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Wrath: Aeon of Ruin
2019
Wrath's appeal is a niche within a niche- the throwback shooter pivots itself on high-octane action inside of short/varied levels usually, and Wrath isn't this. It's high-octane; it's more intense than any other throwback shooter I've played by a heavy long shot, but it doesn't let you cool down. Levels are designed with less focus on a gimmick (arguably to its detriment) and more so with a focus on being gauntlets. Each one clocks in at about twenty minutes to half-an-hour if you're not speedrunning, and the appeal might seem limited given the small enemy roster and lack of variety, but I think Wrath taps into something totally worthwhile once you give it some time. The game slowly feeds you new content, thus demanding you figure out the ideal strategies for each enemy- which might reveal maybe the best weapon/item roster I've ever seen in these types of games. Every weapon has a primary fire and an alt-fire that is practical for the constant hostile ways enemies swarm you, and I do mean swarm you. Some levels clocked in at around 500+ enemies, and that's where Wrath's secret lays. It's as much a Serious Sam as it is a Quake, and it's a lot better than the average horde-shooter, too! Every weapon choice allows for high player expression here because they're pretty much all equally practical; you really need to balance out function and conserving ammo to invent your own ideal combos to put down the increasingly tanky enemies or large swarms. As the game really starts kicking you down with full on armies later on, it's always encouraged to explore for secrets and collect items, which are super utilitarian and I didn't find one of them uninteresting. Importantly, items are so limited that collecting them (and ammo) across multiple levels makes the entire game a resource-management challenge, as opposed to just one level usually. Saves themselves, being turned into an resource, also fixes one of the things I dislike most about classic PC gaming: the encouragement of save-scumming. Yeah, they could've dumbed down the number of Soul Tethers you get quite a bit, but just the notion of them and the Shrines is great. All of Wrath feels like a trial of reflex and moment-to-moment wit to me, and I love it! You might find it repetitive/padded, and I wouldn't blame you, but I loved Arcane Dimensions.
This review contains spoilers
If there's one game that perfectly encapsulates the advantage games have over other media, it might just be Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons. It's one thing see a empathize with a protagonist's struggles, witnessing them unfold in a book or a movie. The interactivity of games allows us to make those struggles our own.
There's no way to talk about Brothers without spoiling it, so here goes nothing. In Brothers, you control the two titular sons simultaneously: the left stick and trigger control the older brother, and the right stick and trigger control the younger brother. Several scenes of standard action-adventure unfold until, at the climax of the game, the older brother is mortally wounded, and dies from his injuries.
Now, we play as only the younger brother--left alone in the world. And we perceive this, playing with a stilted one-hand control scheme. The older brother's death is felt by the player, through the now useless left side of the controller.
Until of course, the younger brother reaches a creek he must cross to progress--in spite of his fear of water. You can walk the younger brother to the edge of the water and watch him refuse to enter, as he did throughout the game. Eventually, the player realizes that the younger brother can be encouraged, by pressing in the older brother's trigger. It's undoubtedly an impressive moment.
I found myself, after the older brother's passing, absentmindedly twirling the now lifeless left analog stick. Maybe this was my own form of denial. In it's own way, Brothers allowed me to experience the younger brother's loss along with him.
I think, though, the Brother's downfall is that, this moment of "mechanics as metaphor", as well-designed as it is, is all Brothers has to offer. You can tell Brothers was conceived as a mechanic first, as a game second, and as an story last. About all we really know about the two playable characters is written right there in the title.
The problem with this approach is that, the best metaphor means nothing if the characters it embodies aren't ones we care about. The controls enable us to empathize with the characters, but there is unfortunately nothing there for us to latch onto. Playing Brothers, I was emotionally moved, but because I thought back to my own experiences with loss, not the specific example Brothers actually depicts.
I said at the start that Brothers is the game most emblematic of what games as a medium can do that books and film cannot. But, Brothers falls short of actually putting its own concepts into action. Cereza and the Lost Demon is a game that probably took inspiration from Brothers. We control two characters simultaneously: the witch Cereza and the demon Cheshire. There is actually a similar moment to Brother's twist too: Cereza and Cheshire have an argument, leading to the two splitting up briefly. Playing with only one hand, we can feel Cheshire's absence.
There is no doubt Brothers did this concept better than Cereza and the Lost Demon. But it is the latter game that caused me more emotional resonance, simply because I actually cared about Cheshire, and I did not care about the older brother.
Brothers is undoubtedly a landmark title in our medium, but equally it is a cautionary tale. Brothers' commitment to its concept is admirable--but in doing so it loses sight of what really makes art matter.
