A Prime Example

“Because Metroid Prime is a first-person adventure, you dimwit”.

This is simply a self-admonition statment I mutter to myself whenever I seem displeased with a first-person game, particularly shooters. I insensibly tend to compare any first-person shooter I pick up with Metroid Prime, forgetting the fact that a mutual share of vintage point doesn’t qualify a mutual comparison in design. Obviously, it would be incongruous to lump Metroid Prime, Far Cry 2, and Mirror’s Edge, for example, in a singular typology, partially since these games are representatives of their subgenres: fruitions that have conceptually meshed two or three novel devises in their premises. However, as subjective as this may sound, Metroid Prime properly culminates the enlivenment of an adventure and the ambiance of a first-person unlike no other. Even if we detach Prime into its elements, we will still come across to an opus finessed in quality and peerless gameplay. The Texas-based Retro Studios have certainly fashioned a tough model to follow, for them and for any game that aspires to tread Prime’s lead. Therefore, it would be better to consider this post as a critical accolade instead of an all-encompassing critique.

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The introduction of Metroid Prime, and its presentation of our heroin, Samus Aran, easily epitomizes the entire directive design of the game. The moment when Samus steps out of her spaceship –the camera encircles her to imbue her 3D flourish, gradually zooming-in close from her backside until we get inside her Varia Suit, and finally pioneering the visor system for the first time– is nothing short of a brilliant. Whatever skepticism we might have had regarding her transition to the third dimension flawlessly superseded with wonder on why it hasn’t been always that way. Prime, perhaps, is one of the earliest games that sensibly diminished the HUD for an alternative yet refined interface. Unlike the immaculate display in Dead Space, for example, the indicators are still cluttered on the screen, but the immediate accessibility and recognition almost eliminate any allusion of detachment with the game. This is also true when selecting a different visor or a type of beam, hence, curbing the level of frustration and confusion that might ensue in the heat of the battle to minimum.

This brings an important aspect of Samus’s Varia Suit: its elaborative functionality.  Every kind of weaponry and upgrade within her multifarious suit is an extension of herself. There are no gimmicks or pretense armaments that perpetuate on false quantities. While Samus’s repertoire is limited, her seemingly modest resources compensate her shortcomings wholly. It is impossible not to be amazed by the multitude of operations the Varia Suit is capable of, especially when we have unlocked and discovered all its expansions.

Our initial experimentation with the ingenuity of the Varia Suit likely begins with the Scan Visor, the tool that not only enriches the history and the agriculture life of Tallon IV but also the narrative experience in Metroid Prime. Indeed, Prime’s lack of visual cut-scenes eludes the lack of a plot, which is criminally a false assumption. The story of Prime is evident; it’s just it isn’t about the present situations that transpire in Tallon IV but rather its past. The objectives are clear from the onset, and there is no need for a plot progression or a twist to entice us inside the realm of the game. The tenderly written lore that has been left behind by the Chozos easily authenticates and galvanizes the sense of urgency resulted from the poisonous calamity that plagues the planet. Concurrently, The scattered Space Pirates logs impart the voice of the antagonist in the narrative, with a declaration of plausible ventures, researches, and schemes that are naturally devious and malevolent.

Comparatively, Metroid Prime is BioShock, despite its five years head start. The highlight of BioShock’s triumph in terms of conveying atmosphere and chronology is that it threads on moral association and its strong affinity to human nature more reasonably than Prime. Andrew Ryan is more tyrannical and believable to us than Ridley. His goals and ambitions are convoluted and empathetic than some fictionalized, beastly villain that doesn’t exist within our fragments of reality. The experimentations and reasoning behind exploiting the power of Phazon –while intriguing and convincing– are unequivocally anarchistic than harvesting and gaining Adam, despite the fact both of them are sought for selfish and scientific needs. The scattered radio messages in BioShock offer a rather dramatic performances and introspective tales than the oracular traces of the Chozos. Rapture is more verisimilitudinous and minutely envisioned through the lens of human imagination than the extraterrestrial Tallon IV. Such attributes surely are effective and perceptive to anyone who willingly gives BioShock a solicitous assessment than the sci-fi fabrication found in Metroid Prime.

Nonetheless, Tallon IV isn’t completely foreign or lifeless as it is seemingly rendered. Its forlorn and foreboding aesthetics yield a fascinating concoction of biology, agriculture, and civilization. The remnants of the Chozo culture imprint a haunting impression that life, once upon a time, took its toll on every facet of the desolate planet. The architectures and machineries that remain embellished and functional on every corner foretell a sad history that didn’t get its chance to thrive and be properly archived and cultivated. “It is a silent drama” as a friend of mine notes, and indeed it is. Even the parasitic and fungous vegetations and organisms found in Tallon Overworld and Chozo Ruins eschew their prop-like sceneries; they ooze fluids, release toxic gases, hinder Samus’ movement, and spout a harmful energy when shot with the Charge Beam.

Yet, what steal the show in Metroid Prime are the conceived looking species that tread the five different climatic zones in Tallon IV. Prime’s menagerie exhibits fascinating behavioral tendencies and survival adaptations that would make an evolutionary biologist giddy. Some creatures are hostile and territorial while others are herbivorous and docile. Occasionally, we cannot help but to feel guilty for killing a tiny creature that is quite scared of Samus’s comparatively large size, or another that is trying to uphold its territory because she disturbed its habitat. Indeed, a major part of exploring the world of Tallon IV is to enjoy and be immersed in its visual narration and its depiction of different existences. It’s rarely just an empty canvas solely created to serve as the background of the game. Coupled with Kenji Yamamoto’s captivatingly haunting and atmospheric soundtrack, Tallon IV isn’t just the setting of the gameplay but also an expressive character in the plot.

Still, in spite of all the vivacity and the dynamic relation between Samus and the fabrics of life that exist and ceased to exist in Tallon IV, we cannot help but to feel lonesome and almost meditative in its ambiance. The masterstroke here, however, is that Metroid Prime’s perception of despondency props up –not suppresses– our incentive to experience its visual world. This form of juxtaposition is actually a trademark of the series, a seemingly effortless contrivance that enable the inclusion of a melancholic atmosphere without exhausting high-definition graphics or a Dolby surround system in its premise.

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Dissolution of Metroid Prime’s design should arguably expose a first-person platformer underneath its austere façade, a genre that is generally famous for its underlying simplicity. After all, Metroid’s own oeuvre prior to Prime was depicted in 2D, where the conventions of the platform were usually the nexus of any game. While the platforming sections are few and far between in Prime, the game successfully managed to comprise the genre’s normative intricacies without its intrinsic frustrations. In a series of e-mail exchanges between Kotaku and Mike Wikan, the senior designer of Prime, and Kensuke Tanabe, the producer, they both recalled their approach on how to make platforming works in a first-person game.

“We experimented with many ideas, including having the camera pitch down a little after the jump apex, fields of view, standardized platform sizes and jump heights as well as player gravity to strike the right balance of approachability and positive tension. Once we locked those basic things down, we were able to build the rest of the game around it.”

~ Mike Wikan, the Senior Designer of Metroid Prime  

“We have discussed very, very carefully about the feature of jumping. We decided not to create jumps so high that Samus can only barely reach [them] or long valleys that Samus could jump, or to design footholds larger than our specific basis. At any rate, we solidified these standards by discussing with Retro about including an additional layer of safety, even in areas where we felt when playing the game ourselves that the jumps were doable.”

~ Kensuke Tanabe, Retro Studios’ Producer

While one can argue that the platforming aspect is watered-down in Prime and less convoluted than say, Mirror’s Edge, it unquestionably doesn’t feel out of the game’s elements. Indeed, scaling towers, traversing waterbeds, and swinging across dividing gaps via the Grapple Beam are actions that they are second to nature.

Speaking of something that is naturally integrated, the Morph Ball is possibly Prime’s most distinctive element that easily prevails any argument against its platforming gameplay. The beauty of it lies in its unassumingness of how we perceive it, and how we instantly make a connection between its capability and the obstruction that can be overcome with its capability. Yet, we are left impressed every time we make a discovery of its other hidden subsidiaries, which are part of the “Ah-ha” factor that constantly pervades a large sum of Prime. Sometimes we use it to swiftly dash through an area in a mean of not to be bothered by any of the creatures that resides in the vicinity, or as a tactic to avoid an enemy’s projectiles, or to shortcut the distances by scaling a rail, and so on. Outfitted with its other expansions, the Morph Ball is an astute!

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There are aplenty to be said about Metroid Prime. Things such as the different beams and how they are rounded up ingeniously to expand their initial potentials, the visors as new utilities to observe the game in a whole new perspective, the backtracking as an incentive to meticulously explore Tallon IV and concurrently discover expansions and upgrades that weren’t obtainable during the first visit, the boss encounters that don’t necessary adhere to a pattern or perceived expectations, and the list continues. All of this comes up as a confluence of Prime’s vivid rebirth from its past designs.

Ultimately, perfectionism is a difficult belief to enforce on videogames, as they are favored due to a variety od reasons that some of them don’t yet fit within a criterion of criticism, and it is also an improbable propensity that cannot be stringently embellished. Still, if we are to judge Prime on its own merits, allow it to burrow into our faculties of imagination, perceive its endeavors without any means of artificiality and favoritism, savor the experiences that it conveys on every moment behind an every door, eventually and doubtlessly, we can easily proclaim that we have played one of the greatest games ever burnt on a disc. 

The Moral Ambiguity of InFamous

Why extract the leeches out of the Reapers’ lives when you can alternatively just restrain them? InFamous’ moral system tolls its narrative and depiction on the way you want to perceive your superhero, or in this case, your antihero. 

