is a feeling through much of CROSS†CHANNEL that in spite of monologue upon monologue, page upon page of vindictive rambling from Taichi, he’s still suppressing how his heart really feels, and how badly he wishes to be something he already is - a living, breathing member of the human race.
“Connection” is the core of CROSS†CHANNEL, and it is explored in every possible avenue to tremendous effect. The obvious urban horror and denpa influences on CROSS†CHANNEL’s narrative invert the traditional stand-bys of passed rumors, broadcasted paranoia, and overwhelming waves of noise, thought and sound for the almost cosmic terror of radio silence. I’d liken the sinking dread of each week of CROSS†CHANNEL to an experience like Ever17, where the true horror comes from the loneliness and emptiness felt in the vacant corridors of LeMU, trapped and abandoned with no S.O.S. response in sight. Where in Ever17 the claustrophobia of the underwater theme park comes into play, the opposite may be said of CROSS†CHANNEL. There could not be enough space for Taichi et al to run around in, and in typical teenage fantasy fashion, all the hedonistic and self-serving tendencies come out to play. Piles and piles of stolen junk food, driving around in the principal’s sports car, and lots and lots of gross, messy sex on school grounds. In fact, with such a dangerous and carnally-driven presence as Taichi around, there’s a feeling of distrust or fear of being too close to our point of view that comes off of many characters. Sex is indeed another facet of CROSS†CHANNEL’s themes of connection, and I’ll comfortably call the 18+ scenes among the best I’ve read in the medium. Tanaka will often treat sexual intercourse in a mechanical, analytical way - one of the earlier consensual moments treating two peoples’ joined organs as a singular nervous system, a true joining of mind and soul into a single mechanism - perfect connection. Sex is weaponized as power, as a means to try and coerce mutual harmony and understanding, and as a hazy grasp at one’s own identity and a reclamation of things lost in the scramble to figure out what that looks like. Love is often present in these scenes but in a way that feels hopeless, and oftentimes like an intentional stroke of “obligation” between two characters to create a grounds for that theme of communication. Whether or not some members of this cast are people capable of that kind of love… that’s for you to analyze and decide. But the fact that they can express that desire, the fact that they have the potential to feel, to want, to crave, and to yearn - those are all undeniable proofs of their humanity.
To get back to the core themes of “connection” and “communication”, the structure of CROSS†CHANNEL essentially demands that they be addressed in order to maintain kinetic progression. You as the player do have the potential to waste weeks away stuck in the same section of the loop, and in order to progress further requires the actual completion of each route. All of these routes require Taichi digging into the pasts and psyches of the route’s lead heroine - forging a connection with them that if not permanent is in that moment tangible. Very subtle shifts occur with each step through the loops, with ever-so-slight bumps and shifts leading further and further down the road to the true ending - and with it, the dilapidation of the show Taichi put on at the very start. As the plot progresses, the world deteriorates, metaphorically speaking .The drama and open terror of the cast’s circumstances becomes ever more real and pressing, tensions rise higher and higher as more and more awful truths are revealed and pasts are dug into, and most of all - we as an audience as exposed to more and more context and background revolving around the group, most especially Taichi. Simple exposure to a handful of scenes from Taichi’s formative years immediately shifts entire dynamics, plot points, and angles with which to view the story askew, and therein lies one of the strongest components of CROSS†CHANNEL’s meta-narrative: Taichi is having done to him through our eyes what he is trying to do to the cast. We are scraping into his memories, his thoughts, his mind, in the hopes of understanding what he has been so reluctant to accept and understand about himself - we are discovering the human life of Taichi Kurosu, a young man who despite himself, despite his so-called ideals, wishes deeply to be understood. As the full picture begins to become clear, and as CROSS†CHANNEL begins its final act, this aspect of the story truly begins to take form into something both absolutely unique from storytelling and thematic perspective across this entire medium, and also deeply moving, personal, and profound.
For the sake of not robbing you of the experience of witnessing how the events of Gunjo Academy’s infinite week play out, I won’t dip into spoiler territory here - but please, note that I firmly believe CROSS†CHANNEL to have one of the most impactful, powerful endings to any story I’ve ever read. It is at this moment, listener, if you’re still with me, that I believe this crossing of our signals is beginning to fade… so I’ll try to leave you with something to think about before I end my broadcast.
In being an artist, in being someone who tries to express themselves, and in being someone who has had their fair share of bouts with mental health and traumatic experiences, I can attest to many of the feelings expressed in the text of CROSS†CHANNEL. I’ve had plenty of times where I’ve struggled with the feeling that the things I do to share, express, and explore myself in the world ultimately land in the infinite void of radio static. I’ve felt silly for trying to pursue recreational experiences that ultimately don’t add anything to a resume, or a degree, or an advancement of my socioeconomic position. I’ve felt like I’ve had no future before. I’ve even felt like I don’t deserve to be alongside other members of the human race, like I was unfit for love and care the same way I desperately tried to show the people I cared about that they were loved and cared for. I have always, always felt stupid when I get too wordy or passionately expressive about the things I care about, things that moved me or that I was affected by. But in stark contrast to that, I’ve been allotted amazing luck in finding amazing friends, family and loved ones who don’t compromise in showing me the humanity and the goodness that I should’ve been able to see in the mirror all along. There’s a CG that shows up a few times in the game where Taichi and Yoko are displayed in a mirror in the school bathroom, Taichi’s eyes completely void of emotion or feeling… and I can’t say that’s a feeling I haven’t felt before, but it’s also one I don’t feel anymore. Everyone has the right to try and get out there and express themselves. Everyone has the right to try and be understood. Everyone has the right to put art, music, writing, performances, and yes, erotic visual novel computer games out there with the intent of shouting into some cloudy, vast world, “is there anyone alive out there?” Everyone has the right to cross channels with someone else, no matter how brief that window, and know that we as people have the ability to touch each others’ hearts. We may not ever truly, fully understand another person, we may not even ever truly understand ourselves, but we have an obligation as a singular human race to explore, to think, to love, to know, and to touch upon those crosses in signals, those flickers of mutuality, and respond, “we are alive”. CROSS†CHANNEL’s most recent release comes with the subtitle “for all people”, and I cannot think of a better way to possibly summarize its intent.
This is a static moment in time, that will continue to remain well after I've typed it in the hopes of connecting with you. I won't know if you read this unless we connect somehow, and you have no obligation to reach out and make that happen. As long as you receive this broadcast, and you've read all that I've had to express and emote to you... I am truly grateful. This is where my line continues in another direction as yours, forming an "X" of trajectories where we met in a brief pocket of time.
So, I ask in the hopes that you hear this…
Is there anyone alive out there?
Do you feel the way I do?
Until we cross channels again.
I’ll see you next week.
A few months ago, I joined a book club for visual novels. As a new fan of the medium through titles like Fata Morgana, Higurashi, and Umineko, I was incredibly excited for what was to come. Our first journey through the medium had me revisiting The House in Fata Morgana, which used to occupy my top 10. I still adore the game, but some of the elements that enchanted me on my first play-through of it were less magical on my second play-through, having read through masterpieces like Higurashi and Umineko. After that experience, I was more than ready to explore new Visual Novels, and the second title we played, Wonderful Everyday, did not disappoint at all.
If you were to ask me a few months ago what my top three favorite games were, I would have quickly stated that these included Umineko When They Cry as my most favorite, followed by Metal Gear Solid 2 and Final Fantasy VII. If you know how I feel about these games, you already know how difficult it would have been for any game to unseat any of these titles from their rankings. Wonderful Everyday managed to do the impossible however, with it currently sitting as one of my most favorite games of all time, which is something I do not say lightly.
Wonderful Everyday is a complicated experience to properly describe. It’s made me feel deeply uncomfortable and disturbed, while at the same time in awe of how genuine and beautiful the game can be. It’s hilarious and somber, beautiful and grotesque, sensible and absurd, all at the same time.
It's also a game that I think I needed to play through at this specific point of my life.
Depression and self-hatred have been consistent sources of various struggles for me for years, almost culminating at two separate points where I had attempted to end my own life. Learning to love and live with myself is a goal I’ve still yet to properly achieve.
Ever since I was 15, I’ve struggled to answer why I even bother to wake up each morning. Despite my efforts, it’s been difficult to truly justify living each day. That’s not something that goes away easy obviously, but my time with Wonderful Everyday has caused me to take a few steps back and reflect. Maybe one doesn’t need any specific ‘reason’ to keep going. Maybe it’s enough to just be able to laugh with friends occasionally. Maybe happiness can still be found even in the most hopeless of situations. Maybe simply ‘living happily’ is enough.
I think about Wonderful Everyday’s central message often. That idea of choosing to ‘live happily’, in spite of one’s own circumstances, has never felt more relevant to me than they have in the past few years. It’s certainly not an easy goal to accomplish, but it’s art like Wonderful Everyday that helps remind me that the pursuit is worth it no matter how far I’m away from it.
Wonderful Everyday is an experience like no other. Nothing has made me cry, laugh, and cringe like this game has. Even a month after finishing it, I can’t stop thinking about how this game has made me feel.