There's no way to talk about Brothers without spoiling it, so here goes nothing. In Brothers, you control the two titular sons simultaneously: the left stick and trigger control the older brother, and the right stick and trigger control the younger brother. Several scenes of standard action-adventure unfold until, at the climax of the game, the older brother is mortally wounded, and dies from his injuries.
Now, we play as only the younger brother--left alone in the world. And we perceive this, playing with a stilted one-hand control scheme. The older brother's death is felt by the player, through the now useless left side of the controller.
Until of course, the younger brother reaches a creek he must cross to progress--in spite of his fear of water. You can walk the younger brother to the edge of the water and watch him refuse to enter, as he did throughout the game. Eventually, the player realizes that the younger brother can be encouraged, by pressing in the older brother's trigger. It's undoubtedly an impressive moment.
I found myself, after the older brother's passing, absentmindedly twirling the now lifeless left analog stick. Maybe this was my own form of denial. In it's own way, Brothers allowed me to experience the younger brother's loss along with him.
I think, though, the Brother's downfall is that, this moment of "mechanics as metaphor", as well-designed as it is, is all Brothers has to offer. You can tell Brothers was conceived as a mechanic first, as a game second, and as an story last. About all we really know about the two playable characters is written right there in the title.
The problem with this approach is that, the best metaphor means nothing if the characters it embodies aren't ones we care about. The controls enable us to empathize with the characters, but there is unfortunately nothing there for us to latch onto. Playing Brothers, I was emotionally moved, but because I thought back to my own experiences with loss, not the specific example Brothers actually depicts.
I said at the start that Brothers is the game most emblematic of what games as a medium can do that books and film cannot. But, Brothers falls short of actually putting its own concepts into action. Cereza and the Lost Demon is a game that probably took inspiration from Brothers. We control two characters simultaneously: the witch Cereza and the demon Cheshire. There is actually a similar moment to Brother's twist too: Cereza and Cheshire have an argument, leading to the two splitting up briefly. Playing with only one hand, we can feel Cheshire's absence.
There is no doubt Brothers did this concept better than Cereza and the Lost Demon. But it is the latter game that caused me more emotional resonance, simply because I actually cared about Cheshire, and I did not care about the older brother.
Brothers is undoubtedly a landmark title in our medium, but equally it is a cautionary tale. Brothers' commitment to its concept is admirable--but in doing so it loses sight of what really makes art matter.
Anodyne
2013
There's one truly inspired moment in Anodyne. I won't spoil it here, but it has to do with a context-sensitive action surprising the player with an unexpected outcome. I play games for moments like this: that catch me off guard and enlighten my understanding of game design. Overall, I feel pretty mixed on Anodyne, so I thought it best to start with the positive. Of every game I've rated below 2.5 stars, Anodyne is the one I'm most glad to have played, purely because of its willingness to surprise.
That said, Anodyne's downfall stems from how plain its inspirations are. Anodyne is Zelda meets Yume Nikki. This isn't necessarily a problem: Zelda and Yume Nikki are among the most influential, especially for indie games. The problem is, taking so much from such landmark titles invites a comparison that is seldom favorable.
Much like Zelda, Anodyne is a top down dungeon crawler. Anodyne's main innovation is using a Broom as a weapon: it functions much like a sword, but it has the added ability to pick up and place down dust. Unlike Zelda, there are no dungeon items, and few upgrades to speak of: every dungeon is designed entirely around the Broom. There are a few interesting puzzle solving applications of the broom: you can use dust to swim across water, or to block projectiles, or to power moving platforms. This central mechanic isn't horribly shallow, but it definitely lacks enough depth to support 6 dungeons. The result is, in spite of its short length, Anodyne feels quite repetitive, and easily wears out its welcome.
Much like Yume Nikki, Anodyne is an exploration-focused game taking place in the protagonists subconscious. Though I think Anodyne is a decent Zelda-like game, I really feel like it misses the mark on this front. Yume Nikki is gripping not just because of the surreal imagery, but because said imagery communicates something about the protagonist. Yume Nikki has a section that switches to an 8-bit art style--but this makes perfect sense considering Madotsuki owns a Famicom in the real world.
Anodyne also has a sudden 8bit section. But, what does this tell us about our protagonist, Young? Not much. After the 8-bit area, Anodyne drops all pretense and shoves the player into a Circus-themed dungeon for seemingly no reason.