Last month marked the release of Batman: Arkham Asylum, the belated conception of an unusual Batman game that clutches to its roots and mythological basis, as opposed as being rashly adapted from a media-based fabrication. The game has exceedingly been well received by major critics and fans alike, to the point where one magazine declares it as “this year's BioShock”. A seldom adulation, considering this is a superhero game after all. Yet, by the end of the day, this is still a Batman game. Regardless of the fact it’s been originally crafted and written from a painstaking and creative endeavor, nostalgic sentimentalism is bound to be one of the prominent reasons of immediate purchase. Many people will buy it because they want to play as Batman, to purport on his prowess, and to relish his world from his own vantage point. It’s a game that dovetails its directive practices and pleasurably ventures its narrative and choices on the player. There is a moral conviction here; a basic mandate that predestine its acts without any consultation from the player, a stability of the subgenre. But why fix something if it isn’t broken? Isn’t this the main notion that derives our relentless affection on playing superhero games over and over?

Leave it to Sucker Punch to challenge such convention, however. This Washington-based, Sony-funded game company has envisaged a masterstroke that postulates a classic model of refinement, particularly in terms of narrative design. Here, the principle that separates InFamous from other adherers of the conservative superhero commandments is, perhaps, within the same vein that shapes Cole MacGrath’s character, our literally electrifying protagonist. Both the game and the leading character share a moral ambiguity; an entity that is flexible enough to fit into the player’s own worldview and style of play. The inclusion of a karma system within a superhero game such as InFamous, not only it is quite foreign but also defies the nature of the genre; it is a system that can allow a superhero to become a supervillain, or transpire him or her from the usual underdog approach to a more despotic one. Imagine, for example, playing as Batman but instead of arresting or temporarily hindering your foes’ action, you decide to venture on a killing spree, or rather to take on the role of the night guard of Gotham’s populous, you go all gung-ho on them, GTA-style. Such unfortunate and oblivious freedom in gameplay is certainly the last thing you want to see in your favorite superhero game, isn’t it? 

Fortunately, this is not the case with InFamous. While Cole is conceivably the same character that has been pulled off the production line for countless other games –shaven head, rough voice, lean build–, both his rounded façade and mannerism pave the way for the player to reach an understanding of his world. Arguably, Cole serves as a blank canvas for the player to build his/her own morality around, within the limit that constitutes how far a hero can go, malevolently. Unlike Fallout 3 or Fable II, Cole cannot become a purely evil character when given a moral choice; this is, after all, not the superhero way. Instead, Cole assumes the role of an antihero, where malice and offensiveness are merely tools to reach the bigger goal. He still wants to protect the city and save it from the Reapers, but if few people have to be sacrificed to obtain such a demanding prospect then so be it. Perhaps, this is the original approach that Sucker Punch wanted to dare their audience to commence upon picking up the game for the first time. After all, masterfully disabling your foes while protecting the citizens of Empire City, simultaneously, is far more taxing than going all out without an ounce of concern; the game is called InFamous for a reason.

Nonetheless, the karmatic system doesn’t singularly act as a shifting scale of a moral arbitrariness. Sucker Punch has tinkered the archaic system to extend its consequences to the way you play the game instead of just how you view it. Cole’s power upgrades are contingent to the path that you route for him when ethical choices surface. For instance, will you share the food aid with the other hapless pedestrians, or will you keep it for yourself by scaring them away with your thunderbolt ability? Deciding on either of these options will set the parameters of the karma system and branch Cole’s power-ups to accommodate either of his heroic or treacherous ventures. Many games have indeed employed similar juxtaposed contrivances, but InFamous definitely feels more multifarious and accentuated than the most.

The brilliancy of meshing the two genres as it is seen in InFamous has certainly presented Cole the opportunity to grow and act as a vivacious character than the stoic protagonists found within most Western RPGs. While his rendering is riddled with worn clichés and a puerile demeanor, his association with the usual superhero mythologies features some kind of internal struggle, the nemesis of the self. This form of resistance habitually takes its place out of the player’s reach to become just another plot device or an excuse for flashbacks; yet with infamous, it plays out in the hands of the player, fashioning the destiny of Cole’s moral life in the fictional Empire City. Indeed, upon confronting a moral preference within the main story, Cole almost always assess his options and foresees the outcomes of his choices with himself, making him less than a mere vassal to carry out the different missions enforced by the NPCs of Empire City.

It still goes without saying that InFamous isn't a paradigm of how to craft an intelligent character progression. It doesn’t redeem itself of incorporating a wry commentary of an apathetic superhero, with a plot design that is, unfortunately, less individualistic to call its own. Furthermore, Empire City doesn’t add any authentic ambience to influence the players for another visit and to witness the city’s flourish; it is neither Rapture nor Gotham City. Ultimately, such imperative and slightly superficial issues are tolerable obstructions, despite the major gap in its plausibility that borders on mild ridiculousness. InFamous, though, gallantly manages to ask some serious questions and create many unique experiences without ever becoming esoteric. The worst thing that could happen to InFamous is that it wouldn’t imprint its polish memorably, thus, get discarded as another PS3 exclusive and blends into the homogeneous hum of the console’s catalogue. To be famous is what InFamous desperately needs to achieve at this moment.

A Game to Read and a Novel to Play

Fashioning a story, and to attire it with prodigious characters is hard. Now, composing a good story while supplementing it with minutely crafted portrayals is even harder. The approach and the composition of how a game unfolds its narrative vessel have been one of the fundamental requisites of contemporary videogame criticism, and continuingly have been utilized to separate the good from the mediocre. However, it is the aspiration to excel in both implementation and profundity that is proven to be the most difficult. Games such as BioShock, Braid,and Vagrant Story aren’t exactly a norm among the current offerings that flood the market nowadays. Naturally, not every game requires a preservation of an enticing plot to advance our interest, or contemplate its elements on message boards, blogs, and editorials. However, when a game parades itself of retaining a compelling narrative, it is here our critique should be shrewdly sharpened and attentively articulated.

Cing, the independently Fukuoka-based videogame company, has been commonly known of their brazen effort in integrating a story within a gameplay, and a game within a story. Hotel Dusk: Room 215, our primer example in this discussion, is perhaps Cing’s most successful venture of meshing the two perspective mediums. The narrative of Hotel Dusk isn’t exactly a literary piece, but its identity as a suspenseful graphic mystery is perhaps worthy of adulation for its kind. The visual expression and its aestheticization of a film noir, rotoscoped with semi-finished milieus and brushwork illustrations almost validate Cing’s assurance in maintaining the aesthetics and feel of a graphic novel. Though, just like any other game that strives to conceptually acquaint two components together (Fallout 3, anyone?), a particularized assessment of its parts could stoop the game into a quagmire.

Thankfully, Hotel Dusk adequately amalgamates its gameplay and story structures relatively well, though the conventions sometimes can get nonsensical. Giving the former occupation of our protagonist as a police detective, –presently hired as a salesman– Kyle Hyde instinctively tends to exercise his acquired credentials around the derelict hotel and its occupants, enabling him the skills necessary to assist with his employer's sideline business and his own personal investigation. With such austere premise, it is admiringly impressive how Hotel Dusk manages to be aware of its self-deprecatory wit, both in the storyline and cast of supporting characters. Seemingly starring with fairly generic characterizations such as the loquacious maid, Rosa, the pretentiously suspicious author, Martin Summer, and the haughty, slightly flirtatious, Iris, a prolongation of the game’s ten chapters will inevitably deteriorate such nondescript façades. By the time you reach the game’s last chapter and all that is said and done, you’ll be pleasantly surprised how they are amiable and well written, despite the few, immoderately dark secrets they cunningly harbor. 

Thusly, for a game that functions as a book, it’s pretty much a given that both the narrative and the gameplay are fairly authored experiences. The provided tools become available only when the author –game developers here– permits you to use them. There is no option for other distractions, detours, or deviations. In fact, experimentation with dialogue selections and branches can sometimes be quite fatal in Hotel Dusk, resulting the ejection of Kyle from the hotel and the unveiling of the “Game Over” screen. While this is practically an accustomed facet of point-click adventure games, Hotel Dusk doesn’t rely on proper interactivity to circumvent the paucity of its resources. It alludes itself of such plausible, notional gameplay mechanics, but neither the puzzles nor the narrative share a consequential association, at least most of the time. Games such as Broken Sword, Myst, and Monkey Island are famous for their husbandry and immersion, to a point that the player seldom feels detached from the experience. In Hotel Dusk, you cannot escape the inkling that both game produces and the scriptwriters were segregated individually upon perpetuating the game’s foundation.

Yet, what makes Hotel Dusk different from the aforementioned point-and-click games is that the former identifies itself as a novel first and a game second. It is a “game” that tries to woo bookish gamers (if there is such a taxonomy of gamers) to the prospect of merging games design with literature. Indeed, picking up Hotel Dusk for a thorough playthrough requires the player to primer himself into reading texts, analyzing different situations, and connecting past events to the present circumstances; merely basic commandments for any mystery aficionados. Literally, the opening hours of Hotel Dusk are quite protracted and leisurely progressive; the game takes its time to introduce its characters, story, settings, and tools before thrusting the player into the heart of the mystery. It also happens that these preliminary moments are also magnanimous, thanks to the finely tuned prose and charmingly lax atmosphere. In essence, Hotel Dusk almost eschews the basic prerequisites of a videogame, and to designate it as a text-based game is a misapprehension, despite its authoritative, procedural concoction.

The risks of outfitting a game to a novel’s mindset can eviscerate the length and replayability, two aspects that can become contradictory if they aren’t tempered cohesively. If a game structurally similar to  Hotel Dusk is too long then the player might lose interest due to sullen consistency, and if it’s too short and lacks sufficient reasons for multiple playthroughs then it can be unfriendly to a modest budget. Such obstructions are relentless concerns to avid readers, but for gamers, they can grow to be deal-breakers. It is a quandary whether Hotel Dusk strikes a perfect balance in this regard. It’s singular to anything else, except to Cing’s own portfolio. It’s conditional to the willingness and tolerance that the player holds for a game that flourishes its premise across ten chapters, in an approximate 16 hours of playtime. Chances are that most gamers who have purchased Hotel Dusk got it when it was thrown in the bargain holds. Yet, with similar cult games such as Ace Attorney, Time Hollow, and Lux Pain pervading Nintendo DS exclusive list, clamoring on the demise of the “visual novel” genre is proven to be frivolous.

