Our game begins with the words “L’Arc in Ciel” printed against a grainy film backdrop. We then quickly jump to objects that are much more modern by contrast: kawaii anime heads and a mix of hip phrases in an angular bubble font. The rest of the introduction proceeds like that: a chaotic mix of various pop media styles, each of them juxtaposed and remixed to the point that they’ve lost all meaning. All of this is supposed to connote youthful rebellion and an “I’m above caring about things that are beneath me” attitude, but the effect doesn’t completely come through. It can’t. Media remixing like this was a staple of the 1990s (others having done it better), and so was the idea of imbuing a product with a rebellious attitude. Considering how Gekitotsu Toma L’Arc: Tomarunner vs L’Arc-en-Ciel was released in 2000, people had a decade’s worth of time to adjust to those concepts and see the game for what it is: a carefully calculated marketing ploy.
When Ray Tracers was initially released, critics were less than excited with what the game had to offer. Jeff Gerstmann, writing for GameSpot, said of it, “While Ray Tracers is a pretty neat game, it’s way too easy and far too short to purchase. Rent this one, finish it, and forget it ever existed.” I’m inclined to believe other reviews at the time read similarly. Yet given how mainstream game criticism at the time treated games as products to be tested and reported on rather than as artistic statements to be interpreted and evaluated, I’m reluctant to accept whatever conclusions critics at the time came to.
The Dark Souls franchise may have put Japanese game developer FromSoftware on the map, but the company spent years refining the artistic sensibilities that made those games what they are. Nowhere is that clearer than in Echo Night, an unsung horror/adventure game from the company’s PlayStation days. On the one hand, the game demonstrates FromSoftware’s talent for building richly detailed worlds. But it’s what the game does with that world that catches my attention. Despite how strongly your surroundings code for horror, Echo Night is more interested in moving past horror than it is in reveling in it. Terror gives way to healing; to breaking the chains that tie us to the past.
Fear Effect was a subtly frustrating game for me. I don’t mean that in the sense that it was difficult to beat (I still have Fire Emblem Fates: Conquest fulfilling that role), but in the sense that it’s difficult to write about. Given the nature of Fear Effect – its unabashed use of Hollywood action movie tropes, its blatant racism and sexism – you’d think the game would be easy to dismiss. But at least where that first point is concerned, there’s a sense of purpose to the game that makes me reluctant to do so. In fact, when you consider those tropes in context, Fear Effect’s combination of action and horror conventions is incredibly clever and meaningful. Or at least it would be if the game didn’t commit so heavily to the action side, depriving the game of a powerful impact it might otherwise have.
A large part of me resists describing any video game as cheap marketing trash. Even if a game is clearly trying to cash in on the latest fad or was conceived of as another piece of tie-in merchandise (or both), that doesn’t automatically disqualify it from being a legitimate artistic endeavor. With Ms. Pac Man: Maze Madness, though, I struggle to find redeeming qualities in it. In fact, I struggle to find any qualities in the game whatsoever. The most generous thing I could say about the game is that contemporary players/reviewers would have found it mildly enjoyable if unremarkable. Yet I didn’t play this game at the time of its release; I played it well after the fact, and that added time brought with it clarity. What I played was more than an apathetic game in need of an identity; it was also an example of the more regrettable design trends in early 3D video games.
As cliche as idolizing games from the 1990s has become at this point, it’s worth remembering what it was about that decade that still lodges itself in the collective consciousness. It’s not just that people grew up during that time. Looking back on the era, I can see a lot of games that were exploring new waters not only with new gameplay models, but also with themes games still aren’t known for dealing with. This was the era of Yuuyami Doori Tankentai, iS: Internal Section, and the Deception series of games. (The PlayStation wasn’t the only place where developers were experimenting, obviously.)
Unfortunately, not all of these experiments ended with success, as I learned after playing Capcom’s One Piece Mansion. The game is a definite product of its time: a late PlayStation game with arcade sensibilities, all of it built around managing an apartment complex. I appreciate the pioneering spirit driving the game, but I also recognize that it can’t carry the game as far as it wishes it could. As compelling as the gameplay can be, its ideas about community building are too thorny and too riddled with problems for me to completely recommend the game.
As a product, Mad Panic Coaster stands out to me. It’s clear that this small PS1 game envisions itself first and foremost as a piece of marketing material. As it should; the game was made to promote the band of the same name, after all. In light of how few people are even aware of the band’s existence (much less associate this game with the band), though, it’s safe to say that Mad Panic Coaster has failed at its intended goal. Yet we shouldn’t be too quick to dismiss the game itself as a failure. Where Mad Panic Coaster the promotional product fails, Mad Panic Coaster the video game succeeds. Its sense of danger and excitement do a better job of simulating the roller coaster experience than many of the games to follow it.
Meremanoid and I have a curious relationship. Night after night, I’d spend time plugging away at this arcane PlayStation RPG, slowly losing interest as I proceed through the game. It felt like I was going through the motions, probably because I saw the game going through the motions as well. But I don’t want to reduce Meremanoid to sweeping genre cliches, since so much of what it does lies outside them. While the heady messages about finding an authentic self in an inauthentic world had been explored in previous games, the exaggerated gestures and flowery language the game uses to explore those ideas are entirely its own.
If any video game genre is prone to sweeping generalizations, it has to be beat-em-ups. For years, writers have been all too eager to lump these games together and to overstate their similarities. You move right and beat people up; that’s all a beat-em-up can ever offer. Except it isn’t. Sure, a lot of beat-em-ups play conservatively, but the genre has proven far more diverse and experimental than many are willing to give it credit for. For every conventional game like Final Fight, you also have a deceptively conventional one like Streets of Rage 2, or even something like Panzer Bandit.
And then there’s Nekketsu Oyako. Somehow, this obscure title manages to fit all three molds simultaneously. Looking past the “move right and beat people up” aspect of it, it’s clear that the game is at least trying to experiment with the genre. Unfortunately, it doesn’t try hard enough. It’s this incomplete break from generic conventions that ultimately leaves the game at odds with its own design.
While I don’t know what any of you perceive my writing to be (or even if you read the things I write), I like to think that I’m writing critical game reviews. I want to take games more seriously than just checking to see if their systems work, but I still want to answer the question, “Is this game worth your time?” Sometimes, though, I encounter a game that isn’t conducive to that approach.