That being said, Wonderful Everyday is a really hard game to recommend, especially to those who are newcomers to the visual novel genre. I won’t go too deeply into spoiler territory here, but not only is it an experience that is viscerally uncomfortable and graphic at times, it’s a work that can tend to be intentionally cryptic at points. I don’t really believe that it’s something that a person who had never played through any visual novels before can properly appreciate. In one sense, it’s almost like throwing an infant into the deep end of a swimming pool. Even for myself, as someone who had a bit of experience with certain visual novels going in, Wonderful Everyday could be an incredibly uncomfortable experience at times.
I’d still say the experience was worth it and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I would write some contrived bullshit about how good art should “disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed” but I think at this point you get the idea. Even with how wildly unnerving the experience could be at times, Wonderful Everyday is still one of the best games I’ve had the pleasure of playing through.
Live happily.
If you were to ask me a few months ago what my top three favorite games were, I would have quickly stated that these included Umineko When They Cry as my most favorite, followed by Metal Gear Solid 2 and Final Fantasy VII. If you know how I feel about these games, you already know how difficult it would have been for any game to unseat any of these titles from their rankings. Wonderful Everyday managed to do the impossible however, with it currently sitting as one of my most favorite games of all time, which is something I do not say lightly.
Wonderful Everyday is a complicated experience to properly describe. It’s made me feel deeply uncomfortable and disturbed, while at the same time in awe of how genuine and beautiful the game can be. It’s hilarious and somber, beautiful and grotesque, sensible and absurd, all at the same time.
It's also a game that I think I needed to play through at this specific point of my life.
Depression and self-hatred have been consistent sources of various struggles for me for years, almost culminating at two separate points where I had attempted to end my own life. Learning to love and live with myself is a goal I’ve still yet to properly achieve.
Ever since I was 15, I’ve struggled to answer why I even bother to wake up each morning. Despite my efforts, it’s been difficult to truly justify living each day. That’s not something that goes away easy obviously, but my time with Wonderful Everyday has caused me to take a few steps back and reflect. Maybe one doesn’t need any specific ‘reason’ to keep going. Maybe it’s enough to just be able to laugh with friends occasionally. Maybe happiness can still be found even in the most hopeless of situations. Maybe simply ‘living happily’ is enough.
I think about Wonderful Everyday’s central message often. That idea of choosing to ‘live happily’, in spite of one’s own circumstances, has never felt more relevant to me than they have in the past few years. It’s certainly not an easy goal to accomplish, but it’s art like Wonderful Everyday that helps remind me that the pursuit is worth it no matter how far I’m away from it.
Wonderful Everyday is an experience like no other. Nothing has made me cry, laugh, and cringe like this game has. Even a month after finishing it, I can’t stop thinking about how this game has made me feel.
That being said, Wonderful Everyday is a really hard game to recommend, especially to those who are newcomers to the visual novel genre. I won’t go too deeply into spoiler territory here, but not only is it an experience that is viscerally uncomfortable and graphic at times, it’s a work that can tend to be intentionally cryptic at points. I don’t really believe that it’s something that a person who had never played through any visual novels before can properly appreciate. In one sense, it’s almost like throwing an infant into the deep end of a swimming pool. Even for myself, as someone who had a bit of experience with certain visual novels going in, Wonderful Everyday could be an incredibly uncomfortable experience at times.
I’d still say the experience was worth it and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I would write some contrived bullshit about how good art should “disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed” but I think at this point you get the idea. Even with how wildly unnerving the experience could be at times, Wonderful Everyday is still one of the best games I’ve had the pleasure of playing through.
Live happily.
Silent Hill
1999
Silent Hill is perhaps one of the greatest horror games out there. It’s not just one of the greatest PS1 titles, I’m comfortable calling it one of the best games out there.
The horror of Silent Hill is extremely effective in a way no other game is. Its aged flaws, while obviously dated, don’t at all detract from the experience. I’d even go as far as to say that those qualities ended up helping Silent Hill be the quality horror title it is.
Silent Hill is not a game that relies primarily on cheap jump scares or any other in your face moments. Rather than a loud and bombastic horror romp, Silent Hill is a quiet and mournful game. It’s a game that feels like wading through a nightmare, further supported with the cryptic nature of the puzzles and the sense of isolation present throughout every facet of the map. The fog and low draw distance-both features present entirely due to the low power of the PS1’s hardware-all serve to make the experience feel that more surreal and dreamlike, as well as the graphics and voice acting. This is not a game that could be remade and properly given justice: Silent Hill’s horror comes FROM its dated visuals and gameplay. Something that tried to “fix” Silent Hill by giving it remastered graphics and modern gameplay would be a title that would have missed out on what made the horror of Silent Hill so effective.
Silent Hill is a fantastic experience that is very much so worth checking out, even if you’re someone who typically doesn’t play older games. Through what might seem like a game that hasn’t aged the best, I think you’ll come to find that it’s a game drenched in atmosphere, and that it’s a title that remains superior even among horror releases to this day. It’s a fairly short game too, clocking in at about seven hours. I encourage you to check this title out.
And P.S. Watch Jacob’s Ladder.
The horror of Silent Hill is extremely effective in a way no other game is. Its aged flaws, while obviously dated, don’t at all detract from the experience. I’d even go as far as to say that those qualities ended up helping Silent Hill be the quality horror title it is.
Silent Hill is not a game that relies primarily on cheap jump scares or any other in your face moments. Rather than a loud and bombastic horror romp, Silent Hill is a quiet and mournful game. It’s a game that feels like wading through a nightmare, further supported with the cryptic nature of the puzzles and the sense of isolation present throughout every facet of the map. The fog and low draw distance-both features present entirely due to the low power of the PS1’s hardware-all serve to make the experience feel that more surreal and dreamlike, as well as the graphics and voice acting. This is not a game that could be remade and properly given justice: Silent Hill’s horror comes FROM its dated visuals and gameplay. Something that tried to “fix” Silent Hill by giving it remastered graphics and modern gameplay would be a title that would have missed out on what made the horror of Silent Hill so effective.
Silent Hill is a fantastic experience that is very much so worth checking out, even if you’re someone who typically doesn’t play older games. Through what might seem like a game that hasn’t aged the best, I think you’ll come to find that it’s a game drenched in atmosphere, and that it’s a title that remains superior even among horror releases to this day. It’s a fairly short game too, clocking in at about seven hours. I encourage you to check this title out.
And P.S. Watch Jacob’s Ladder.
I understand completely why Phantasy Star III has its reputation as the black sheep of the Phantasy Star series. To reduce it down to that, however, would do a disservice to a truly wonderful game.
The main draw of the game, as its subtitle Generations of Doom would imply, is that it is the story of not only one hero, but also of his children and his children's children. At the end of Rhys' story, he has the choice to marry one of two women; the game then follows on with his son (Ayn or Nial). At the conclusion of their own quest, the same choice can be made, leading to four possible choices for the third generation.
It's a very ambitious concept — each successive generation doubles the number of stories that can be told. As a result, each generation has a fairly short story. It's no wonder that the third generation gets the short end of the stick, given that it had to be four distinct stories leading to similar conclusions. The end result is that, while the second generation drastically differs between the two possible protagonists, the third generation basically consists of "get the crew together, get the legendary weapons, beat the bad guy". The first time through the third generation is an honestly great story (unless you pick Aron). The next three times? Less so. They only really differ in terms of the introductory cutscene and the final cutscene. The most frustrating thing is that the intro and ending cutscenes for the third generation are all wonderfully evocative and deserve to be fully explored. Alas, due to technical and time limitations it was not to be.
That said, what is there is great. Things are seeded in the first generation that won't come to fruition until the third. Some worlds that go unvisited in one story are central to others. Depending on who Rhys marries, the third-generation character Kara will be either a sheltered princess or a hardened warrior. As ageless androids, Wren and Mieu are constants, participating in all three generations. The villain of Nial's story only appears once in the stories of Ayn's children, and the villain of Ayn's story only appears once in the stories of Nial's children: it is clear in both cases that their stories played out in some capacity even if we didn't see them onscreen. There are many games that feel like setting sourcebooks more than they do narratives, and I feel like Phantasy Star III is somewhere in the middle. The narrative had to step back to make way for the generational concept, and the generational concept served to more deeply explore the setting.
Phantasy Star III, like its predecessor, was developed in six months with very few internal resources devoted to it. Notably, the team that worked on it was not the team that worked on the other titles, including the later Phantasy Star IV: End of the Millenium. This is immediately apparent from the visual style, which seems to be allergic to outlines. The style is jarring coming from Phantasy Star II, but you quickly get used to it. I find it gels nicely with the game's tone: it lends it a more painterly quality, to go with the more melancholy music.
Gone are the chipper ditties of Phantasy Star II. Phantasy Star III's soundtrack is much more down to earth, fitting for a game about a multi-generational struggle to finally end a centuries-long war. It's contemplative. Of particular note is the overworld theme, which is dynamic in a way I have never seen anywhere else. At the beginning of the game, when it's just Rhys venturing on his lonesome, there is only the melody and bassline playing. When a party member is recruited, a harmony is added; the next brings an ostinato; the fourth a countermelody; the fifth a snare drum with a marching beat. As more people join your cause, the music slowly transforms from lonely and melancholic to hopeful and almost triumphant. Listening to all of the variations back-to-back is a magical experience I wish I could experience for the first time again. I was surprised when playing to see that the overworld even has a variant for when the main character is dead! Supposedly, the game was to have each individual character affect the overworld theme in different ways. I can see how that was infeasible, but I would love to see what that could have been.