Dubious it might be, Hotel Dusk is a rare gem. Sure, it is unrelentingly linear, and its execution places more concerns on its story than the gameplay, but the final outcome is pretty intriguing and affectionately involving. The narrative, though, piecemeal and dovetailed with concealed secrets and scripted twists, it’s quenched with noirish charisma and fascinating characters. It’s too bad that there aren’t enough motives to pay the Californian hotel another visit. It certainly would had made it a brilliant retreat from the all gung-ho going on with the current, lucrative-seeking industry.

Further Readings

• The Sins of Hotel Dusk [Experience Points]

Restart Button: Super Mario Sunshine

 Restart Button is another ongoing segment where I take about games that somehow fascinated me to play them for a second time in order to devise an improved comprehension of their underlying structure. In this particular critical analysis, I usually expect from my readers that they either have played the game before or at least retain a clear understanding about the content of the game.

It shouldn’t come out as a surprise that Super Mario Sunshine was appropriately packaged as one of the hottest released games seven years ago. The tropical panorama, the crystalline waters, the exotic sceneries, and the short-sleeved garments sported by Mario, Peach, and her entourage of incompetent Toads implied that summer was the idealist season for a platforming getaway. Unfortunately, what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation soon turned into a laborious community service. Its highest priority: to cleanse the paradisiacal Isle Delfino from the slippery sludge that was smeared on all of its touristy locales. Geared with a gizmo of hydropower and wisdom, Mario’s first, third-dimensional journey outside the typical Mushroom Kingdom was certainly the most ambitious.

Though, when it is betted between the original 64 and the recent Galaxy, Sunshine somehow alludes itself as the middle book of a trilogy; it depends very much on what came before and even more so on the promise of what is to come. It dangles uneasily on its own, and when you have an influential game such as Super Mario 64 as your predecessor, the expectations alone will not be merciful. It’s no wonder that Galaxy had to omit almost all the rules established by the original 64-bit adventure to stand on its own, and to repel itself from the notional standard criticisms. For Sunshine to be deemed as the lesser 3D Mario is possibly explicable, but to rashly designate it as the most horrid entry might insinuate austerity. Perhaps, Sunshine was far too bright for many gamers to appreciate its polished luster, and the risk of outfitting the mustachioed hero with a talkative water-pump. Either that or the census remains truthful, and the splotch harming Sunshine’s foundation was rather too tenacious to be washed away by a new gimmick. Yet, seeing that we will not be getting a new 3D Mario game this year and the fact Galaxy 2 is promising to adhere to the sequel’s mindset with the same cosmic scene, it seems Sunshine lends itself another playthrough now more than it ever did.

The Accidental Tourist

The most perceptive element of Sunshine lies in its homogenous, thematic design. The conventional expectation of a snow, lava, and sky stages is diminished in favor of traversing a gaudy resort, brimmed with charming, crayons-daubed landscapes and chubby Pianta natives that jiggle, hula, and muffle when spoken. Beaches and strewn of palm trees are omnipresent through most of Sunshine’s maps, and the complementary, calypso beat never exhausts in cadency, originating both fresh scores and varied remixes of classic Mario tunes. The smell, sound, and feel of a foreign retreat never escape the scene a moment, and here, situates Sunshine’s foremost criticism: its consistency. After all, Mario games are pretty known for their idiosyncratic composition and claustrophobic variety of level design. It’s quite hard to detach traditional gamers from the laws that the series has created for itself and its genre. Nintendo shoot itself on the foot in Sunshine but promptly stitched its wounds with Galaxy. While the celestial imagery suggests an all-new formula, the ingredients are still prevalent; the conservative structures of snow, flame, and aquatic levels –among many others– not only are available but also evident couple of times in the Wii chapter.

Nonetheless, it’s still quite absurd to accuse Sunshine of the overused “poor level-design” reproof for solely adapting a fixed aesthetic. As a matter of fact, it’s remarkable how a Mario game structured around a tropical resort showcases sundries of flourished levels, each one of them satiated with personality and charm. The follow up of the plumber’s brief incarceration thrust us to the bustling center of activity of Delfino Plaza, disguised as the game’s hub world and point of accessibility to every other area in the island. Though, unlike Peach’s Castle and Rosalina’s Observatory, the fruit-cluttered piazza doesn’t always maintain its simplified mechanism of interconnectivity. Factually, it is one of the game’s extensive stages with its own regulation of Shine Sprites (Sunshine’s prize-winning trophies), it’s just you have to come back to it several times to see it all way through. This decision devised Delfino Plaza its own variables of collectibles, unlockable secret missions, branched underground tunnels, and locomotive Piantas.

When it comes to Isle Delfino’s other amusing distractions, we tend to see a fluctuated discrepancy of level design, though mostly is geared to an ingenious architecture. The meek windmill wonderland of Bianco Hills welcomes novice players with a fair distribution of land, water, and tall structures that are set for trialing and exploratory activities. Rico Harbor, –Delfino’s panoramic port city– however, alters the H2O proportion to its preference, with bright cranes, uninhibited ships, a mysterious lighthouse, and a contest of squid wave-racing running on its vicinity. The sand-tastic of lively Gelato Beach thrives on watermelon bars, popping sandcastles, and a memorable, grueling trek aboard a flying sand bird. Off Delfino’s coast is Pinna Park, which devotes its tiny landmass to rollercoaster rides, rotary ships, and a furious boss fight with a robotic, fire-breathing Bowser. And finally, the last exemplar of the marvelous stage motif in Sunshine has to be the serene and the literally breathtaking Noki Bay; the mauve marina scales high up to a towering waterfall, sinks deep down to watery depths, and exuberates its colors with strutted seashells. Unfortunately, the two remaining attractions, Sirena Beach and Pianta Village, failed to illustrate the quintessence of elegant design, with the former treading on the novelty of a hunted beach hotel teemed with ghosts and secrets while the latter exhibits a dull, ancestral village that should have been one of the introductory levels instead of being the last course.

Though, the unfortunate circumstance of Sunshine is the superfluous quality of some of the chapters. Red coins, competitive racing, runaway pursuits, and time attacks are the flavors of the month in most of the isle’s settings. Clearly, Nintendo EDA has stretched the levels' replayability to almost breaking point. Sunshine remains comparatively inventive to other Mario games but you cannot escape the inkling that by the end of the vacation, the bosses you meet are battles you've already fought, and that some areas of Isle Delfino were going to be extended before a deadline has severed development schedules. For an island resort, Isle Delfino showcases a variety of attractions, but when it comes to irredundant activities, it barely scales to the level of a 4-star hotel.

Go with the FLUDD

The GameCube era marked Nintendo’s willingness to experiment with their key franchises by implementing new designs, directions and cosmetic changes that even some of them transpired to be fairly precarious. For starters, they launched their wondrous purple-box with Mario’s younger, pusillanimous brother in Luigi’s Mansion. The 64-bit realism of Legend of Zelda was completely overhauled in the Wind Waker, favoring the composition of cel-shaded aesthetics. Fox McCloud got out of his Arwing’s cockpit in Star Fox Adventures. Metroid Prime shifted the camera perspective behind Samus Aran’s helmet, entitled her in a first-person vantage point. With such unforeseen executions, it seems strapping Mario with a water-pack doesn’t sound so ludicrous now, among other things.

Nevertheless, FLUDD (a Flash Liquidizing Ultra Dousing Device) works impeccably! In a time when second-rate developers were loading up with increasingly preposterous 30-plus power-ups that hadn't been completely thought out or developed, Nintendo once again demonstrated how it's properly done: take one character, round him out with four different nozzles, and create dozens of moves around each similar mechanism to create countless variations of hovering, speeding, squirting, and rocketing. There’s something even more satisfying about charging up your rocket nozzle while you’re floating in the middle of Rico Harbor; just as the meter almost hits the top line, you jump up out of the water, the rockets blasts off, and you fly high into the sky. Likewise is accelerating the turbo nozzle when running on land: a constant spray of water propels you forward, sending you into perfect arcs when you jump, leaning you at jet-ski angles when you corner. It’s not a hyperbole to endorse the impression that Nintendo had embellished a brilliant usage of water-pressure expedient in Sunshine more than anyone has ever done before.

Yet, as we all know, a platformer’s moves are only as good as what the creators make you do with them, and all occasional artery-popping camera fury aside, Super Mario Sunshine tests you with expertly designed tasks. For example, one assignment sees Mario wearing a space helmet, descending into a submerged city, and using his water-pack to spray plaque from a giant eel’s teeth. Another mission positions him on giant reflective mirrors that tilt to reflect the light of the sun onto a giant, glass-encased egg, the obstacle here is that he has to get the enemies off the mirrors by pushing them to the edge with the squirt nozzle and then ground-pound from his side to send them flying. The mustached plumber can also scale higher grounds by filling in a water jar from one end, participate in balloon-popping mini-game in the amusement park, and rise submarines out of the sea by turning on the lever with his dousing hose.

It still goes without saying that Super Mario Sunshine is treading on a common ground. As far as franchised games operate, something entirely new is neither possible nor necessary at this point. All Sunshine needed to do is skillfully manipulate the elements set in place by its predecessor. In doing this, it got a little confused, and hearkened back to older games; though wholly satisfactory and technically brilliant, it would have fared better if the designers concentrated on one thing at a time. The special, FLUDD-free missions (read “Back to the Basics”), the inventive water-pack-centric gameplay, the menacing foe of Shadow Mario, the tripped-out bosses: all of these things call to mind a game of long ago, and give a distinct impression: it’s all pretty familiar, even for a Mario game that is quite sophisticated as it’s seen here.

