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.
Most retro game enthusiasts who play Saiyuuki World will quickly realize the game is just Wonder Boy in Monster Land dressed up in Journey to the West references and motifs. On its own, this fact isn’t likely to arouse much interest. Much like Dragon Ball before it, Saiyuuki World is more interested in using those motifs to lend the game a distinctive character than it is in perfectly translating the original Journey to the West into video game form or even letting its motifs inform the plot in any meaningful way. Still, the game’s existence and the history behind it both point to a much larger trend that does around interest.
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.
When it comes to games, my specialty is reviewing older, more obscure games. I’d describe these games as forgotten, but most of them never had a chance to enter the public memory in the first place. Sometimes, this exposes me to games that challenge contemporary understandings of games or that don’t neatly fit into it. Just as often, though, I play a game and it feels immediately familiar even if I’d never played it before.
Enter Moai-Kun, Konami’s puzzle game based on their eponymous sort-of mascot. This might have been the first time I’d played this specific iteration, but the broader game behind Moai-Kun is something I have quite a bit of experience with. Sutte Hakkun, Power Lode Runner, Mole Mania, and to a lesser extent, Adventures of Lolo all belong to this same family of character-driven action games that Moai-Kun is a member of. Needless to say, Moai-Kun is a welcome addition to the family. It brings the same simplistic charm its siblings are known for while still doing just enough on its own to distinguish itself from them every so slightly.
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.
How is it that game developers consistently release their best material toward the end of a console’s life cycle? “Experience” isn’t a satisfactory explanation, since in addition to pushing technical limits, these games tend to be more experimental than anything preceding them. Conker’s Bad Fur Day deconstructed the mascot platformer genre, and Panzer Dragoon Saga gave a rail shooter all the breadth of an RPG. And then there’s Metal Slader Glory, one of the more ambitious titles to appear on the NES. I have to admit that what Metal Slader Glory does isn’t completely outside what other games at the time were doing. It changes enough, though, and there’s a lot we can learn about the game by looking at those differences.
Given how prevalent cross-platform titles are today, it’s easy to forget just how important individual platforms used to be. Not for their technical specifications, mind you, but because of how each platform asked the player to engage them. They appeared in different environments, appealed to different audiences, and occupied different parts of our lives. So it’s only natural that video games designed for different platforms would reflect these unique circumstances. Games for portable systems, for instance, focused on straightforward systems and small play sessions because they expected the player to engage the game in very short bursts. Meanwhile, PC games appealed to a more technically inclined audience with complex systems that demanded more of the player.
Even within these categories, there remains a degree of fluidity. Or at least that’s the logic Hammerin’ Harry is working on. It’s clear that this early 90s platformer is operating in the arcade tradition, which is why it’s so remarkable to see how the game break from that tradition. For all the game does to capture the feel of arcade games, it refuses to see them as games of skill. In fact, it challenges that notion: rather than look at these games as being about difficulty, Hammerin’ Harry asks that we look at arcade games for novelty above all else. What appears to be a minor change in focus has broad consequences for how the game plays out.
Yuko Ahso, a typical Japanese high school student, happens upon some magical entity that interrupts her otherwise conventional life. She is soon whisked away to the magical world of Vecante, where she learns of a war between good and evil. As the wielder of the Valis Sword, it is up to her to put an end to the conflict. This is a narrative that the Valis series has retold numerous times. It’s boilerplate, as far as fantasy stories go, and I won’t pretend the games have done anything revolutionary with them. But that hasn’t prevented them from telling the story well. Each game advances the overarching plot enough and adds enough personality to make it their own.
So how is it that Valis: The Fantastic Soldier, the NES reimagining of the first game, utterly fails to do the same? Within the series’ context, the game appears on the right track. Rather than present itself like its action-oriented brethren, this game plays more like an exploration-centric action-RPG. Surprisingly, though, Valis forgets to do anything with this set-up. All it has to offer is a flat expanse of nothing, bereft of any character.
In all the video game discussions I’ve seen, I’ve rarely (if ever) seen anybody talk about clones in a positive light. People use the term to dismiss whatever games they don’t like, or to discuss the very serious problems that plague mobile markets. While I can understand why people deride clones (especially on the mobile market, where they’re so easy to make), I don’t believe clones have to be a bad thing. In fact, I’d argue that in responsible hands, they can lead to the sort of tinkering that makes video games thrive.
I would argue that if not for Holy Diver. While Irem’s 1989 platformer is an obvious homage to Castlevania, it doesn’t understand what makes Castlevania a compelling game. So while it captures the easy-to-emulate surface elements just fine, it lacks any kind of meaningful base to layer them upon. The predictable result of all this is a hollow adventure.
Video games have been employing fantasy almost since their inception. I don’t just mean medieval magical fantasy, mind you, but the more general idea of living an alternate life. Yet despite its prevalence, it’s rare to find a game that relies entirely on fantasy. Normally, games find some other ancillary factor to fall back on, like an intricate narrative or gripping mechanics. It’s easy to understand why: the fantasy in question usually isn’t strong enough to stand on its own, necessitating these kinds of fail safes.
Willow proves to be the exception. This NES action game based off the same movie is the kind of game that relies almost entirely on its fantasy, and what’s more, works all the better for it. It’s almost like an inversion of what I’d previously described. In a game where each part fails to stand on its own, Willow’s core fantasy remains so solid that they’ve no choice but to depend on it.