The overworld theme is not the only standout in the soundtrack, although it is by far my favorite piece. The prelude, Laya's World, Lashute, and Dark Force are all outstanding tracks. Similar to the overworld theme, the battle theme will change depending on how you're faring in the fight: there are three songs that can play depending on whether you're winning, losing, or on even ground. The song for when you're winning is particularly upbeat: a friend noted that it's kind of similar to the Chao Race theme from Sonic Adventure 2's Chao Garden. One of my few real issues with the game is how going into a battle will reset the map music to the beginning — you will get very used to hearing the first several bars of many songs.
Phantasy Star III's gameplay feels like an iteration on that of its predecessor, Phantasy Star II. Combat now has the option to automate a single turn instead of just running completely on autopilot. You can finally target individual enemies. You now have a maximum of five party members instead of four. The magic system is one I haven't seen in other games: instead of gaining new spells as you level up, party members know all of their spells from the get-go. Spells are categorized into groups of four spells, and you can choose to prioritize certain spells over others. It's an intriguing system that is only hampered by the fact that the game is in no way difficult. There is little reason to use any spell that isn't Gires. The only time when the game is really challenging is at the very beginning, when you have no party members and no health, and at the very end of the game, when the game remembers that it can have enemies hit hard. Using a spell in and of itself needs to compete with the base desire to just spam the auto-battle button, which defaults to melee attacks.
Walking into Phantasy Star III, I expected a mess of a game, an idea without execution. What I got is a game I am surprised to say that I love. It's not a perfect game by any means, but it's a perfectly serviceable sequel. It follows up on the consequences of Phantasy Star II in a more indirect way than series fans might like, but fortunately Phantasy Star IV exists to fill that gap.
The main draw of the game, as its subtitle Generations of Doom would imply, is that it is the story of not only one hero, but also of his children and his children's children. At the end of Rhys' story, he has the choice to marry one of two women; the game then follows on with his son (Ayn or Nial). At the conclusion of their own quest, the same choice can be made, leading to four possible choices for the third generation.
It's a very ambitious concept — each successive generation doubles the number of stories that can be told. As a result, each generation has a fairly short story. It's no wonder that the third generation gets the short end of the stick, given that it had to be four distinct stories leading to similar conclusions. The end result is that, while the second generation drastically differs between the two possible protagonists, the third generation basically consists of "get the crew together, get the legendary weapons, beat the bad guy". The first time through the third generation is an honestly great story (unless you pick Aron). The next three times? Less so. They only really differ in terms of the introductory cutscene and the final cutscene. The most frustrating thing is that the intro and ending cutscenes for the third generation are all wonderfully evocative and deserve to be fully explored. Alas, due to technical and time limitations it was not to be.
That said, what is there is great. Things are seeded in the first generation that won't come to fruition until the third. Some worlds that go unvisited in one story are central to others. Depending on who Rhys marries, the third-generation character Kara will be either a sheltered princess or a hardened warrior. As ageless androids, Wren and Mieu are constants, participating in all three generations. The villain of Nial's story only appears once in the stories of Ayn's children, and the villain of Ayn's story only appears once in the stories of Nial's children: it is clear in both cases that their stories played out in some capacity even if we didn't see them onscreen. There are many games that feel like setting sourcebooks more than they do narratives, and I feel like Phantasy Star III is somewhere in the middle. The narrative had to step back to make way for the generational concept, and the generational concept served to more deeply explore the setting.
Phantasy Star III, like its predecessor, was developed in six months with very few internal resources devoted to it. Notably, the team that worked on it was not the team that worked on the other titles, including the later Phantasy Star IV: End of the Millenium. This is immediately apparent from the visual style, which seems to be allergic to outlines. The style is jarring coming from Phantasy Star II, but you quickly get used to it. I find it gels nicely with the game's tone: it lends it a more painterly quality, to go with the more melancholy music.
Gone are the chipper ditties of Phantasy Star II. Phantasy Star III's soundtrack is much more down to earth, fitting for a game about a multi-generational struggle to finally end a centuries-long war. It's contemplative. Of particular note is the overworld theme, which is dynamic in a way I have never seen anywhere else. At the beginning of the game, when it's just Rhys venturing on his lonesome, there is only the melody and bassline playing. When a party member is recruited, a harmony is added; the next brings an ostinato; the fourth a countermelody; the fifth a snare drum with a marching beat. As more people join your cause, the music slowly transforms from lonely and melancholic to hopeful and almost triumphant. Listening to all of the variations back-to-back is a magical experience I wish I could experience for the first time again. I was surprised when playing to see that the overworld even has a variant for when the main character is dead! Supposedly, the game was to have each individual character affect the overworld theme in different ways. I can see how that was infeasible, but I would love to see what that could have been.
The overworld theme is not the only standout in the soundtrack, although it is by far my favorite piece. The prelude, Laya's World, Lashute, and Dark Force are all outstanding tracks. Similar to the overworld theme, the battle theme will change depending on how you're faring in the fight: there are three songs that can play depending on whether you're winning, losing, or on even ground. The song for when you're winning is particularly upbeat: a friend noted that it's kind of similar to the Chao Race theme from Sonic Adventure 2's Chao Garden. One of my few real issues with the game is how going into a battle will reset the map music to the beginning — you will get very used to hearing the first several bars of many songs.
Phantasy Star III's gameplay feels like an iteration on that of its predecessor, Phantasy Star II. Combat now has the option to automate a single turn instead of just running completely on autopilot. You can finally target individual enemies. You now have a maximum of five party members instead of four. The magic system is one I haven't seen in other games: instead of gaining new spells as you level up, party members know all of their spells from the get-go. Spells are categorized into groups of four spells, and you can choose to prioritize certain spells over others. It's an intriguing system that is only hampered by the fact that the game is in no way difficult. There is little reason to use any spell that isn't Gires. The only time when the game is really challenging is at the very beginning, when you have no party members and no health, and at the very end of the game, when the game remembers that it can have enemies hit hard. Using a spell in and of itself needs to compete with the base desire to just spam the auto-battle button, which defaults to melee attacks.
Walking into Phantasy Star III, I expected a mess of a game, an idea without execution. What I got is a game I am surprised to say that I love. It's not a perfect game by any means, but it's a perfectly serviceable sequel. It follows up on the consequences of Phantasy Star II in a more indirect way than series fans might like, but fortunately Phantasy Star IV exists to fill that gap.
Phantasy Star II
1989
Phantasy Star II is a game I have mixed feelings about. It's very much a game of its time: the mechanics are clunky and the game is extremely grind-heavy. I gave it a try vanilla before installing any QoL mods, but very quickly relented and installed mods that doubled the walking speed and quadrupled the experience and money gain. It didn't eliminate the grind, but it made it bearable.
Phantasy Star II is very clearly an evolution of its predecessor: the infamous dungeons are maze-like in a way that hearkens back to the first-person Wizardry style that Phantasy Star used. The use of specific characters over class-based archetypes continues: all of the party members are predetermined characters with names and defined progressions, a rarity in a genre that at the time typically had custom-built parties based on existing class archetypes. For context, Phantasy Star II released a year after Dragon Quest III and a couple months after Final Fantasy II.
The game is, for lack of a better term, janky as hell. The screen will only scroll when you move near the edge of it, rather than trying to keep the characters centered. The developers wanted a neat parallax scrolling effect but ended up with a foreground layer that almost obscures the characters. As before, none of the items or techniques have any descriptions or even indicate who can equip them; the game shipped with a walkthrough in the US for good reason. Party members have personal inventories and no good way to organize items besides just handing them to each other. Recruiting party members doesn't happen in the story per se: whenever you reach a new town, someone new has invited themselves into Rolf's house, so you need to teleport back to town and greet them in your living room. Two-thirds of the way through the game, the player needs to speak to the natives of the planet Dezolis, who do not speak the same language as the party — in order to speak to them, you need to find and wear a specific magic hat. Sorry, I mean mogic hat, because the magic hats that you'll find everywhere are forgeries and make the locals pissed off.
Special mention must be made for the game's dungeons: these days, the dungeons are what the game is most known for. Maze-like is very much the correct term for them: they are designed to take you down the wrong path many, many times. The environs don't have enough variety to be able to easily tell where you are, making it very easy to get lost. Finding the critical path can generally be solved by asking "what would be the longest walk that the devs would have me do here?" Having a map is vital to the point of necessity: with a map, you can generally plan ahead for where you're going and it's not that bad. Without a map, unless you're drawing one on the go (on some nice graph paper, I hope) you will either need a galaxy brain memory, the persistence of a child who is only getting one video game for the whole summer, or some damn good luck.
I want to meet the person who designed these dungeons and shake their hand.