Overall, Anodyne's setting captures all of the weaknesses of dreamlike settings, and none of the strengths. Anodyne feels incredibly lazy: It doesn't want to put in the work to establish a consistent setting, nor does it put effort into making its surreal imagery symbolically resonant like Yume Nikki does.
Ultimately, Anodyne blindly copies from Zelda and Yume Nikki, while embodying none of the lessons those games actually taught. It's not horrible, but its a long way from greatness.
That said, Anodyne's downfall stems from how plain its inspirations are. Anodyne is Zelda meets Yume Nikki. This isn't necessarily a problem: Zelda and Yume Nikki are among the most influential, especially for indie games. The problem is, taking so much from such landmark titles invites a comparison that is seldom favorable.
Much like Zelda, Anodyne is a top down dungeon crawler. Anodyne's main innovation is using a Broom as a weapon: it functions much like a sword, but it has the added ability to pick up and place down dust. Unlike Zelda, there are no dungeon items, and few upgrades to speak of: every dungeon is designed entirely around the Broom. There are a few interesting puzzle solving applications of the broom: you can use dust to swim across water, or to block projectiles, or to power moving platforms. This central mechanic isn't horribly shallow, but it definitely lacks enough depth to support 6 dungeons. The result is, in spite of its short length, Anodyne feels quite repetitive, and easily wears out its welcome.
Much like Yume Nikki, Anodyne is an exploration-focused game taking place in the protagonists subconscious. Though I think Anodyne is a decent Zelda-like game, I really feel like it misses the mark on this front. Yume Nikki is gripping not just because of the surreal imagery, but because said imagery communicates something about the protagonist. Yume Nikki has a section that switches to an 8-bit art style--but this makes perfect sense considering Madotsuki owns a Famicom in the real world.
Anodyne also has a sudden 8bit section. But, what does this tell us about our protagonist, Young? Not much. After the 8-bit area, Anodyne drops all pretense and shoves the player into a Circus-themed dungeon for seemingly no reason.
Overall, Anodyne's setting captures all of the weaknesses of dreamlike settings, and none of the strengths. Anodyne feels incredibly lazy: It doesn't want to put in the work to establish a consistent setting, nor does it put effort into making its surreal imagery symbolically resonant like Yume Nikki does.
Ultimately, Anodyne blindly copies from Zelda and Yume Nikki, while embodying none of the lessons those games actually taught. It's not horrible, but its a long way from greatness.
Journey
2012
For a game that garnered impossible levels of critical acclaim, I have surprisingly little to say about Journey. Journey is a game. You play as this red dude that jumps on things. It looks really pretty. The sand mechanics are impressive. I thought the flying was fun.
My review of Journey sounds like a bulleted list because Journey itself is a checklist of Good Game Design™, for better or for worse. "Good games show, not tell their stories." And so, Journey is a wordless game. "Good Games use gameplay to enhance the player's experience." And so, Journey's gameplay heightens our protagonist's highs and lows. "Good Games present the player with polished and professional art and music" And so, Journey is unbelievably polished. Journey is the closest a game has ever come to being objectively good. Pick the aphorism of your choice, and odds are, Journey already puts it into practice.
This polished design is Journey's greatest strength... but also its greatest weakness. Journey is a great game on paper, but it almost feels more concerned with being a great game on paper than being a great game.
What's missing from Journey is hard to quantify. It's not soul: I have to admit Journey has that in spades. No, whats missing is subtler. It's missing risk. Every single aspect of Journey is so carefully made it is impossible to find fault. And yet, as a result, Journey lacks a certain boldness that is the defining quality of the games I truly love. It's fitting that Journey is modeled after the Hero's Journey--a trope so old it literally originated in the first book ever written.
Metal Gear Solid massively overuses dialogue. OFF's core gameplay is essentially an afterthought. Stephen's Sausage Roll is maybe the ugliest game I've ever played. And yet, Journey isn't half the game these are.
This probably comes across as a negative review. Actually, I really enjoyed playing Journey. I easily recommend it; it's so absurdly refined it's impossible not to. Journey is short, poignant, and beautiful. But, it's not my favorite game. And it probably isn't yours either.
My review of Journey sounds like a bulleted list because Journey itself is a checklist of Good Game Design™, for better or for worse. "Good games show, not tell their stories." And so, Journey is a wordless game. "Good Games use gameplay to enhance the player's experience." And so, Journey's gameplay heightens our protagonist's highs and lows. "Good Games present the player with polished and professional art and music" And so, Journey is unbelievably polished. Journey is the closest a game has ever come to being objectively good. Pick the aphorism of your choice, and odds are, Journey already puts it into practice.