Back to the Basics

Sometimes, you never truly appreciate what you have until it’s gone; this is quite a true story in Super Mario Sunshine. Theoretically, despite its practical efficacy, FLUDD almost eschews the basic principles of the genre due its technical mechanism. It sends a loud message that you are allowed to make mistakes without being entirely punished. An uncalculated leap over a large gap can easily be corrected by triggering the hover nozzle, an irritating projectile foe can be stunned it in its place with an effortless spray, falling from a higher ground is no longer a taxing risk, as a quick adjustment to the rocket nozzle will boost Mario back up to where he came from. Regardless of the limited capacity of its water-tank, FLUDD almost feels like an infinite power-up. Shigeru Miyamoto and his minions recognized that when they created Mario’s life-saving toy, and they made sure to take that commodity away during the game’s most critical moments.

Always greeted you with a mockingly brief intro, Shadow Mario will make sure to steal your water device as soon you start one of Sunshine’s “secret” objectives, striping you off to your regular overalls and your dexterous grasp of the rules of a basic platformer. With a blackened sheet background encasing the entire stage, distorted with 8-bit sprites and accompanied by a capella, finger-snapping, hand-clapping tune, all harking back to the original Super Mario Bros; these obstacle coursers are unpretentious shout-outs to Mario’s original roots.

Though, to say these stages are relaying on nostalgia is clearly a misapprehension. A tribute such as this clearly exudes that a shift to a new, immersive perspective doesn’t always blemish the challenge founded in the previous premise. Super Mario 64 only presented us the theory that 3D is better –or at least more engrossing–, but it didn’t attribute any of its presentation to its elder designs. Sunshine with its FLUDD-less stages, however, reminds us that not only it retained the same frustrations and satisfactions of its 2D counterparts but also proposed the possible creation of a compelling 3D game, incorporating the idea in plotting a course from point A to point B to win the challenge; that linear aspiration blossomed into a successful fruition, guised under the name of Super Mario Galaxy.

What a Twist!

It’s safe to believe that the narrative in Sunshine wouldn’t have the chance of winning an award in the “outstanding videogame literature” category. But for a Mario game to incorporate the lighthearted and silly plotline seen in Sunshine is admiringly a bold move. For one thing, Princess Peach doesn’t assume her role as the damsel in distress until midway of the game; just as soon you unlock the 4th course, Pinna Park, to be specific. It’s pretty unsettling, seeing her standing in the middle of the Delfino Plaza, nonchalantly twirling her umbrella and disclosing contempt of the current circumstances. Yet, this is just a tip of the iceberg. What followed after her abduction is quite a shocker: Bowser has a son! Well, aside from his seven youngsters who assisted his overassertive invasion in Super Mario World but completely left the scene afterward. It turns out that the adorable-looking but mischievous Bowser Jr. was the florescent imposter who claimed Mario’s identity, and tarnished his name all over the beautifully secluded resort.

It’s a given, then, that the final boss is no other than Browser himself. The greatest deed –despite the fan rage– is that the dreaded confrontation manages to maintain the silliness and the comedic sparse that predominate the premise since the opening hour. Indeed, instead of the usual sinister loom, the ascending calamitous score, and the indignant gush by the evil Koopa King, we are treated with a brief, sultry FMV: the Princess sitting on a big yellow rubber duck accompanied by Bowser and his son, enjoying a hot steamy bath, sharing a moment of father and son on a giant hot tub. The shortcoming? It’s a pretty easy fight, despite the unfair two on one strategy.

Brighter Than the Sunshine

Yet, no matter what can be said about Super Mario Sunshine, whether it’s an admiration for its production value or condemnation of its water-pumping gimmick, it’s going to be endlessly compared to its other siblings. Though, it’s quite clear that Sunshine combines the direction of both 64 and Galaxy. It is not as approachable and open-ended as the former, or exceptionally linear and focused as the latter. For example, incongruent from the Power Stars in 64, The Shine Sprites aren’t vague in description, and when you start a chapter, you are always treated with an optional intro that illustrates where you are supposed to go. The same can be said with Galaxy, as you are also not constrained in one designated path to reach the intended goal; thanks to FLUDD, you are at liberty to be creative on how to scale and traverse the terrain by jumbling the nozzles together and utilize them as effectively as you please. Here, Sunshine strikes a delicate balance in the degree of freedom that grants you with, while emphasizing both on exploration and ingenuity and being focally determined in its objectives all at once.

On the other hand, it’s still aggravating to witness Sunshine misinterprets its tools so inadequately. The Blue Coins challenge provided an excellent invitation to dissect the landscape and carry out different variations and applications with Mario’s water-pack, but the problem is situated with the lack of a checklist or at least a hint system that describes the locations of these fiendishly hidden coins, partially since most of them appear under specific circumstances. Hoarding all 240 of these elusive coinages (to win 24 Shine Sprites in return) without the benefit of a strategy guide can be an exercise in frustration. The pitiable inclusion of Yoshi also deserves admonishing due to the incoherent and intangible servicing of the trusty, multi-colored dinosaur. There is no reason why FLUDD couldn’t have incorporated the same facets boasted by the flesh-colored, stream-spitting, fruit-eating, double-jumping sidekick. It seems the creative team at Nintendo EAD added Yoshi at the last minute for just the hack of it.

Ultimately, whatever you think Super Mario Sunshine is trying to achieve, you might want to think the opposite. It’s not a shinning example on how a 3D platformer should aspire to be, nor a shameful game that deserves to be neglected in return. It has a bright heart that enables it to sit comfortably among other viable platformers, emitting a distinguishable light that yearns for a second holiday in its scenic resort. It’s up to you if you want to book a second ticket to the lovable Isle Delfino, but just make sure to take advanced precautions against any faulty mishaps, and cautiously plan the number of days you keen to dedicate the rest of your summer vacation. Chances you might extend your stay until further notice, or none at all.

An Odyssey To Remember

With credited names such as Hironobu Sakaguchi, Nobuo Uematsu, and Takehiko Inoue under its belt, Lost Odyssey is possibly the latest RPG that delivers a genuine tribute to the genre’s days of yore. Through turn-based battles, amnesiac characters, three-level upgrades of spells that are abbreviated by different suffixes, and an airship vehicle that pops up later in the game where you will spend most of your time side-questing and hunting deathly beasts, the game is intentionally traditional. Lamentably though, the game suffers from a dissociative identity disorder; despite the über-westernized Unreal Engine exhausting its graphical presentation, Lost Odyssey arrives to its players as a game that is unfolding few modest risks. It cautions itself by integrating several presentational features that eventually become meaningless and derelict, which by no means an accusation of its design or the construction as being unfinished, but there are several moments where you cannot help but to reflect on Mistwalker’s true intentions. Kaim’s conflicted loss of memory is simply a mere projection of the game’s state of play, apparently.

Let’s start from the opening scene, for example, in which it bursts with an audacious score that pertinently flatters the accompanying cinematic, sinuously integrates its own gameplay and battle system. The smooth transition and the epic introduction might insinuate similar tendencies to come in the course of the game; unfortunately, such prospects are hardly ever confronted. The game simply ends up relying on the genre’s tradition of random encounters and load screens instead. The criticism is obviously projected to the failed attempt in portraying the same impression that was initially facilitated in the game’s opening scene; in fact, the direction of boss and event battles is mostly habitual to what players are accustomed to, an unfortunate composition considering there are key moments in the plot that Mistwalker could have devised far more intriguing approaches. It’s the fact that Mistwalker focused on embellishing the first 20 minutes -resulting one of the most memorable opening scenes in videogame history- that is conceptually aggravating. The game certainly would have fared better if such similar efforts were tasked in crafting the rest of the game’s cinematic.

Another analogous offender is the use of dynamic shots that simultaneously focuses on different events or characters to provide a sense of continuity and immersion in the narrative. Lost Odyssey isn’t exactly the first game to utilize such a presentational tool but it certainly doesn’t exploit it intelligently and cohesively. Granted, there are some clever moments that can firmly stand against the criticism; conclusively though, the technique falls flat due to misuse of its potentials, or for worst, not being used at all. The first disc exhibits a dichotomy of shot directions, but as the game progresses through its four discs, the dynamic procedure completely disappears. An example of mistreatment is exhibited during the game’s first hours when the initial party confronts a vicious griffin on a summit of a mountain. Upon their stance of defiance, three separate portraits of the three main characters briefly flash the screen to supposedly heighten the opposition toward the beast. Unexpectedly, this particular scene is the only kind that benefited from the technique –despite its meaningless presentation- and no other boss confrontation has employed it ever since. It seemed as if Mistwalker scraped the idea as they continued experimenting with the game but completely forgot to adjust or remove the initially adapted scenes, or simply, they became completely oblivious that it existed. Perhaps, this is a consequence of the creators’ inexperience with such foreign conceptions that is usually prevalent in western games. Lost Odyssey, after all, is Mistwalker’s first endeavor to attract Xbox360 elitists to the conventional mindset of how a Japanese RPG properly functions.

However, if the aforementioned obstruction can be excused for allocating an untapped, westernized ploy, the next matter has no excuse at all, considering it was envisioned and exhausted several times in many JRPGs. In his “Playing As The Enemy” critique, Sinan Kubba tackled the contrivance of separating the characters at one point as an indication of weak narrative pacing. Though, it wasn’t the execution that was perceived unfavorably but rather the approach the game decided to go around it:

“In its favour, Lost Odyssey tries to deal with this issue [weak pacing in narrative]. Unfortunately it breaks up these exclusive sections with odd switches from play to story and vice-versa. Rather than keeping me engaged in both elements, these switches left me bewildered and detached…”

Kubba endorses his deprecation with several plot instances that most of them occurred at the end of disc two, and all of them happen to be indisputably legit to his contention. Though, it was the prospect of controlling Gongora -Lost Odyssey’s notorious and unconvincing villain- that was the most conspicuous and unconstructively outstanding. This limited opportunity doesn’t employ any meaningful purposes outside of composing the scene of Gongora’s ruthless execution on his loyal sorcerers by casting a specific, elemental spell to annihilate each of them individually. The idea and the execution behind this scenario are simple and quick to follow, in which in a later stage in the narrative the player will lead the heroes to battle the evilly-possessed sorcerers and defeat them in the same order of weakness that was assigned by Gongora. Objectively, the altogether design is as graceless as the previous examples; few ideas managed to capture the intended goals of the game but the rest wound up falling flat by feeble implementation.