Phantasy Star II is very much more ambitious than its predecessor, especially when its time constraints are taken into account. The game was developed in only six months; the dungeons were given two and a half months — all this on a new system, no less! The mandate from on high was to develop the game on the new Genesis, while the first title was on the Master System. Within those six months, the combat system and visuals were given huge upgrades in comparison to the original. The story is expanded, with actual plot twists (and one hell of a cliffhanger ending). The long grind and dungeons unfortunately distract from the story, but what's there is pretty solid for the era.
The story mostly takes place on Motavia, the desert planet from Phantasy Star. Now a lush and verdant space, the planet has been completely terraformed thanks to the Mother Brain, which manages all aspects of life and allows the human inhabitants to live lives of leisure. However, not all is well: strange bio-monsters have been appearing more and more lately, to the point where some towns have been destroyed due to the chaos. It's up to intrepid investigator Rolf and his roommate, the enigmatic half-biomonster Nei, to figure out what's wrong.
The first Phantasy Star game mixed both fantasy and sci-fi: magic was very much present, and while you're evading the secret police to get revenge on the planetary governor you're also looking for the mirror shield that Perseus used to slay Medusa. Phantasy Star II eschews the fantasy elements in favor of hard sci-fi: they're not just monsters, they're biomonsters. For a solid third of the game the only enemies are robots. Magic is gone, in favor of "techniques". Dead party members are no longer revived at a church: they're cloned at a clone lab. That last point threw me for a loop at how incredibly fucked it is: by about five hours in, not a single party member was left that wasn't a clone.
The combat of Phantasy Star II is interesting: having played the first, second, and fourth entries, the developers seem keen to provide ways to automate combat. In the first game, there was no way to target specific enemies, so the choice was largely to pick between Fight, Item, and Magic. In Phantasy Star II, the party will run on autopilot: you can give specific commands to specific party members, which they will then repeat on autopilot until you interrupt again to give fresh orders. You cannot target specific enemies, but instead you can only target enemies of the same type. That is, you can't target Goblin A, but you can target all Goblins on screen and the party members will randomly select which specific Goblin gets hit. Different weapon types have different characteristics: guns will do a fixed amount of damage, ignoring both enemy defense and party attack; boomerangs will target all enemies in a given group. Some weapons and equipment can be used as items to replicate the effects of spells — for the last third of the game I entirely eschewed using healing techniques in favor of having party members just infinitely use the items in their inventory that cast the mid-level healing technique. Hell, I stopped equipping two characters with weapons at all and had them only use either techniques or items. Why, yes, the healer does have the highest defense in the group by carrying two shields, why do you ask?
As always, the Phantasy Star games have phenomenal soundtracks. While I personally preferred the smooth FM samples of the first game, Phantasy Star II has some extremely catchy tunes. The upbeat music doesn't exactly match the dark tone of the story, but it provides its own sense of adventure. Of special note are the intro theme, Step Up, Rise or Fall, Advanced Position, Secret Ways, Silent Zone, and the rarely-heard boss theme Death Place. Shout-out to the guy who uploaded the game's soundtrack to youtube with massive spoilers in the thumbnails.
At the end of the day, Phantasy Star II is a game that is deeply frustrating but that I couldn't put down until I finished it. I think any RPG fan should experience it once — maybe not finish it, but at least experience it.
Phantasy Star II is very clearly an evolution of its predecessor: the infamous dungeons are maze-like in a way that hearkens back to the first-person Wizardry style that Phantasy Star used. The use of specific characters over class-based archetypes continues: all of the party members are predetermined characters with names and defined progressions, a rarity in a genre that at the time typically had custom-built parties based on existing class archetypes. For context, Phantasy Star II released a year after Dragon Quest III and a couple months after Final Fantasy II.
The game is, for lack of a better term, janky as hell. The screen will only scroll when you move near the edge of it, rather than trying to keep the characters centered. The developers wanted a neat parallax scrolling effect but ended up with a foreground layer that almost obscures the characters. As before, none of the items or techniques have any descriptions or even indicate who can equip them; the game shipped with a walkthrough in the US for good reason. Party members have personal inventories and no good way to organize items besides just handing them to each other. Recruiting party members doesn't happen in the story per se: whenever you reach a new town, someone new has invited themselves into Rolf's house, so you need to teleport back to town and greet them in your living room. Two-thirds of the way through the game, the player needs to speak to the natives of the planet Dezolis, who do not speak the same language as the party — in order to speak to them, you need to find and wear a specific magic hat. Sorry, I mean mogic hat, because the magic hats that you'll find everywhere are forgeries and make the locals pissed off.
Special mention must be made for the game's dungeons: these days, the dungeons are what the game is most known for. Maze-like is very much the correct term for them: they are designed to take you down the wrong path many, many times. The environs don't have enough variety to be able to easily tell where you are, making it very easy to get lost. Finding the critical path can generally be solved by asking "what would be the longest walk that the devs would have me do here?" Having a map is vital to the point of necessity: with a map, you can generally plan ahead for where you're going and it's not that bad. Without a map, unless you're drawing one on the go (on some nice graph paper, I hope) you will either need a galaxy brain memory, the persistence of a child who is only getting one video game for the whole summer, or some damn good luck.
I want to meet the person who designed these dungeons and shake their hand.
Phantasy Star II is very much more ambitious than its predecessor, especially when its time constraints are taken into account. The game was developed in only six months; the dungeons were given two and a half months — all this on a new system, no less! The mandate from on high was to develop the game on the new Genesis, while the first title was on the Master System. Within those six months, the combat system and visuals were given huge upgrades in comparison to the original. The story is expanded, with actual plot twists (and one hell of a cliffhanger ending). The long grind and dungeons unfortunately distract from the story, but what's there is pretty solid for the era.
The story mostly takes place on Motavia, the desert planet from Phantasy Star. Now a lush and verdant space, the planet has been completely terraformed thanks to the Mother Brain, which manages all aspects of life and allows the human inhabitants to live lives of leisure. However, not all is well: strange bio-monsters have been appearing more and more lately, to the point where some towns have been destroyed due to the chaos. It's up to intrepid investigator Rolf and his roommate, the enigmatic half-biomonster Nei, to figure out what's wrong.
The first Phantasy Star game mixed both fantasy and sci-fi: magic was very much present, and while you're evading the secret police to get revenge on the planetary governor you're also looking for the mirror shield that Perseus used to slay Medusa. Phantasy Star II eschews the fantasy elements in favor of hard sci-fi: they're not just monsters, they're biomonsters. For a solid third of the game the only enemies are robots. Magic is gone, in favor of "techniques". Dead party members are no longer revived at a church: they're cloned at a clone lab. That last point threw me for a loop at how incredibly fucked it is: by about five hours in, not a single party member was left that wasn't a clone.
The combat of Phantasy Star II is interesting: having played the first, second, and fourth entries, the developers seem keen to provide ways to automate combat. In the first game, there was no way to target specific enemies, so the choice was largely to pick between Fight, Item, and Magic. In Phantasy Star II, the party will run on autopilot: you can give specific commands to specific party members, which they will then repeat on autopilot until you interrupt again to give fresh orders. You cannot target specific enemies, but instead you can only target enemies of the same type. That is, you can't target Goblin A, but you can target all Goblins on screen and the party members will randomly select which specific Goblin gets hit. Different weapon types have different characteristics: guns will do a fixed amount of damage, ignoring both enemy defense and party attack; boomerangs will target all enemies in a given group. Some weapons and equipment can be used as items to replicate the effects of spells — for the last third of the game I entirely eschewed using healing techniques in favor of having party members just infinitely use the items in their inventory that cast the mid-level healing technique. Hell, I stopped equipping two characters with weapons at all and had them only use either techniques or items. Why, yes, the healer does have the highest defense in the group by carrying two shields, why do you ask?
As always, the Phantasy Star games have phenomenal soundtracks. While I personally preferred the smooth FM samples of the first game, Phantasy Star II has some extremely catchy tunes. The upbeat music doesn't exactly match the dark tone of the story, but it provides its own sense of adventure. Of special note are the intro theme, Step Up, Rise or Fall, Advanced Position, Secret Ways, Silent Zone, and the rarely-heard boss theme Death Place. Shout-out to the guy who uploaded the game's soundtrack to youtube with massive spoilers in the thumbnails.
At the end of the day, Phantasy Star II is a game that is deeply frustrating but that I couldn't put down until I finished it. I think any RPG fan should experience it once — maybe not finish it, but at least experience it.
Final Fantasy VIII
1999
If you know me, you know that I have not played many JRPGs. I've been told through friends and reading online discourse that Final Fantasy VIII was contentious. I get it.
I do not agree, though.
I've been interested in this genre much longer than I have actually been playing them. There's no way of getting around it, most of my close friends are aware of this. The first two that I played (Final Fantasy VII and Chrono Trigger) had me feeling emotions on opposite ends of the spectrum; amazed, and underwhelmed, respectively. Funnily enough, both of these games have notoriously risky successors. Anyways, I digress, because the point that I am trying to make here has nothing to do with narratives in video games (something that FFVII and Chrono Trigger are of course rightfully praised for).