This polished design is Journey's greatest strength... but also its greatest weakness. Journey is a great game on paper, but it almost feels more concerned with being a great game on paper than being a great game.
What's missing from Journey is hard to quantify. It's not soul: I have to admit Journey has that in spades. No, whats missing is subtler. It's missing risk. Every single aspect of Journey is so carefully made it is impossible to find fault. And yet, as a result, Journey lacks a certain boldness that is the defining quality of the games I truly love. It's fitting that Journey is modeled after the Hero's Journey--a trope so old it literally originated in the first book ever written.
Metal Gear Solid massively overuses dialogue. OFF's core gameplay is essentially an afterthought. Stephen's Sausage Roll is maybe the ugliest game I've ever played. And yet, Journey isn't half the game these are.
This probably comes across as a negative review. Actually, I really enjoyed playing Journey. I easily recommend it; it's so absurdly refined it's impossible not to. Journey is short, poignant, and beautiful. But, it's not my favorite game. And it probably isn't yours either.
Banjo-Kazooie
1998
There is nothing harder than attempting to follow in the footsteps of a revolutionary masterpiece like Super Mario 64. And yet, no studio in the world was better equipped than Rare--after all, they completed this herculean task once before.
In a lot of ways, Banjo-Kazooie did for 3D platformers exactly what Donkey Kong Country did for 2D platformers. Much like how the Donkey Kong Country games solidified the baseline established by the early Mario titles, Banjo-Kazooie made great strides for the 3D platformer genre. No one can doubt Mario 64's influence, but much of the tropes of platformers of the time stemmed from Banjo-Kazooie, not Mario.
It's worth praising the work that went into bringing the stages of Banjo-Kazooie to life. Gruntilda's Lair dwarfs Peach's Castle, featuring far more puzzles and secrets. Banjo Kazooie's stages are filled with colorful characters and surprisingly solid writing. The texture work is absolutely phenomenal--Banjo-Kazooie looks better than anything on the N64 has a right to. And, last but not least, there is the absolutely legendary soundtrack. Praising the soundtrack is done to death at this point, but more understated, however, is the impeccable crossfading.
It's hard not to consider Banjo-Kazooie a massive success, and don't get me wrong, it is. But, all the same, I find myself preferring Super Mario 64. Banjo-Kazooie's huge scope is impressive, but I can't help but feel it distracts from the actual point of a 3D platformer: the platforming. It's telling that Banjo-Kazooie's most frustrating and least enjoyable moments (like the fan room in Rusty Bucket Bay) are the ones that lean more heavily into actual platforming. Mario 64 has, still, the best movement system of any 3D platformer ever. In comparison, Banjo-Kazooie's platforming is a bit passé.
I almost think Banjo-Kazooie has been put into the wrong genre. The things Banjo-Kazooie is remembered by are the zany challenges (like the Furnace Fun Quiz), the transformations, the characters, the evolving worlds, the music; not the platforming. Banjo-Kazooie is a great game, but I'm not actually convinced it's a great platformer. This, honestly, almost doesn't matter though. Banjo-Kazooie is by no means conflicted: it knows what its strengths are, and it chooses wisely to make those strengths the focus.
Banjo-Kazooie stands on the shoulders of giants. It may not eclipse its predecessors in the way Donkey Kong Country did, but what Banjo-Kazooie did achieve is remarkable all the same.
In a lot of ways, Banjo-Kazooie did for 3D platformers exactly what Donkey Kong Country did for 2D platformers. Much like how the Donkey Kong Country games solidified the baseline established by the early Mario titles, Banjo-Kazooie made great strides for the 3D platformer genre. No one can doubt Mario 64's influence, but much of the tropes of platformers of the time stemmed from Banjo-Kazooie, not Mario.
It's worth praising the work that went into bringing the stages of Banjo-Kazooie to life. Gruntilda's Lair dwarfs Peach's Castle, featuring far more puzzles and secrets. Banjo Kazooie's stages are filled with colorful characters and surprisingly solid writing. The texture work is absolutely phenomenal--Banjo-Kazooie looks better than anything on the N64 has a right to. And, last but not least, there is the absolutely legendary soundtrack. Praising the soundtrack is done to death at this point, but more understated, however, is the impeccable crossfading.