Even if Lost Odyssey’s flawed remnants seem quite hindering to you by now, the favorable craftsmanship of the genre retains its cohesion elegantly most of the time. When it comes to characters customization, for instance, Lost Odyssey pioneers the conventional system by accommodating the Immortals’ capability of gradually inheriting the exclusive skills and spells retained by the Mortals. Surprisingly, you might think this will eventually break up and unbalance the system through progression and continuous grinding, but such prospect is evitable due to the cautious narrative structure; the availability of all playable characters isn’t fully assembled until the beginning of disc four and just few hours away from the game’s endpoint. This results a creative cast of party members in which their specialties and positions become perceptible and vital in the game’s toughest events and harsh foe encounters; experimentation will eventually creep into the gameplay as an alternative methodology of the usual all-brute strength strategy.

Ultimately, the genuine admiration of Lost Odyssey prospers in its endeavor of composing a developed narrative and fascinating characterization, that alas, due to the absence of thematic premises and halfhearted character motives within the main plot, it’ll be hard not to accuse Mistwalker of such inadequacy when the rest of the gameplay seems quite polish. Then again, the inclusion of spurs of tenderly written chapters guised as reveries and recollections tote up an intimation of profundity in Kaim’s younger days. These digitized novellas encompass the most endearing stories of life, death, love, friendship, and heroism that don’t necessarily always pulse Kaim in their hearts. Though, there are very few moments when the game manages to deal with comparable sentimental notions; the overtone, however, remains stoically political and procedural as seen in the genre’s other offerings.

Lost odyssey is a game of appreciation; it’s a pleasing, affectionate, and an epic exemplar of its type, but those for whom the genre holds no interest aren't going to be converted by a game that rarely offers the innovation it thought it did, whether it was through unvarnished, depictive devices or seemingly insightful narrative. Factually, Mistwalker’s current portfolio still conforms to more of the genre’s old annoyances than it probably should, but its earnest struggle to cop with the conventions and expectations of gameplay modernism shouldn’t come unnoticed and tarnished by a passing reference. Sakaguchi's opus didn’t faithfully garner many loyalists but his reformative convictions could secure at least a thoughtful ascertainment.

Further Readings

• Interpretations of Dreams [Gamer Quest]
• Lost In Broken Dreams [You Have Lost!]

Beyond The Hill: Cultural Nightmares

In the 2005 Game Developers Conference, Akira Yamaoka, the producer of the popular and widely respected Silent Hill series, gave a lecture on the development of horror and atmosphere on his intellectually simulative portfolio of games. Entitled, Gripping Game Design: The Mood and Ambiance of Silent Hill, Yamaoka saved only a small portion of his discussion to his games to rather articulate the genre of horror and its relationship to culture, particularly the differences between American and Japanese styles of horror. For the purpose of producing the Silent Hill, Yamaoka and his team set out to create what they call “modern American horror through Japanese eyes.” However, he pointed out that since the entire team behind the game was Japanese, traditional concepts of Japanese horror probably worked their way into the game unconsciously. Thus, resulting one of the reasons that composes Silent Hill series to resonate with such a wide audience; though the format and presentation of the games are consistent with what Yamaoka describes as “surprise horror,” the story and ambiance seem far more subtle than most American horror.

Yamaoka identified several areas where American and Japanese horrors diverge. In general, he stated that Japanese-style horror deals with unseen aggressors and the suggestion of violence, while Hollywood-style is characteristically far more explicit and illustrative. A good example of this is the 1998 Japanese horror film Ringu, in which the antagonist is almost entirely absent and the violence only vaguely alluded to. When the film was remade for American audiences in 2002, much more focus was put on the antagonist herself, and the violence of the story was made unequivocal instead. Generally, Yamaoka proved that Japanese horror is much more delicate and understated than its American counterpart.

Part of Yamaoka’s purpose is that horror serves a different purpose in Japanese and American cultures. In the West, horror is often used as a mechanic by which drama can be promoted among the protagonists. In The Exorcist (1973), for example, the possessed girl forces a priest to question the limits of his faith and deal with the recent death of his mother. Though the idea of a demonic entity possessing a young child is certainly scary, the film remains appealing because the situation promotes drama among the characters. The Western design of horror places horrific antagonists or monsters often to provide a mechanism by which horror filmmakers and novelists can explore interesting characters and their reactions to difficult situations. Though, in Japan, horror seems to serve a very different purpose entirely. The antagonists are quite often characters central to the plot, and many classic Japanese ghost stories alludes haunts that are ultimately pitiful. Rather than simply existing to force the protagonists to react, the creatures described by Japanese folklore and modern horror are often the focus of the narrative. Yamaoka further pointed out that Japanese ghost stories are generally very sad, and the antagonists themselves often appear trapped by the laws of the universe. He briefly touched upon the concept of onnen, which he described as the idea that a grudge or feeling of hatred can be so strong that it extends beyond the grave. This idea that strong emotions can affect the state of reality is very common, and often serves as the mechanic by which spirits are able to tell their stories to the audience.

For Silent Hill, Yamaoka and his team wanted to pursue an American horror story similar to the works of Stephen King, H.P. Lovecraft, and David Lynch. The American-style approach was also convenient for them because it allowed the team to employ “shocking visuals” as a source of horror, rather than the more difficult-to-communicate metaphorical representation. Nevertheless, it is easy to notice that his team was influenced -perhaps unconsciously as previously mentioned- by traditional Japanese horror. The narrative in Silent Hill fits the Japanese mold very well: the main character is generic, almost to the point of being inconsequential, and the focus of the story has less to do with the protagonist’s motives and feelings than those of the antagonist. For example, Silent Hill 2 -Yamaoka's favorite entry of the series- has been widely praised for its literate story, and it too is ultimately very sad. It describes a horrific situation in which the protagonist’s sins have become physically manifested, which is very similar to the concept of onnen. Though the presentation of the Silent Hill games seems to follow the American standard (there is plenty of monsters and explicit violence), it is particularly and horrifically as effective due to its Japanese influence.

While videogames are constantly and uniquely positioned to teach young people about other cultures while simultaneously entertaining them, perhaps Silent Hill might suggest to the common player that it is far from begin an educational tool. However, the care and depth that has gone into the games has piqued the interest of more than a few gamers. Yamaoka and his team are consciously exploring cultural differences from the angle of horror, and the quality of their work is a testament to the value of such research. Games such as Silent Hill have the opportunity to provide the tip of an educational iceberg to uncultured players, to draw them in to study by presenting them with literate and culturally aware content. Most forms of art usually serve their purpose as entertainment devices before becoming culturally significant, and developers like Akira Yamaoka are helping to push videogames into cultural relevance with intelligent, educational, and thought provoking experiences.

Further Readings

• Gripping Game Design: The Mood and Ambience of Silent Hill [GameSpy]

Hidden Gem: Baten Kaitos Origins

Hidden Gem is an ongoing segment where I talk about games that are quite obscure or barely have reached cult status. Although, it is not a review, Hidden Gem will provide dissected analysis and critique about the game in several fronts, providing the reader an in-depth breakdown of the game’s finest aspects. Exposing spoilers in the piece is a rarity, but a spoiler tag will be included if it’s absolutely necessary.

If you take it purely as an engaging JRPG, Baten Kaitos Origins undoubtedly overreaches the genre’s recent stable of mediocrity. Taken it as an aspiration of a videogame prequel, it’s like a striving novel that dissects its limited universe, faultless with charming characters and profound premise. Arriving late to the RPG-starved Nintendo GameCube, Baten Kaitos Origins remains the unsung game that never received its deserving praise, inevitably becoming a modern cult classic. Envisioned by Yasuyuki Honne, helmed by Hiroya Hatsushiba, and soundtracked by none other than Motoi Sakuraba, Baten Kaitos: Eternal Wings and the Lost Ocean and Baten Kaitos Origins still firmly uphold their statuary with other story-driven games that left me flabbergasted several times in their narrative. However, it was Origins that dazzled me from start to the finish with very few dull moments sprinkled here and there, though, its frantic gameplay is absolutely designated as an addictive distraction.

Still available at a budget price of $19.99, Origins is a small asking price for a majestic, fantastical journey. It has few yet substantiated faults that proved to be troublesome, but this prospect shouldn’t vacillate the fans of the genre from picking it up. The invention of utilizing a card-based battle system might have grown a little bit musty to those who experimented with the strategic, leisurely paced version established in the original game. Thankfully, though, Origins retains its predecessor's spirit while tinkering some of the foundations that halted Eternal Wings and the Lost Ocean from shining brighter. Even though it recognizes itself as a prequel, it certainly has the mindset of a sequel.

A Prequel After The Sequel

The construction of prequels is no longer an uncharted territory in videogames. It has been done before and chances more prequels will grace in the future. And why they shouldn’t? Creating a prequel is certainly the safer route to garner financial success with a little amount of development process and proliferation of intuitive designs. By simply scrutinizing the plot holes that plagued the original game, a prequel can be created to supposedly come up with sufficient answers to shush the unsatisfactory responses spawned by the fans. However, a shrewd observation of a common game prequel should uncover the weak execution and plot schemes that the developers strived to fictionalize as much as possible. This becomes quite frequent when the creators of the game couldn’t predict the success of the original game, and then had to come up with a prequel to satisfy greedy publishers in capping as much sales from a particular franchise.