Before I started playing JRPGs, I knew I liked the idea of games being experimental. I like seeing game developers take risks! Have fun with it! I saw plenty of gameplay where I didn't understood why people even visited this genre because it all just felt so same-y to me. If I'm playing a game where I somehow don't get annoyed by random enemy combat, you did a damn good job at making your game. Square did a damn good job at making this game.
Final Fantasy VIII takes whatever you knew about the genre and says "fuck it - let's do something new". I absolutely adore that mindset and creativity that gave us this game's mechanics. The junction system. AP and GF. Triple Triad. The limit break mechanics. It's all just so charming to me. This is the most fun I have ever had in a game's combat system, and I mean that. The concept of enemies leveling up alongside you REALLY kept me immersed as well, and I found myself doing less mindless fighting and really strategizing my team's next move.
A lot else of what else is criticized is the story. What is most baffling to me is that despite Square taking a similar approach to Final Fantasy VII, dealing with complex characters with complex emotions, the reaction to what this game does and says seems to be downright despised. If you are not a fan of this video game's storytelling, then that's fine. But is your journey entirely ruined because of the end result?
Let's say there are two people walking. Person 1 enjoys walking, but has no destination in mind. Person 2 also enjoys walking, but just cares about getting from point A to point B. Which of them more than likely had a memorable experience? Hopefully you see what I am getting at here.
Art as a whole should not solely be about the endpoint. If it was, then what is the point of experiencing art? What's stopping someone from just going on Wikipedia and reading the synopsis of a game and saying "ah, 5/5, best game I ever played" if they're not even thinking about the journey they took to get there?
Maybe this is just all cope for the bashing I see Final Fantasy VIII get, I really don't know anymore. My adderall is wearing off, and I'm hungry. Regardless, I love this game. I can't wait to play more experimental PlayStation games.
(i'm looking at you, Chrono Cross and Xenogears...)
I do not agree, though.
I've been interested in this genre much longer than I have actually been playing them. There's no way of getting around it, most of my close friends are aware of this. The first two that I played (Final Fantasy VII and Chrono Trigger) had me feeling emotions on opposite ends of the spectrum; amazed, and underwhelmed, respectively. Funnily enough, both of these games have notoriously risky successors. Anyways, I digress, because the point that I am trying to make here has nothing to do with narratives in video games (something that FFVII and Chrono Trigger are of course rightfully praised for).
Before I started playing JRPGs, I knew I liked the idea of games being experimental. I like seeing game developers take risks! Have fun with it! I saw plenty of gameplay where I didn't understood why people even visited this genre because it all just felt so same-y to me. If I'm playing a game where I somehow don't get annoyed by random enemy combat, you did a damn good job at making your game. Square did a damn good job at making this game.
Final Fantasy VIII takes whatever you knew about the genre and says "fuck it - let's do something new". I absolutely adore that mindset and creativity that gave us this game's mechanics. The junction system. AP and GF. Triple Triad. The limit break mechanics. It's all just so charming to me. This is the most fun I have ever had in a game's combat system, and I mean that. The concept of enemies leveling up alongside you REALLY kept me immersed as well, and I found myself doing less mindless fighting and really strategizing my team's next move.
A lot else of what else is criticized is the story. What is most baffling to me is that despite Square taking a similar approach to Final Fantasy VII, dealing with complex characters with complex emotions, the reaction to what this game does and says seems to be downright despised. If you are not a fan of this video game's storytelling, then that's fine. But is your journey entirely ruined because of the end result?
Let's say there are two people walking. Person 1 enjoys walking, but has no destination in mind. Person 2 also enjoys walking, but just cares about getting from point A to point B. Which of them more than likely had a memorable experience? Hopefully you see what I am getting at here.
Art as a whole should not solely be about the endpoint. If it was, then what is the point of experiencing art? What's stopping someone from just going on Wikipedia and reading the synopsis of a game and saying "ah, 5/5, best game I ever played" if they're not even thinking about the journey they took to get there?
Maybe this is just all cope for the bashing I see Final Fantasy VIII get, I really don't know anymore. My adderall is wearing off, and I'm hungry. Regardless, I love this game. I can't wait to play more experimental PlayStation games.
(i'm looking at you, Chrono Cross and Xenogears...)
This review contains spoilers
“..This is a miracle. You noticed the sin you committed in another world. That’s impossible to do. But you did it. That is the most unbelievable and precious of miracles that could exist in this world…” - Rika Furude
At one point I had absolutely zero interest in visual novels. A few years ago I didn't even know what a visual novel was. I was honestly not very interested in anime or manga, but those things have changed now. I was initially turned off by stereotypical anime fans in America, which I don't really think I need to elaborate on.
A few friends of mine in a close-knit community - who I can now comfortably call the best friends that I have ever had - sort of warmed me up to aforementioned mediums knowing that I did not have much background in them, initially. None of it was forced; I'd like to think I'm quite open-minded so I figured, oh why the hell not. Let me just play a 150 hour visual novel and see what I think of it.
To keep it short, this game has changed my perspective on everything that surrounds me. At this point I’ve already jumped into Ryukishi’s next piece of work, Umineko: When They Cry.
Before I start pouring my heart into this thing, I’d ask you to give my dear friend カケラSKY’s review on Higurashi: When They Cry, which you can read here.
This is also the same person who helped me finish this game - I cannot thank them enough.
Ryukishi07 is a writer. He is the writer. He is the most prolific yet efficient writer that I have ever had the pleasure of reading. There are plenty of authors out there who manage to create these expansive worlds of lore and beautiful imagery, but Ryukishi07 is different. He is someone that can operate on a level of efficiency that is dare I say unmatchable. The toolset that he brings to the keyboard is one that I find a lot of writers lack, but yet it seems so obvious to do.
Ryukishi07 writes his characters with love.
There are a lot of characters within fictional mediums that more or less feel like a chore to believe in. Emotional appeal within writing is something that can be very hit or miss, and oftentimes more than not ruin a story for me. This is a problem that I find to be true in almost every video game I play. If you look at my top games, you’ll notice that aside from Higurashi, the only narrative that has much of an emotional core is Final Fantasy VII. (You could argue about Fallout: New Vegas being emotional at parts, but it isn’t something that’s necessary in order to play or finish the game). Higurashi’s cast feels effortless as far as emotional appeal goes. To remind you, I straight up don’t like most anime. I find the writing abysmal and I can’t find emotional ground in any of the characters that surround me. It’s exhausting, and I’ll be the first to admit that it’s a problem for me rather than the medium itself. Maybe it’s just a problem with writing adult characters. Adults are confusing on an emotional level. I witness it everyday within my own life, and I see it in many others too. Children for the most part I feel are pretty straightforward in their emotions. They often say things as they see it, without taking other’s feelings into account. Which makes sense, they’re not self-aware yet at their age and not the best at realizing how what they say may impact others on an emotional level.
What I find interesting about Ryukishi07 is that this concept is flipped around entirely. The children of Hinamizawa are at an age where they’re able to communicate properly, realize their emotions, and solve problems together. This does not, however, exist in a vacuum. There was a cost that was made to be able for these children to get to this point.
Furthering through the questions arc of Higurashi: When They Cry, we see the trauma and internal emotions of these characters on an individual level. Speaking from experience here, trauma is a blessing and a curse. The curse is of course the trauma that you are dealt. Trauma is not an ideal scenario to have in your life. Trauma is, however, a learning experience. There are certain instances of trauma that put you in a position that you need to grow up faster than others. I remember being in this spot when my mother died. I was 12 years old, all of my friends around me were still kids, and I felt like I was trying to advance my life much faster than them, while simultaneously trying to hold onto my childhood without completely saying goodbye to it. I had a long road ahead of me, but for the sake of trauma, I had to develop my emotions a lot faster and further than most other people around my age at the time, and so I just had to deal with it. I don’t think that this is talked about nearly enough when pieces of art deal with the subject of trauma, and I don’t think it’s recognized nearly enough in the mental health community, professionally. Ryukishi understands this without actually ever directly saying this. Despite their trauma all being relatively different, it speaks to the group en masse and even alongside you, watching these events unfold. Keiichi Maebara, Mion Sonozaki, Shion Sonozaki, Satoko Houjou, and Rena Ryuugu, are all introspectively deep thinking characters that have their certain positions and personality traits all because of what insofar has happened to them throughout their lives. These are incredibly, incredibly smart children who throughout the game begin to better understand one another, and our understanding of what they went through becomes more clear when the topic of their trauma is brought together. I see a younger version of myself in a lot of these characters. Rika Furude, the mascot of Hinamizawa, is a perfect example. She’s technically younger than most of her peers, but on an emotional level she is tenfold of what the rest of the friend group is. This isn’t to discount the other friends, by the way. Rika Furude is just…an interesting character. I’ll get back to this momentarily.
It’s not worth going into the specifics of the individual traumas, although in relation to understanding the game and ‘solving’ Higurashi: When They Cry it is crucial to understanding the game.
The biggest part of this game that I found fascinating was what Ryukishi writes in a writers room at the end of chapter 4 or so. Maybe it isn’t Chapter 4, I could be misremembering, but regardless of this, Chapter 4 was the part of the game (aside from the opening of Chapter 2 where nobody remembers each other, and the cycles of Hinamizawa repeat themselves) where I realized I was in for much bigger of an experience than one would have originally anticipated. Anyways, Ryukishi at one point mentions the discourse among people that question whether Higurashi is a video game or not. The semantics here aren’t relevant to what the experience of Higurashi was. Call the When They Cry series whatever you want, it’s so far a brilliant piece of art that has had way bigger of an impact on my life than I ever expected.