It's hard not to consider Banjo-Kazooie a massive success, and don't get me wrong, it is. But, all the same, I find myself preferring Super Mario 64. Banjo-Kazooie's huge scope is impressive, but I can't help but feel it distracts from the actual point of a 3D platformer: the platforming. It's telling that Banjo-Kazooie's most frustrating and least enjoyable moments (like the fan room in Rusty Bucket Bay) are the ones that lean more heavily into actual platforming. Mario 64 has, still, the best movement system of any 3D platformer ever. In comparison, Banjo-Kazooie's platforming is a bit passé.
I almost think Banjo-Kazooie has been put into the wrong genre. The things Banjo-Kazooie is remembered by are the zany challenges (like the Furnace Fun Quiz), the transformations, the characters, the evolving worlds, the music; not the platforming. Banjo-Kazooie is a great game, but I'm not actually convinced it's a great platformer. This, honestly, almost doesn't matter though. Banjo-Kazooie is by no means conflicted: it knows what its strengths are, and it chooses wisely to make those strengths the focus.
Banjo-Kazooie stands on the shoulders of giants. It may not eclipse its predecessors in the way Donkey Kong Country did, but what Banjo-Kazooie did achieve is remarkable all the same.
Super Mario Sunshine
2002
This review contains spoilers
Sunshine is a game I feel incredibly conflicted on. Mario 64 is an incredible game, but you really feel the N64's limited resources hold the game back. A follow up to Mario 64 on more powerful hardware had the potential to be the best game ever.
In some respects, Sunshine delivered. Mario 64 already had an incredible movement system, and yet with FLUDD Sunshine delivers an excellent followup. Giving Mario a jetpack is exactly as amazing as it sounds.
Likewise, Delfino Plaza feels like a natural evolution of Peach's Castle. Mario 64 stood out from the SNES Mario titles by contextualizing the levels as part of a greater world. Sunshine takes this much further: Delfino Island is a great setting that feels incredibly real, especially for a Gamecube game. The way you can see other stages in the distance is a small but extremely important touch in making Delfino Island believable.
The problem is, all of these successes are just window dressing for what really is the core of a platformer: the level design. In this respect Sunshine is far less successful. Sunshine is filled with far too many shines that are, frankly, complete bullshit: the lily pad secret, the pachinko stage, blooper racing to name a few. It's fitting that Sunshine's final moments are spent not platforming, but awkwardly piloting a boat across lava. Sunshine is a mess of gimmicks right to the end.
Other stages suffer from the opposite extreme: many are little more than empty boxes for the player to run around it. Thankfully, these fair much better: they are not great examples of level design, but FLUDD makes even just running around enjoyable.
With so many stages frustrating, and so many others a complete vacuum of content, it's amazing how few truly great stages Sunshine has. Pinna Park is probably the only consistently great level. Other stages still have some excellent shines, but mixed in with some truly terrible ones.
Ultimately, Sunshine isn't a bad game, just a disappointing one. The smooth gameplay FLUDD provides and the relaxed tropical vibe of Delfino Island is enough to make Sunshine a worthwhile experience. It's just a shame knowing Sunshine could have been so much more.
In some respects, Sunshine delivered. Mario 64 already had an incredible movement system, and yet with FLUDD Sunshine delivers an excellent followup. Giving Mario a jetpack is exactly as amazing as it sounds.
Likewise, Delfino Plaza feels like a natural evolution of Peach's Castle. Mario 64 stood out from the SNES Mario titles by contextualizing the levels as part of a greater world. Sunshine takes this much further: Delfino Island is a great setting that feels incredibly real, especially for a Gamecube game. The way you can see other stages in the distance is a small but extremely important touch in making Delfino Island believable.
The problem is, all of these successes are just window dressing for what really is the core of a platformer: the level design. In this respect Sunshine is far less successful. Sunshine is filled with far too many shines that are, frankly, complete bullshit: the lily pad secret, the pachinko stage, blooper racing to name a few. It's fitting that Sunshine's final moments are spent not platforming, but awkwardly piloting a boat across lava. Sunshine is a mess of gimmicks right to the end.
Other stages suffer from the opposite extreme: many are little more than empty boxes for the player to run around it. Thankfully, these fair much better: they are not great examples of level design, but FLUDD makes even just running around enjoyable.
With so many stages frustrating, and so many others a complete vacuum of content, it's amazing how few truly great stages Sunshine has. Pinna Park is probably the only consistently great level. Other stages still have some excellent shines, but mixed in with some truly terrible ones.
Ultimately, Sunshine isn't a bad game, just a disappointing one. The smooth gameplay FLUDD provides and the relaxed tropical vibe of Delfino Island is enough to make Sunshine a worthwhile experience. It's just a shame knowing Sunshine could have been so much more.