Admiringly, this isn’t the case with subsequently released continuation of Baten Kaitos: Eternal Wings and the Lost Ocean and Baten Kaitos Origins. Published with only two years apart, it is evidently apparent that the creators of the games had already envisaged the ploy of a sequel in the story, while leaving the core gameplay for future enhancement after the market had perceived the initial game. Though, it is recommended to follow the same vision the creators had invented forBaten Kaitos, it really doesn’t matter if you want to start from the prequel (the 2nd game) and then save the sequel (the 1st game) for later. Yet, in spite of that, both games present the players with incredible amount of sufficient material to formulate discussions, conjectures and even fan fictions. Indeed, the Baten Kaitos universe is massive, and the aspect of releasing two games to see it all is a sight to behold and an experience that should be appreciated.

Origins takes place twenty years prior the events of Eternal Wings and the Lost Ocean. The plot essentially reveals the origin of the wicked god Malpercio, whom was the maleficent antagonist of the original game. Within the main premise is also a brief history of the self-governing islands floating above the clouds, and the reasons that made humans fled the Earth and dwell the skies instead. Through the eyes and the deeds of the three main characters, Sagi, Guillo, and Milliarde are rarely just mere observers of the events; they are the players that help unraveling the consequences behind these events. However, Origins has its own story and characters to call its own, which makes the game more than a prologue in favor of essentially becoming a fully-fledged prequel. It rarely derives its sentiments from nostalgia, despite recycling many of the locations and background designs from the original game. This is, however, a grave outcome of one of Origins’ main criticisms.

Yet, the scope of Baten Kaitos Origins world is well fleshed out and uniquely atmospheric. The reliance of pre-rendered backgrounds doesn’t detract the experience but improves it by flourishing beautifully drawn landscapes, outlandish creatures, bizarrely erected towers, inventive methods of transportations, and distinctive cultures. Upon reaching new destinations after the player has unlocked an airship –a familiar convention in the genre- the trio is frequently greeted with a predicament that is exclusively prevalent in that region. It is a cyclical method that gets old too quickly, but al least the events that transpire in the regions are motivating and pertinent to the main plot. Such events assist the main characters to prosper and confess concealed motivations and secrets; thus, enticing the player deeper in the game and the story. It is one of the many things that Origins does it right and keeps expanding upon it until the last moments of the game are attained.

A Cast Few In Number

Hasty critics ruthlessly attacked Origins for starring only the half number of characters boasted in Eternal Wings and the Lost Ocean. An unwarranted censure that doesn’t validate much information about the characters themselves, considering the three main members pales better than the latter, and possibly any characters founded in any JRPG in recent memory. Perhaps, it is this prospect that balanced the characters as evenly possible, as each and every one of them has his/her own script, circumstance, twist, role, and depth to adapt within the main plot. Rarely do they become unnecessary and tedious, and no matter what happens, all of them have something interesting to say.

Though, of all three, Sagi is possibly the least fascinating. This even shouldn’t come out as a criticism when he is betted with the rest of the leading roles in the genre. His relationship with his supposedly guardian spirit (and that is you, by the way) doesn’t vastly improve as the story progresses, but the way he consults with you often feels as if he is breaking the fourth wall. It is a little awkward in the beginning -specifically if you haven’t played Eternal Wings and the Lost Ocean- but soon enough your involvement and your responses to Sagi’s inquiries become significant and starts to take a toll on the story. He is obviously the most vital member in the party and his ventures are fairly well incorporated in the narrative and rarely nonsensical. His sudden polarized retorts (veered from sincere compassion to powerful vengeance) lack a little bit of refinement, though.

Milliarde (or Milly), fortunately, is anything but the damsel in distress. Her naiveté to the functions of the world is initially depicted as a sheltered princess; however, her circumstances that led her to such manners are clarified near the end of the game, devising one of the game’s biggest plot twists. From the beginning, Milliarde expresses unclear interest toward Sagi, and it should be expected that her curiosity eventually converts to a mutual affection. Her constant bickering with Guillo adds a tasteful and charming humor to an otherwise serious plot. Admittedly, Milly shouldn’t be designated as the heroin of the game; she has her fair share of the script but her involvement is analogous to a supporting character, though.

Guillo -a puppet- is absolutely the most memorable character in Origins. Every line it backs up is instantly quotable and brilliant, usually referred as “Guilloism” among Baten Kaitos devotees. Being genderless or a sexually ambiguous puppet, Guillo retains a high level of enigma, and the fact it speaks with two voices simultaneously (one male and one female) validates its potential role in the game’s love quadrangle for the affection of Sagi. Its outspoken nature and its dislike of Milly by questioning her motives make Guillo more than an obedient robot but an active party member with consciousness of its own. It shouldn’t be an overestimation to endorse the notion that Guillo alone makes the game advisable. There is absolutely no moment of boredom when it is around.

The Role Of Lady Luck

It isn’t a card game if luck isn’t involved, and both Origins and Eternal Wings and the Lost Ocean incorporate the role of luck in their combat system ingeniously. Unlike the latter, though, Origins doesn’t relay on the player’s stroke of luck as much it veers the tide of battle to his/her side. Drawing better cards (or magnus) from the deck is based on your decisions -as a guardian spirit- that you impart through the storyline when Sagi asks for your inputs on various situations. For example, responding with positive statements increase the chance of healing magnus to come up when any of the characters is low on health.

It is an impeccably well-devised system that seldom feels broken or complicated. It merely asks the player the time and commitment before it flaunts its muscles during the battle sequences, compensating for the efforts you made in the story. However, it is impossible to win battles on luck alone. Strategy and perfect customization of magnus are required to circumvent the harsh enemy encounters and boss fights. More on that later.

Relay Combo! MP BURST!

Usually, most JRPGs strive to supply new mechanics and ritual systems guised in banal terms or long acronyms in order to instill a sense of individuality and innovation. Some of them do succeed while others fall flat. Thankfully, Origins does not need to stand on its own feet to impress us in this regard. Being constantly tinkered with dually profound and interrelated features, the combat system is anything but mundane.

The battle system works thusly: a randomly generated deck of cards appears in the bottom of the screen where the characters share their attack, weapon, armor and item cards. Upon selecting any of them (except for those designated with circled numbers), all characters gradually accumulate MP that is mostly utilized to perform special attacks whenever their respective magnus is avaliable. Some equipment cards have a big "R" on the upper right hand corner, which means they can be incorporated into a "Relay Combo". Each time your current character has finished choosing cards for his or her attack, the other characters waiting in the wings have the opportunity to follow up with a Relay Combo. Simply put, there are only three caveats to keep in mind, and they are as follow:

• The previous character must have ended with a special move
• The second character is available for a command input
• A magnus battle card designed with “1” is available

All three characters can join in a “Relay Combo” to create some incredibly devastating combos. If preformed remarkably, “Relay Combo” also adds the benefit of sometimes canceling an enemy's attack. It might sound complicated on paper, but it is really simple in execution. Outstandingly, it keeps the players on their wits and shrewdly scanning the deck for useful cards to favorable surge the fight to their side.

The second feature doesn’t surface until your characters have leveled up sufficient points to graduate their deck level to a higher one, thus, enabling them to draw more cards while sacrificing their ATBs. Upon building the MP meter to level “5”, the opportunity to unleash an “MP Burst” becomes available. “MP Burst” appears as a brief euphoria-esque phase, which the deck card flashes frantically, and a loud, ascending siren masks the battle theme. It brings out the opening for all your characters to unleash three consecutive relay combos without paying attention to the MP consumption level printed on the cards. After selecting the desired magnus, the game invites the player to sit back and witness the well-choreographed battle animations and vibrant spells. It elicits a unique sense of satisfaction and can become quite lethal on the hands of a proficient player.

Too Cheap Or Too Challenging?

Nevertheless, Origins isn’t all about fun. A curved level of frustration can unexpectedly ruin the whole experience if the player didn’t foresee the consequences of retaining a low party level and unbalanced deck of cards. Most bosses and some common enemies are practically very unforgiving to such penalties, making the prospect of overcoming them almost impossible. If there is a fine line between "challenging" and "cheap” then Origins certainly crosses that line at least in some occasions.

However, this unfortunate affair can be avoided without relaying on common techniques that are customary among the genre’s elites. Evidently, the pure reliance on grinding for levels is totally meaningless if the deck is poorly customized. Thankfully, when the player meets his/her demise during a boss battle, the game provides the possibility to assess and configure the deck once again before instantly loading the same fight for another shot. Somehow, it feels like the game recognizes its steep difficulty and demands the player to experiment with all presented magnus; thus, formulating new strategies and tactics to conquer such ordeals.

The Belly Of the Whale – Themes & Motifs

Any impressive and striving game as such Baten Kaitos Origins has its fair shares of recurring themes and ideals that are incorporated within the main narrative. Whether those themes are wisely conveyed is a different matter. Origins does shine in some instances but remains abysmal in few others. While the story isn’t quite extraordinary, it sustains interesting dialogues, uniquely invented premise, well-designed plot twists, and most importantly, impeccable characterization.

Perhaps, it is the political upheaval that is the most perceptible in the narrative. Almost from the start, the player is thrown in an assassination mission, introduced to conflicting ideologies, and foretold of an imminent war. On the other hand, the overtone remains shrouded with fantastical creatures, spirited souls, wicked gods, and the classical affair of man vs. machine (dubbed as promachination). As Sagi and his friends visit the self-governing continents, different political systems flourish. One continent sees a democracy that goes unjust, while another paves monarchy the upper hand with a compassionate yet youthful king. However, almost each political government gets tainted with a foreign intervention that seizes looming destruction on the region, and eventually, the entire world. Therefore, it truly shouldn’t be surprising that unity emerges as the vital solution for survival and peace, usually orchestrated by the main characters themselves.