Speaking of chapter 4, it doesn’t seem like most Higurashi fans enjoy this one as much as the other chapters in the questions arc. I think it is one of the top three chapters for me. Keep in mind we’re dealing with Ryukishi, even chapters that I found less interesting than others (e.g, Chapter 2 and Chapter 5) were still great experiences and serve as very important pieces when looking at Higurashi: When They Cry as a whole. Chapter 4 in particular is the shortest in the questions arc. The first three chapters deal with the trauma and experiences of, respectively: Keiichi Maebara/Rena Ryuugu, Mion/Shion Sonozaki, and Satoko Houjou. You’ll notice that one character is missing here, and I’ve also (intentionally) failed to mention them. The mascot of Hinamizawa, Rika Furude.
When I wrapped up the questions arc, I knew that Rika Furude was special. There was something much bigger and expansive as far as her character depth goes when compared to the other children in the friend group. I recall having a lengthy conversation with my dear friend, カケラSKY, about the conundrum of Rika’s character. Keep in mind that カケラSKY has played this game long before me, so they served as my witch for most of this experience. As we conversed, I came to the conclusion that Rika Furude is the way she is for an absolutely fascinating reason. She is a bystander. She takes the position of any one who simply reads a book, watches a movie or television show, or listens to a piece of music. She does not directly change the course of what is to happen to her friends in Hinamizawa, and she recognizes this. She is aware of the events that will happen in June 1983, and so are we, the readers. She has lived through these cycles of abuse and trauma, and remembers those experiences, just as we do too, the reader, after reading the first three chapters of the questions arc. How do we, as the reader/bystander, relate to Rika Furude? What exactly is Rika Furude? I did a lot of thinking about Rika as a character, and what her place was inside the story of Higurashi: When They Cry. A lot of this was overthinking, too, but when approaching a piece of media through love and well intentions it’s quite easy to figure out. Rika Furude is the embodiment of the viewer. Like us, she is the one who watches these events unfold, doing nothing with this knowledge, until this realization is made and action is taken to help save her friends, as well as herself, from ever dying or being murdered. Rika Furude is a bystander, watching her friends (and herself) be murdered.
At some point, sooner rather than later, we realize that we are ultimately hopeless in helping our friends in Hinamizawa. We feel despair and upset feelings watching these helpless children go through their lives, dealing with cycles of abuse and experiencing life changing trauma that puts an impact on their relationships with others, as well as internally. Given that the format of the story being told is a visual novel without routes or choices to be made, there is nothing to be done. Ryukishi recognizes this and talks about it fairly deep into the answers arc. It’s an idea that’s sort of thrown back at the viewer, though, and I don’t think offense should be taken from it. The gist of Ryukishi’s in a TIPS module asks that if we were to be able to make choices in the story of Higurashi, how much would they actually matter? We are given the choice to pick between two different boxes. Humans as a species are inherently selfish. We think that we know how to do something, and ultimately, we fail. This is not something that is the fault of the viewer. This is the world at large and a part of the media that we consume on a daily basis. If you are given a set of characters inside of a fictional world, how are we to trust that they are going to make the best decision? This question should be viewed from another perspective. Let’s spin the chessboard, if you will…
One box has a piece of caramel in it, while the other has a piece of chewing gum. They are two different outcomes, but the point of Schrodinger's cat is present here. What if one box provided you the key to solving Higurashi: When They Cry? We don’t know until that box is opened. We don’t know until we see both outcomes what the best option truly is. Even when both options are presented, what someone considers the “best” outcome of the game is entirely subjective. There is no right or wrong in the world of fiction, so what is the point of offering choices when a desired outcome is already set in stone? This leads to an interesting question regarding a point Ryukishi makes in a later part of the answers arc. He brings up the point that this game, unlike other popular VNs at the time, lacks different routes or options to see how the story progresses. How can you be sure that you will make the best decision, if choices/routes were present in Higurashi: When They Cry?
You can’t be. It’s a heartbreaking realization, but it doesn’t have to be. I’ll get back to this in a second. Anyways, you’ll never be 100% positive that your actions, or choices, will bring the best guaranteed outcome. Even in our daily lives, we have to make choices and go for something, taking bets on what the outcome is going to be. The illusion of choice, in a piece of fiction, is that your outcome is guaranteed. Rather, choices are taking a chance that a preferred outcome is what you get out of said decision.
There is a good amount of criticism surrounding Matsuribayashi, in particular the fourth subchapter. For those that may not remember, that’s the chapter where Bernkastel sets up the fragments, and you are to view them in a particular order for you to progress through the game. As a piece of metafiction I think this works quite well. As the viewer gets closer to realizing that Rika Furude is an embodiment of the viewer, where we are just acting as bystanders, the miracle of Hinamizawa can not happen. The furthering of June 1983 is not possible without our efforts alongside the children of Hinamizawa. When the puzzle pieces are in their correct spots, the miracle can now happen. A miracle can not happen if 100% effort is not given by all parties, as we see throughout each of the answers chapters.
I found myself internalizing the messages of Higurashi: When They Cry rather naturally. I eventually found myself acting upon them without even thinking of it. I think that's really the beauty of impactful art. While some aspects of your life you may have to work on, others just come naturally. Humans are born as loving creatures. There is love and compassion in all of us that we are able to act upon.
Reach out to your friends. Love the people that surround you. Ask for help when needed. You can't do this all on your own, and that's a good thing. There are billions of us here for one reason or another.
At one point I had absolutely zero interest in visual novels. A few years ago I didn't even know what a visual novel was. I was honestly not very interested in anime or manga, but those things have changed now. I was initially turned off by stereotypical anime fans in America, which I don't really think I need to elaborate on.
A few friends of mine in a close-knit community - who I can now comfortably call the best friends that I have ever had - sort of warmed me up to aforementioned mediums knowing that I did not have much background in them, initially. None of it was forced; I'd like to think I'm quite open-minded so I figured, oh why the hell not. Let me just play a 150 hour visual novel and see what I think of it.
To keep it short, this game has changed my perspective on everything that surrounds me. At this point I’ve already jumped into Ryukishi’s next piece of work, Umineko: When They Cry.
Before I start pouring my heart into this thing, I’d ask you to give my dear friend カケラSKY’s review on Higurashi: When They Cry, which you can read here.
This is also the same person who helped me finish this game - I cannot thank them enough.
Ryukishi07 is a writer. He is the writer. He is the most prolific yet efficient writer that I have ever had the pleasure of reading. There are plenty of authors out there who manage to create these expansive worlds of lore and beautiful imagery, but Ryukishi07 is different. He is someone that can operate on a level of efficiency that is dare I say unmatchable. The toolset that he brings to the keyboard is one that I find a lot of writers lack, but yet it seems so obvious to do.
Ryukishi07 writes his characters with love.
There are a lot of characters within fictional mediums that more or less feel like a chore to believe in. Emotional appeal within writing is something that can be very hit or miss, and oftentimes more than not ruin a story for me. This is a problem that I find to be true in almost every video game I play. If you look at my top games, you’ll notice that aside from Higurashi, the only narrative that has much of an emotional core is Final Fantasy VII. (You could argue about Fallout: New Vegas being emotional at parts, but it isn’t something that’s necessary in order to play or finish the game). Higurashi’s cast feels effortless as far as emotional appeal goes. To remind you, I straight up don’t like most anime. I find the writing abysmal and I can’t find emotional ground in any of the characters that surround me. It’s exhausting, and I’ll be the first to admit that it’s a problem for me rather than the medium itself. Maybe it’s just a problem with writing adult characters. Adults are confusing on an emotional level. I witness it everyday within my own life, and I see it in many others too. Children for the most part I feel are pretty straightforward in their emotions. They often say things as they see it, without taking other’s feelings into account. Which makes sense, they’re not self-aware yet at their age and not the best at realizing how what they say may impact others on an emotional level.
What I find interesting about Ryukishi07 is that this concept is flipped around entirely. The children of Hinamizawa are at an age where they’re able to communicate properly, realize their emotions, and solve problems together. This does not, however, exist in a vacuum. There was a cost that was made to be able for these children to get to this point.
