Looking at the most popular trends in conventional game design, what stands out is how optimistic the assumptions underlying those trends are. Much of that comes down to how video game are conceptualized. Assuming that video games are primarily composed of actions (they aren’t) implies a host of other things about them: an agent who performs the action, a reason for performing the action at all, and a tangible effect on the world through which we can verify the action’s existence. Despite the wide range of responses to this situation, many can be boiled down to the following formula: a player commits these actions to solve problems in the game world, and in doing so, they make the world a noticeably better (or at least different) place than it was before.
In playing Mitsume ga Tooru, I didn’t intend to write a response to what I’d written last week. Swords & Soldiers II draws heavily from trends in the 2015 indie space, like tower defense and classic game design. Mitsume ga Tooru, besides existing alongside the classic games Swords & Soldiers II draws inspiration from, is a Natsume adaptation of an obscure Osamu Tezuka manga, and it only lightly draws from contemporary design trends. Any overlap between these two games would have to be slight, at best.
Gley Lancer begins on a scene far out in space, with two warring factions primed to face one another in combat. We don’t know who the combatants are or what their stakes in the battle are, and frankly, they’re not important to our understanding of the events at hand. The sturdy military march, the admiration for high level military tactics and machinery (both abstracted away from real situations) – these direct our attention toward action and plot. On this level we see a miscalculation on the heroes’ part result in the enemy abducting a commander with his entire ship. Upon hearing of this, the commander’s daughter (and protagonist of the game) Ensign Lucia Cabrock acts against military authority by commandeering a top secret military weapon to save her father.
By now, the influence American action movies have had on (early) Japanese video games is both well documented and widely understood. There are logical explanations for why these two spheres would come into contact with each other: action movies’ focus on spectacle leaves very little that needs translating/altering, making them easy to market to international audiences. I’ve also heard arguments that phrase this pairing as an inevitability: the simplest form a video game can take is essentially one or more players in conflict and projectiles to eliminate that player from play. (Or so the argument goes. This doesn’t explain why so many early video games were sports-based, and many others were even simpler than this.) Combine that with technological progressivism and follow-the-leader design philosophies, and action movies almost seem like a perfect fit for the industry.
Still, I can’t help but feel like these arguments leave something to be desired. They leave no room for an individual developer’s autonomy, which the games themselves suggest is a very significant factor. That pairing wasn’t accidental, but the product of a very real and very genuine love for American action movies. These games often have an air of absurdity to them, but they’re never critical of their source material. In fact, they celebrate the over-the-top spectacle that fuels action movies. Games like Bloody Wolf, Streets of Rage, Final Fight, Bionic Commando and most of Konami’s output in the 80s and 90s are fun specifically because they have fun with themselves.
During the early 90s, Japanese game developer Naxat Soft started running an annual competition they called the Summer Carnival. It was a response to Hudson Soft’s longer-running Hudson Caravan event, but the premise behind both was the same: the company would organize regional competitions around a particular game, and players would have all summer to practice their skills before competing for the title of national champion. Both events have long since faded into obscurity – the Summer Carnival only lasted a few years (until 1993, to be specific) and the Caravan somehow held out until 2006 – but the games that were designed for these events still remain.
The early Phantasy Star series had a complicated history when it came to their non-numbered games. When Sega deemed a Phantasy Star project important enough to become part of the main story, they were capable of making thoughtful games with readily identifiable voices and a deep thematic base. Move to the peripheries of the Phantasy Star canon, however, and this guarantee becomes much spottier. Sometimes, you get games like Text Adventures, which meaningfully complement the source material while putting forth their own views on the world. But you’re equally likely to get something like Phantasy Star Adventure, a game that rehashes very basic sci-fi fantasy conventions because it has nothing to say with them.
And as is the case with Phantasy Star Gaiden (the last game in the Complete Collection), you end up with generic games that stumble into sufficiently deep thematic material completely by accident. On the surface, the game appears to eschew the dark futuristic trappings of its peers in favor of something grand and heroic; more like Dragon Quest. Yet’s it precisely because of how adamantly the game clings to these traditions that it’s able to create an experience that’s out of line with what those traditions might suggest. Despite Gaiden’s fantasy trappings, the world it presents us with is bleak, mundane, and almost entirely lacking in heroism.
Something I’ve found myself interested in recently (recently meaning “since I started writing this article”) is the variety of ways one can approach difficulty in games. For one, there’s the many ways difficulty can manifest in a game. Even in a single video game, the multitude of ways you’re expected to interact with the world around you translate into a multitude of difficulties a developer can modify at any given time (EG Silent Hill scaling combat and puzzle difficulties separately). However, what’s captured my interest more is the variety of purposes difficulty can serve players. Even something specific like masocore games demonstrates that variety.
- The admiration for the individualistic will, coupled with warnings of the danger a techno-autocracy poses.
- The strong thematic through-line and the context that helps to ground it.
- The bold ways these games are willing to experiment with their form in order to better represent these ideas.
Even side projects like the Text Adventures have earned my respect. Unfortunately, exceptions are inevitable with long-running series like these, and as you’ve probably already predicted, Phantasy Star Adventure is that very exception. I would call the game yet another experiment in Phantasy Star’s illustrious history, but that would overlook a lot of the game’s core flaws: namely, their unwillingness to experiment. Despite following in the Text Adventures’ heels, Adventure makes no effort to capitalize on those gains or to represent any of the previously listed strong points. Instead, the game retreats into the safety of generic convention, unwilling to question or challenge or impress.
Like so many of the games I review, Nightshade stands out to me as a definite product of its era. On the one hand, Beam Software’s 1992 title is clearly riding the wave of adventure games that felt like cheap pulp fiction when they were taking themselves seriously and lighthearted children’s comics when they weren’t. (In fact, it’s somehow able to embody both of them at the same time.) And on the other hand, it’s referencing both the influx of grim & gritty superheroes and the comic books made to parody said superheroes. In addition to being a smart combination, this is also a very well realized one on the game’s part. With it, Nightshade is able to undermine the most prevalent trends in the comic book world while simultaneously holding onto its affection for them.
If there’s anything more disheartening than playing a bad game, it’s playing a game with the potential to be a good one. Bad games are straightforward; they are what they are. But a game with unfulfilled potential conjures up feelings of sadness and frustration. It hints at a greatness that could have been, but for one reason or another, that greatness forever lies just outside of its reach. All of this is what comes to mind when I think of Parodius: Non-Sense Fantasy. The second entry in Konami’s well-known series of wacky shooters, Non-Sense Fantasy has a fantastic understanding of silly absurdist humor, and it comes so very, very close to realizing it. Unfortunately, its reliance on classic Konami shooter design philosophies prevents it from lampooning shooter convention where it matters the most. So while the rest of the game has no problem presenting itself as the ridiculous spectacle it wants to be, the gameplay sticks out like a huge pimple on an otherwise blemish-free face.