Speaking of which, the three musketeers also become enveloped in feelings of affection and admiration as the narrative progresses. Initially, it is Guillo and Milly that struggle for Sagi’s attention as a potential lover. Though, this doesn’t mean Sagi is stoic toward any of them, but his early attitude rarely goes beyond mutual friendship. As many JRPGs before it, declaration of love isn’t a common sight and is usually saved for the greatest moment in the plot. But as pointed out previously, it is Guillo that steals the player’s consideration in this convoluted trajectory. Its transgender orientation and overprotective disposition for Sagi is an unexplored convention rarely seen in videogames.

Origins also parades itself with wide range of minor themes that are collectively dispersed within its varied regions. Betrayal, heroism, sacrifice, and redemption predominate the austere aspect of the narration, becoming the moral acts that epitomize each arc of the plot. With such glum premises, the player is forcefully construed that such actions are inevitable to advance the story and explore other cyclical interventions. Though, this prospect is bound to institute a sense of expectation, the execution remains inspired with dramatized tragedies and restructured motives that associate themselves quite well with the narrative, and don’t necessarily feel contrive and superficial.

***Spoiler***

However, it is also important to note that affection isn’t exclusively kept for the main trio. Geldoblame, the Eternal Wings and the Lost Ocean main villain, shares a minor stage in the prequel with an unconventional infatuation to his imperial master, Verus. The latter is a legendary, stalwart warrior who asks Sagi for assistance as a fellow spiriter. As a charismatic leader of unflinching integrity, Geldoblame cannot help being swayed by Verus’s cordial words and altruistic care for the future of the Alfard Empire. Even when the trio questions Verus’s motives, Geldoblame quickly rises to defend his master at all cost. However, when the truth is revealed about Verus and his true aspirations, Geldoblame ends up being unsympathetically betrayed. At the very end of the game, Geldoblame assumes the role of emperor of the Alfard Empire, but his new position does not lessen the gravity of Verus’s infidelity, and he seemingly goes insane and becomes drunk with power in the process.

A Final Word

Yet, even after the exhaustively presented critique and the apparently endless walls of text, there are so still many things left to be said about Baten Kaitos Origins. It boasts a clever distraction veneered with demanding coliseum matches and countless -though fairly mundane- fetch-quests. It taunts archivists to expose every magnus and ascertain every EX Combo combination possible in the game. It mesmerizes with beautifully orchestrated scores and arousing battle themes. It pens a finely localized script and echoes well-performed voice-overs. It even offers a “New Game+” option for daring gamers that still yearn for a challenge after beating the game. Essentially, the game does what every good game strives to achieve decent recognition, yet, it baffles the mind how it remains obscure among the genre’s elites.

Conclusively, neglecting a rare gem such as Baten Kaitos Origins is part of the problem that causes game creators to avoid straying from the beaten path and proposing daring ideas and extraordinary concepts, especially when it is as good and truthful as it is seen here. Not only Origins deserves the appreciation for its ingenious spin on the subsidiary genre of Card RPGs, but also its comprehension on how a prequel should function warrants a least a quick look. It might not possess a mighty heart like Final Fantasy, but thanks to its “wings of the heart”, Origins soars high and owes itself to anyone remotely interested in the genre.

Ōkami’s Thematic Proliferation

It is a safe bet to assume that plenty have been said about Okami and its wondrous successful endeavor in portraying the artistic, unearthed credentials that videogames can accomplish. It is also safe to assume that Okami will graciously stand the test of time as a modern classic, thanks to its unparalleled beauty that can easily transcends the graphical capabilities seen nowadays. Yet, this piece is not aimed to praise the vibrant aesthetics and astounding design that literally blossom on every inch of the screen. Personally, it is the consistency of themes and inspirations that Okami is grounded upon that warrant a large sum of the praise. There has never been a game that gradually kept introducing stratums of ingenuity to perpetuate its premises before, or at least as good as it’s seen here. Each region of the fictionalized feudal Nippon is set as a haven to explore and dissect different but unswerving thematic contexts. Somehow, that never really gets old, and for once, a mutual relationship conspicuously is established between the players and the various tools that aid unwoven such contexts.

Therefore, It really makes sense that the first skill the player gets introduced to from the beginning is the graceful “Rejuvenation” brush technique. This suggests only the beginning of a long hauled progression, aimed to initiate the basic and formulaic procedures that would later prosper to something far greater in terms of profundity. Interestingly enough, the rules of the game remain perpetual throughout the journey. The intended path of purity and its eternal struggle with corruption rarely gets deviated in the game, yet it continues to manipulate its mechanics and institute new ideas to the core gameplay. For example, the “Vine” brush technique is introduced as a method of scaling initially inaccessible platforms and high cliffs by drawing a line from Konohana Blossoms to Amaterasu. Later on, the player will have to utilize the same skill to take off a giant pot lid. Granted, not all items and brush techniques necessarily have a secondary function but the game also doesn’t shy to implement its existing abilities in different structures (i.e. sketching an absent sun in a portrait).

Okami also tends to flirt with the various elements of nature, in which some of them are guised in deities and Celestial gods. These elements usually live in harmony with the inhabitants of Nippon, and the deficient of one-element results in the decline of the natural resources that the natives survive on. The player quickly becomes familiar with the moribund scenery, as the trees wither and transform to wooden skeletons, the grass shrivels away and scatters on the wind, streams, rivers, and entire oceans dry up, and the sky diminishes its bluish shade and converts to pitch-black mess of toxic clouds. Thankfully, with Okami’s divine influences and godly-like artsy talent, such ominous prospect can immediately be faded, assuming the right techniques are attained. Conjuring winds aspires life once again to a stagnant community, flourishing a bed of flowers attracts various creatures of the animal kingdom, while sprouting water from their sources revives hot springs and thrives businesses. The thematic exhibition of purity becomes vividly transparent, and the player actions finally take a toll on the different fabrics of life, eliciting a sense of accomplishment rarely experienced in videogames.

Inevitably, this proliferation emerges and becomes a classic case of causation, as only the good deeds can net Okami praises from all sort of living creatures. This can even seem rather controversial to some individuals, seeing that a deity (or a god) needs to ease her worshipers from their current predicament first before she is honored with praise and appreciation from her potential believers. Nevertheless, those deeds are usually attributed as divine miracles, considering that sprouts of water and fire materialize like strings hovering without solid bases, and construction of bridges is made in seconds out of thin air. Surely, they are not to be blamed if they thought so. Although, this might imply that Okami tinkers with the aspect of theology and theism, it certainly associates itself with the most basics of Karma teachings and philosophies, alternatively.

Unfortunately, despite its thematic exploitations, Okami's really got nothing terribly interesting to say. It remains a fairytale. As an artistic expression it is a weakly authored experience. Its fetching presentation does however competently dramatize its story and refreshingly original premise, which is a lot more than just about any game ever so far can truly say for itself. Okami sustains an exceptional and exceptionally made game, deserving of its plaudits. Thankfully, the game is thick with an astounding variety of cohesive supporting characters whose stories advance the plot while incorporating brush powers in ingeniously appropriate ways.

In the end, Okami is a toweringly epic, triumphant tour de force of staggering scope yet piercingly focused vision, boundless creativity, unrelenting invention, diligent vigor, alert wit, warmth, humor, and heart, which given the chance, will enthrall anyone with its outstanding telling of a poetically iconic tale of redemption, solidarity, and peace. Neglecting this game is as if you neglected the industry as a whole, and taking into account of the blemish sales, there are a plenty of offenders within the loud gaming community. Are you one of them?

Further Readings:

• By the Light of the Moon [1UP]
• Okami Update – The Art Style with Clover Studio's Naoki Katakai [Gamespot]
• Okami: Gorging on Excess [The New Gamer]

Cool to Hate - The Stigma of Pokémon

Popping in the cartridge of the recent Pokemon Platinum (averaged 84% in Metacritic) always prompts me with a very brief yet fascinating history lesson: the Pokemon franchise is 12 years old. It is quite older than the Halo series, and almost shares the same age with the Grand Theft Auto series. What all of them have in common, though, is that they all are grand selling franchises. Their difference, however, is derived from the wide-ranging response of the current gaming audience, in which one of three commercially (and even critically) successful empires is fated to a constant degradation, while the remaining two are placed on a pedestal, as panicles of hardcoreness in the average hardcore player shrine. It shouldn’t take you less than a second to assign the stigma and the pride associated to the previously mentioned game series. Ironically though, these game franchises reach almost all age demographics. There are many 13-year olds who posses the M-rated games despite the age restrictions on the box. And similarly, there are huge crowds of twenties and mid-twenties players whom grew with the Pokemon series and still play them passionately as they did when they were much younger. So, what is the reason behind this shady prejudice? Surely, it is not matter of self-assurance in regards to the maturity and sense of outgrowth among players, is it?

The mainstream debut of the Pokemon RPG series in 1998 brought a staggering level of awareness to the videogame industry by the mass media, specifically the western media, along with countless Pokemon-sponsored products and merchandises. The gaming industry wasn’t used to this kind of sudden exposure back then, and the spotlight proved to be super effective (no pun intended). Both the media outlets and other game designers were curious regarding its outstanding financial success and critical acclaim, considering its simplistic and foreign RPG formula. However, a minimal assessment of the product revealed Pokemon’s exceptional design, and the plethora of original ideas it brought with it. Satoshi Tajiri –the creator of Pokemon- has stated that his creation was influenced by several factors, and one of them was his obsessive habit of collecting bugs when he was a young kid. In any case, the two main aspects the game perpetuates are constructed around the idea of collecting pocket monsters and investing in an underdog story within a family-friendly structure. Indeed, these are the true accomplishments and charms of the Pokemon series.