Furthering through the questions arc of Higurashi: When They Cry, we see the trauma and internal emotions of these characters on an individual level. Speaking from experience here, trauma is a blessing and a curse. The curse is of course the trauma that you are dealt. Trauma is not an ideal scenario to have in your life. Trauma is, however, a learning experience. There are certain instances of trauma that put you in a position that you need to grow up faster than others. I remember being in this spot when my mother died. I was 12 years old, all of my friends around me were still kids, and I felt like I was trying to advance my life much faster than them, while simultaneously trying to hold onto my childhood without completely saying goodbye to it. I had a long road ahead of me, but for the sake of trauma, I had to develop my emotions a lot faster and further than most other people around my age at the time, and so I just had to deal with it. I don’t think that this is talked about nearly enough when pieces of art deal with the subject of trauma, and I don’t think it’s recognized nearly enough in the mental health community, professionally. Ryukishi understands this without actually ever directly saying this. Despite their trauma all being relatively different, it speaks to the group en masse and even alongside you, watching these events unfold. Keiichi Maebara, Mion Sonozaki, Shion Sonozaki, Satoko Houjou, and Rena Ryuugu, are all introspectively deep thinking characters that have their certain positions and personality traits all because of what insofar has happened to them throughout their lives. These are incredibly, incredibly smart children who throughout the game begin to better understand one another, and our understanding of what they went through becomes more clear when the topic of their trauma is brought together. I see a younger version of myself in a lot of these characters. Rika Furude, the mascot of Hinamizawa, is a perfect example. She’s technically younger than most of her peers, but on an emotional level she is tenfold of what the rest of the friend group is. This isn’t to discount the other friends, by the way. Rika Furude is just…an interesting character. I’ll get back to this momentarily.
It’s not worth going into the specifics of the individual traumas, although in relation to understanding the game and ‘solving’ Higurashi: When They Cry it is crucial to understanding the game.
The biggest part of this game that I found fascinating was what Ryukishi writes in a writers room at the end of chapter 4 or so. Maybe it isn’t Chapter 4, I could be misremembering, but regardless of this, Chapter 4 was the part of the game (aside from the opening of Chapter 2 where nobody remembers each other, and the cycles of Hinamizawa repeat themselves) where I realized I was in for much bigger of an experience than one would have originally anticipated. Anyways, Ryukishi at one point mentions the discourse among people that question whether Higurashi is a video game or not. The semantics here aren’t relevant to what the experience of Higurashi was. Call the When They Cry series whatever you want, it’s so far a brilliant piece of art that has had way bigger of an impact on my life than I ever expected.
Speaking of chapter 4, it doesn’t seem like most Higurashi fans enjoy this one as much as the other chapters in the questions arc. I think it is one of the top three chapters for me. Keep in mind we’re dealing with Ryukishi, even chapters that I found less interesting than others (e.g, Chapter 2 and Chapter 5) were still great experiences and serve as very important pieces when looking at Higurashi: When They Cry as a whole. Chapter 4 in particular is the shortest in the questions arc. The first three chapters deal with the trauma and experiences of, respectively: Keiichi Maebara/Rena Ryuugu, Mion/Shion Sonozaki, and Satoko Houjou. You’ll notice that one character is missing here, and I’ve also (intentionally) failed to mention them. The mascot of Hinamizawa, Rika Furude.
When I wrapped up the questions arc, I knew that Rika Furude was special. There was something much bigger and expansive as far as her character depth goes when compared to the other children in the friend group. I recall having a lengthy conversation with my dear friend, カケラSKY, about the conundrum of Rika’s character. Keep in mind that カケラSKY has played this game long before me, so they served as my witch for most of this experience. As we conversed, I came to the conclusion that Rika Furude is the way she is for an absolutely fascinating reason. She is a bystander. She takes the position of any one who simply reads a book, watches a movie or television show, or listens to a piece of music. She does not directly change the course of what is to happen to her friends in Hinamizawa, and she recognizes this. She is aware of the events that will happen in June 1983, and so are we, the readers. She has lived through these cycles of abuse and trauma, and remembers those experiences, just as we do too, the reader, after reading the first three chapters of the questions arc. How do we, as the reader/bystander, relate to Rika Furude? What exactly is Rika Furude? I did a lot of thinking about Rika as a character, and what her place was inside the story of Higurashi: When They Cry. A lot of this was overthinking, too, but when approaching a piece of media through love and well intentions it’s quite easy to figure out. Rika Furude is the embodiment of the viewer. Like us, she is the one who watches these events unfold, doing nothing with this knowledge, until this realization is made and action is taken to help save her friends, as well as herself, from ever dying or being murdered. Rika Furude is a bystander, watching her friends (and herself) be murdered.
At some point, sooner rather than later, we realize that we are ultimately hopeless in helping our friends in Hinamizawa. We feel despair and upset feelings watching these helpless children go through their lives, dealing with cycles of abuse and experiencing life changing trauma that puts an impact on their relationships with others, as well as internally. Given that the format of the story being told is a visual novel without routes or choices to be made, there is nothing to be done. Ryukishi recognizes this and talks about it fairly deep into the answers arc. It’s an idea that’s sort of thrown back at the viewer, though, and I don’t think offense should be taken from it. The gist of Ryukishi’s in a TIPS module asks that if we were to be able to make choices in the story of Higurashi, how much would they actually matter? We are given the choice to pick between two different boxes. Humans as a species are inherently selfish. We think that we know how to do something, and ultimately, we fail. This is not something that is the fault of the viewer. This is the world at large and a part of the media that we consume on a daily basis. If you are given a set of characters inside of a fictional world, how are we to trust that they are going to make the best decision? This question should be viewed from another perspective. Let’s spin the chessboard, if you will…
One box has a piece of caramel in it, while the other has a piece of chewing gum. They are two different outcomes, but the point of Schrodinger's cat is present here. What if one box provided you the key to solving Higurashi: When They Cry? We don’t know until that box is opened. We don’t know until we see both outcomes what the best option truly is. Even when both options are presented, what someone considers the “best” outcome of the game is entirely subjective. There is no right or wrong in the world of fiction, so what is the point of offering choices when a desired outcome is already set in stone? This leads to an interesting question regarding a point Ryukishi makes in a later part of the answers arc. He brings up the point that this game, unlike other popular VNs at the time, lacks different routes or options to see how the story progresses. How can you be sure that you will make the best decision, if choices/routes were present in Higurashi: When They Cry?
You can’t be. It’s a heartbreaking realization, but it doesn’t have to be. I’ll get back to this in a second. Anyways, you’ll never be 100% positive that your actions, or choices, will bring the best guaranteed outcome. Even in our daily lives, we have to make choices and go for something, taking bets on what the outcome is going to be. The illusion of choice, in a piece of fiction, is that your outcome is guaranteed. Rather, choices are taking a chance that a preferred outcome is what you get out of said decision.
There is a good amount of criticism surrounding Matsuribayashi, in particular the fourth subchapter. For those that may not remember, that’s the chapter where Bernkastel sets up the fragments, and you are to view them in a particular order for you to progress through the game. As a piece of metafiction I think this works quite well. As the viewer gets closer to realizing that Rika Furude is an embodiment of the viewer, where we are just acting as bystanders, the miracle of Hinamizawa can not happen. The furthering of June 1983 is not possible without our efforts alongside the children of Hinamizawa. When the puzzle pieces are in their correct spots, the miracle can now happen. A miracle can not happen if 100% effort is not given by all parties, as we see throughout each of the answers chapters.
I found myself internalizing the messages of Higurashi: When They Cry rather naturally. I eventually found myself acting upon them without even thinking of it. I think that's really the beauty of impactful art. While some aspects of your life you may have to work on, others just come naturally. Humans are born as loving creatures. There is love and compassion in all of us that we are able to act upon.
Reach out to your friends. Love the people that surround you. Ask for help when needed. You can't do this all on your own, and that's a good thing. There are billions of us here for one reason or another.
"content dictates form. less is more. god is in the details.
all in the service of clarity, without which, nothing else matters."
- stephen sondheim
above is a quote from one of my lifelong heroes who passed away a few months ago. mr. sondheim's work defined a great deal of my teenage and transitional years and upon hearing the news of his tragic passing, i took the opportunity to reflect on the ways with which he'd influenced my art, my views, and my conduct. i'm by no means a theatre type - while i spent a few years in high school co-directing and acting as a dramaturge for a local company, by no means do i enjoy the theatre as it exists to the common eye and ear. i left that world to escape the despotism of what 'must be' and what 'sells' by the overseeing eye of the major companies and self-satisfied bigwigs because, as any artist knows, when you climb a few rungs of the ladder no art is political, but all art is politics.
yet i find myself, years removed from theatre, years removed from pushing my own envelope of personal expression to a public eye, many nights in front of a google doc, or a blank notepad, or staring at my shelf, wondering when the spark is going to hit and i'll write the next pieces of my screenplay, or my next chorus to a song, or my next analysis of some 20-year-old adventure game made by a small passionate team from the literal opposite of the world. sometimes i wonder if my minimalism, my expression of big feelings in small boxes, through white and black forms with bright technicolor lights, if it's a crutch, if i'm an imitator of the conglomerate great ideas of people before me... if i shoot half this short film adaptation of a novel as a silent work, am i up my own ass for it? if i push myself creatively as a musician to a one-man audience by design, am i selling myself short? have i missed my shot at truly expressing MYself?
of course, if you've got your head screwed on halfway right, you'll realize this self-talk is a complete load of bullshit. just put the pen to the paper. put the fingers to the keys. don't worry about who sees it, don't worry about why you do it, but if you believe in it - content dictating form - and if your style is simple short strokes with deep, cutting lines - less is more - and if your heart hurts to watch it play back - god is in the details. if you are an artist, if you are a person who needs to be able to say something for the sake of saying it, you must throw away preconceptions, you must disregard what people have said of you and your work, you must take that future into your hands and seize it. all in the service of clarity, without which, nothing else matters.
live your daily rut. get up, go to work.
push hard to make those days count.
let your work be your work, and let your work be your work.
to find happiness is to be honest with oneself.
recognize the monotony but don't let it overtake you.
your career isn't your person.
every person on this site, every person reading this
i think each one of us has art inside of us waiting to blossom.
you need to be willing to find love in your heart for that, for yourself, and the willingness to seize that potential regardless of the cost and regardless of how you've hurt before.
you need to seize the future.
you need to kill the past.
flower, sun & rain was me all along, wasn't it?
all in the service of clarity, without which, nothing else matters."
- stephen sondheim
above is a quote from one of my lifelong heroes who passed away a few months ago. mr. sondheim's work defined a great deal of my teenage and transitional years and upon hearing the news of his tragic passing, i took the opportunity to reflect on the ways with which he'd influenced my art, my views, and my conduct. i'm by no means a theatre type - while i spent a few years in high school co-directing and acting as a dramaturge for a local company, by no means do i enjoy the theatre as it exists to the common eye and ear. i left that world to escape the despotism of what 'must be' and what 'sells' by the overseeing eye of the major companies and self-satisfied bigwigs because, as any artist knows, when you climb a few rungs of the ladder no art is political, but all art is politics.
yet i find myself, years removed from theatre, years removed from pushing my own envelope of personal expression to a public eye, many nights in front of a google doc, or a blank notepad, or staring at my shelf, wondering when the spark is going to hit and i'll write the next pieces of my screenplay, or my next chorus to a song, or my next analysis of some 20-year-old adventure game made by a small passionate team from the literal opposite of the world. sometimes i wonder if my minimalism, my expression of big feelings in small boxes, through white and black forms with bright technicolor lights, if it's a crutch, if i'm an imitator of the conglomerate great ideas of people before me... if i shoot half this short film adaptation of a novel as a silent work, am i up my own ass for it? if i push myself creatively as a musician to a one-man audience by design, am i selling myself short? have i missed my shot at truly expressing MYself?
of course, if you've got your head screwed on halfway right, you'll realize this self-talk is a complete load of bullshit. just put the pen to the paper. put the fingers to the keys. don't worry about who sees it, don't worry about why you do it, but if you believe in it - content dictating form - and if your style is simple short strokes with deep, cutting lines - less is more - and if your heart hurts to watch it play back - god is in the details. if you are an artist, if you are a person who needs to be able to say something for the sake of saying it, you must throw away preconceptions, you must disregard what people have said of you and your work, you must take that future into your hands and seize it. all in the service of clarity, without which, nothing else matters.
live your daily rut. get up, go to work.
push hard to make those days count.
let your work be your work, and let your work be your work.
to find happiness is to be honest with oneself.
recognize the monotony but don't let it overtake you.
your career isn't your person.
every person on this site, every person reading this
i think each one of us has art inside of us waiting to blossom.
you need to be willing to find love in your heart for that, for yourself, and the willingness to seize that potential regardless of the cost and regardless of how you've hurt before.
you need to seize the future.
you need to kill the past.
flower, sun & rain was me all along, wasn't it?
Moon.
TBD
MOON. is a game that I seriously respect and that I'm glad to have played despite it being a very, very rough run. Coming from the background of a "classic era" Key fan, someone who was brought into visual novels by the likes of CLANNAD, AIR and Kanon, I wasn't expecting something like MOON. from many of the same minds. And yet, here it always was, their grittiest, ugliest story with some of the most heady themes of self-analysis and redemption in their catalogue. Interesting in particular to come to this after finally completing Subarashiki Hibi, a game with some very similar themes and agreed-upon explicitness of presentation of tragedy.
Well, one of the differences between a game like Subahibi and a game like MOON. is having about a decade and a half of foresight. I haven't played the original Tsui no Sora but I have to imagine even then, there was a lot more clear "purpose" to much of the dark imagery and subject matter than MOON. really has to offer. I do like the Elpod sequences in concept, the protagonist essentially shifting from a self-chastising abuse session of recounting her past behaviors to an acceptance and embrasure. That remains maybe the only sequence in which I felt the sexual and taboo aspects of MOON. began to mean something. With that said though, this game released early still into the golden age of PC eroge, so I'm absolutely willing to believe Tactics may have just been excited to be able to push boundaries in the stories they could tell. I get that.
And for what it's worth, I think MOON. experiments a lot and it's honestly pretty cool when it does. The soundtrack combined with the weird, almost early Megaten like dungeon-y aesthetic provide an experience clearly like nothing else in the team's catalogue. While I do feel that the movement mechanic, in which you select options on the VN's choice menu to navigate around was often more trouble than it was worth, I do have to applaud a few specific uses of it later in the story that felt immersive and genuinely a little off-putting in the intended way. There's also some very cool denpa-like imagery in the last few bits, some of which felt straight out of Tsui no Sora (not to mention the lingering influences of Evangelion all over the game as a whole), and I felt better walking out of that last hour than I did about the game as a whole prior. Wraps up nicely both in emotional resonance and thematic necessity.
So, yeah, take the lower score as my admittance that I don't think the game is very good, nor would I even especially recommend it to visual novel fans at large, but know that I did enjoy my time by and large and walk away excited to check out the other smaller works I missed from these guys prior to finally tackling Rewrite.
Well, one of the differences between a game like Subahibi and a game like MOON. is having about a decade and a half of foresight. I haven't played the original Tsui no Sora but I have to imagine even then, there was a lot more clear "purpose" to much of the dark imagery and subject matter than MOON. really has to offer. I do like the Elpod sequences in concept, the protagonist essentially shifting from a self-chastising abuse session of recounting her past behaviors to an acceptance and embrasure. That remains maybe the only sequence in which I felt the sexual and taboo aspects of MOON. began to mean something. With that said though, this game released early still into the golden age of PC eroge, so I'm absolutely willing to believe Tactics may have just been excited to be able to push boundaries in the stories they could tell. I get that.
And for what it's worth, I think MOON. experiments a lot and it's honestly pretty cool when it does. The soundtrack combined with the weird, almost early Megaten like dungeon-y aesthetic provide an experience clearly like nothing else in the team's catalogue. While I do feel that the movement mechanic, in which you select options on the VN's choice menu to navigate around was often more trouble than it was worth, I do have to applaud a few specific uses of it later in the story that felt immersive and genuinely a little off-putting in the intended way. There's also some very cool denpa-like imagery in the last few bits, some of which felt straight out of Tsui no Sora (not to mention the lingering influences of Evangelion all over the game as a whole), and I felt better walking out of that last hour than I did about the game as a whole prior. Wraps up nicely both in emotional resonance and thematic necessity.
So, yeah, take the lower score as my admittance that I don't think the game is very good, nor would I even especially recommend it to visual novel fans at large, but know that I did enjoy my time by and large and walk away excited to check out the other smaller works I missed from these guys prior to finally tackling Rewrite.
finally getting back around to my touhou adventures when i need a break from all the visual novel-ing. mountain of faith is another absolute gem from the one-man team shanghai alice, and as far as presentation goes, zun is almost at his absolute best here. the aesthetics, soundtrack and visual appeal of the fights has driven a lot of my favoritism with the touhou series thus far, and that's a good deal of the reason why mountain of faith sits second only behind perfect cherry blossom for me so far. where titles like the aforementioned cherry blossom or imperishable night went for very rustic or spiritual aesthetics in their design, mountain of faith bursts with psychedelic color with moments like the bright red leaves of stage three giving way to the cool browns and blues of its river brook backdrop just wowwing... enough to get you caught in danmaku your first few goes around. and this HAS to be the best soundtrack yet, bar none. "romantic fall" blows the first stage competition out of the water, but "the gensokyo the gods once loved", "fall of fall", "youkai mountain", and the debut of sanae to "faith is for the transient people"... jesus christ. it's zun at full power, track after track.
maybe it's the fact that i was playing on hard, but one of my few complaints with mountain of faith is how heavily i felt it goaded me into using bombs, particularly during the kanako fight. there's nothing wrong with using bombs, and in a pinch i'll throw one out if i have to, but i generally like the feeling of knowing i can get through even the toughest 1cc runs bombless if i play my cards right. maybe i need more practice, but it felt like there were more times than normal for me in a touhou game where the solution to a predicament during a spell card was a bomb. but if that's the biggest complaint i have about the game, then it's hardly anything to get too hung up over. mountain of faith gives me a lot of hope for this new generation of touhou - excited to see how zun follows this one up.
maybe it's the fact that i was playing on hard, but one of my few complaints with mountain of faith is how heavily i felt it goaded me into using bombs, particularly during the kanako fight. there's nothing wrong with using bombs, and in a pinch i'll throw one out if i have to, but i generally like the feeling of knowing i can get through even the toughest 1cc runs bombless if i play my cards right. maybe i need more practice, but it felt like there were more times than normal for me in a touhou game where the solution to a predicament during a spell card was a bomb. but if that's the biggest complaint i have about the game, then it's hardly anything to get too hung up over. mountain of faith gives me a lot of hope for this new generation of touhou - excited to see how zun follows this one up.