It’s unfortunate, though, that the reaction of the gaming community toward the series from the very beginning was based on excessive mockery and tasteless jokes. Considering the fact that Nintendo started to suffer from the lingering “kiddy" image that came with the N64, Pokemon wasn’t exactly the perfect remedy to eradicate such conceptions. As games during the mid 90s became focally invested with gore, violence, and deeper plots, most gamers felt the need to outgrow the cheery, simplistic, and colorful frameworks that are usually discernible in most Nintendo and “E-rated” games. Thus, in order to be adhered to the cool gamer club, players started to shun similar games such as Pokemon and degrade them to substantiate their position.

However, one cannot sum all the responses the series has gathered on one single rationale such as the “kiddy” perception and the simple premise of capturing and raising the adorable Pokemon. Another abstraction that hindered the series from attracting a respectable and thoughtful appreciation is the foreign nature of the game. Upon carefully scrutinizing the very first two generations of Pokemon games (i.e. Red/Blue/Yellow and Gold/Silver/Crystal) we will find an exceptional level of Japanism and Shinto influences dispersed all over Kanto and Johto regions. For example, both games have subtly dealt with quite murky themes such as awakening and suppressing the spirits of dead Pokemon, godly creatures that symbolizes naturism, abolishing capitalist ideals, the prevalence of judo-like gyms, and the conflicting models of environmentalism vs. industrialization. These are mostly contemporary Eastern dispositions that can seem fairly outlandish to a western player to the fact it reached the point of total abandonment. That level of obscurity has genuinely been toned down in the later installment of the series, and the issues started to garner universal appeal than being locally influenced.

It shouldn’t be too surprising that the slightly varied yet continuous premises and themes the series has been transpiring with since the last decade were only a reflection of the core mechanics founded in its foundation. In the same fashion with most J-RPGs, the series still remain dutiful to the formula that made it popular; thus, becoming one of best exemplars of the “if it isn’t broken don’t fix it” adage. Granted, the series has and continues to add small tweaks and modifications in each installment, in which might be ignored to the casual observer but remain shrewdly perceived by the devotee. Pokemon parallels Dragon Quest in this perspective; both games are still grounded to their roots but their unique charm and substantiated universe and novelty are rarity compared to other games. This is one of the many –not stated- reasons that JRP-Games such as Final Fantasy are robustly welcomed by the so-called hardcore than Dragon Quest and Tales games.

Although, there is final and an important aspect that somewhat explains the ridicule attitude toward Pokemon. The massive mainstream recognition and commercialization of the series back in the late 90s were so critical that the gamer community revealed that Pokemon was merely a temporary fad destined to be forgotten in the future. They explained that Pokemon was a premature representation to their favorite hobby while it demeaned the industry to a superficial level. True, the series might have lost some of its flare but the substantial sales and contribution to the software market proved that those gamers possess little knowledge when it comes to the perception of their own audience. Perhaps, this attitude originates from the yearning to be distinctive and less analogous to the mainstream taste. Ironically, it is those gamers that focus on sale charts and monthly software revenues than anybody else.

It is important for me to disclose that Pokemon isn’t a flawless game, nor it triumphs other mainstream series such as GTA and Halo in terms of achievement and originality, and possibly vice versa. Refusing to play Pokemon due to the dislike of the genre or the fixated nature of the game is certainly acceptable and respectable. However, it is a different matter to state contentment and apathy due to its “kiddy image” and minimalist design. This is like ridiculing an individual who favored Wall•E than The Wrestler due to the affability and simple premise of the former. As fervent players who perceive videogames more than a pastime activity or interest, it is important for us to be mature in our judgment and critique before we demand that from those who don’t. In the end, it is the progression of growing-up with the games that is the most necessary, not outgrowing them.

March's Round Table Discussion: About The Author

This is my entry to the March Round Table discussion hosted by Man Bytes Blog. This piece was initially influenced by Brain Rubinow’s (The Select Button) entry.

This month’s topic turns the literary focus from the medium, to the author. If you submitted a post to either the January or February topics, feel free to write about the process you underwent in converting literary themes into gameplay. Did you struggle with anything in particular? Are you satisfied that your game design(s) communicated what you intended? Have subsequent comments or idea made you wish you could go back and start he process over? And how much does your design say about you and your own interpretation of the themes of the source material?

Alternately feel free to turn your focus to another game designer, or to game designers in general. In literature we frequently “hear” the author’s voice in their work. Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, and Tom Robbins–these are excellent examples of authors whose voices are quite recognizable. Through reading their works, we feel we come to feel we know them, to understand their philosophies. There are a handful of games where the “author” can clearly be heard through the work. How closely tied is this to the thematic content of the games and how exactly did they communicate these themes to their audience? And should they have, or should video game designer try to remain out of their work, allowing the player to establish their own themes through gameplay?

When I created Gamer Quest, one of my aspirations was (and still is) to pull the nature of videogame writing up a notch, beyond game reviews that were intended to be buyer's recommendations and into the level of critical analysis; optimistically, joining the ranks of my fellow authors that have pioneered this exciting new venue. In other words, to treat games as an art form that could be dissected and evaluated in the same ways that music, painting, literature, film, and even fashion are treated. Perhaps, this seems to raise game design to a level that isn't warranted, but we should keep in mind that there were times when dance and film were regarded as merely recreation and entertainment. As game design has become more ambitious, so should its criticism.

The Auteur Theory -usually constrained to academic thoughts on aesthetics in film criticism- has been gaining quite a visibility within the gaming industry lately, at least more than it did thirty years ago. Kojima, Miyamoto, and Molyneux, among many others, have become parts of our daily vocabulary. The fact that we get extremely ecstatic when we are informed they are working on a new game project -while being completely clueless on what that new work is- reveals that they have obtained an outstanding blind faith from us, their loyalists. Not only they have created and tinkered countless of game genres, but they also altered our critical perception of videogames.

Granted, we need to be extremely cautious before we elevate any game designer from being an artisan (an aspect we are still trying to validate) to being an auteur. To do so, one must really look at the body of work of a game designer and try to make out a distinctive style or consistent theme, to the extent that it is possible on any consequence regardless of genre and gameplay. Essentially, the real value of the auteur theory can be often revealed when the games of any auteur candidate are analyzed, using a critical perspective with the participation of critiques.

Perhaps, it is quite easy to select one of the prominent and vocal game auteurs such as Hideo Kojima, Atsushi Inaba, Suda 51, or the recent Jonathan Blow. However, I resorted to discuss the work of Gonzalo Frasca, an Uruguayan game developer, researcher and entrepreneur, and proven to be less celebrated game designer by mainstream standards. Frasca’s body of work is usually fixated on 2D Flash games, and as a professional game designer, he has several games in his inventory that can be analyzed, in which we find repetitions and similar uses of game elements that indicate his individual style and his worldwide political views.

I believe he is a fitting candidate as an auteur game designer as he demonstrates the basic perquisites that validate this position. His games are individually designed and programmed while being technically competent, and his body of work exhibits a distinct style that isn’t customary in videogames. He can be considered as one of the founders of news games, serious games, and ludology. His works on “war on terror” influenced not only game circles, but also newspapers and magazines that carried his comments to the public such as New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Guardian and Wired.com, etc. The response of his players can be confusing and mixed, as pleasure and frustration are two faces of the picture.

His games, Madrid and September 12th are examples of the Newsgames genre, the transformation of political cartoons to the field of games. They are considered responses to political events than the process of retelling the actual events. Their focus is on quickly delivering a personal comment or a message. Thus, the games have to be designed in short time, in certain size and length, with easy playability and clear messages on the surface; after all, using advanced programming techniques, 3D models and engines are too protracted for this purpose. To maneuver such obstacles, Frasca prefers to design his games in 2D graphics on single background image with simple controls. In the case of Kabul Kaboom!, we learn that the game is programmed in one day in an airplane trip. Astonishingly, he is technically competent enough to program and design his own games with certain aspects.

Another familiar signature in Frasca’s simply programmed flash games is the utilization of dichotomy to convey the message and symbolism. For example, In Kabul Kaboom!, the dichotomy was guised as food and bombs. In the game, we control a mother figure that is only restrained to move left and right to catch the food and help packages (symbolized as McDonald’s hamburgers) while trying to avoid contacting the bombs, both are being thrown from US airplanes. This simply process of dodging the bombs and collecting the hamburgers can only result in the death or survival of the player, a blatant dichotomy of wars and conflicts. However, in September 12th, we obtain the role of a jet pilot and fly over a Middle Eastern city in order to carry out a simple mission: kill terrorist while avoiding the deaths of civilians. Interestingly, the distinction between terrorist and civilian becomes blurred when we fire our missiles as some of the civilians are converted to terrorists. Here, dichotomies such as win/lose, despair/hope and player/activist perpetuate the general context of the game and the dangers of war on terror declared by the US after 9/11.

It also seems that Frasca is a fan of using game primitives, a central aspect that was discussed in his work “Videogames of the Oppressed”. He proposes to use templates of old games to represent complex social situations and oppressions of people. Kabul Kaboom! uses a primitive of Space Invaders to represent the oppression of a mother in a city that is target of bombardment. In September 12th and Madrid, Frasca use a primitive similar to Cabal, an old shooting game. In September 12th the oppression is the moral question of killing innocent civilians, while Madrid represents the oppression of a citizen who is living in a city that is a target of a terror attack. Frasca’s game primitives are definitely an important part of his style, and even making him more favorable candidate to maintain his stance as an auteur.

This leads to conclude that The Auteur Theory -when applied as a critical method to analyze aesthetic dimensions of games- can reveal different styles and world views of game designers, while enriching our understanding of videogames as representational mediums. This development could also lead the game industry to produce different games and genres to supply the increasing demand of mature game players. The analysis of Gonzalo Frasca’s portfolio demonstrates not only his status as auteur compared to other game designers, but also reveals his own style of using dichotomies while criticizing the prevalent ideological trends, particularly in US politics. Undoubtedly, It is a bold message and a bold use of interactive entertainment but perhaps this is the primary reason that makes the whole process more compelling, both in videogame criticism and design.