I'm an unapologetic cynic when it comes to artsy indie games. Games that attempt to conjure some sense of wonder by having you stand atop a sacred monument, so you can float and glow as you acquire your new power-up. It's shallow and insincere. A painting you bought at B&Q. Fucking... products. I know where it comes from, and it's fucking ICO.
This isn't a game that's dated. It's always been this unique and defiant of trends, but I think people tend to overlook its strengths on the criteria of a standard videogame. It's like a surreal, somewhat realistic version of Zelda. Like a regular kid actually had to go through all of that, panting and wheezing through every climb and fight. It's not a game that gratifies, but it's so much more tangible and relatable for that. Puzzle pieces are obscured by the imposing scale of these giant halls and walkways. You're very small, weak and unsure of where to go. You'll enter a room you don't belong in, and you feel unwelcome. That's something everyone has felt before, and the game is so effective in conveying that emotion.
ICO is a real credit to the group at SCEI that would later be known as Japan Studio. The cutscene animator from Enemy Zero on the Saturn walked in with an experimental pitch video he'd put together and they supported his project from PS1 prototype to complete overhaul and eventual release on PS2. It's no wonder that when Uncharted 2 turned Sony's fortunes around and determined the trajectory that the company would radically shift towards, would they fire every member of corporate responsible for that decision.
The game runs on a consistent sensation of weight and frailty. The boyish tug at Yorda's hand. The sense of dread whenever you have to separate. The distrust of yourself before attempting a perilous jump that might be the route forward, and the subsequent fear when you have to ask the emaciated Yorda to do the same. Ico, reassuringly holding out his hand to catch her, but shaking in fear at the uncertainty. The relatable tangibility in all of that massively benefits from Ueda's background in visual art and animation. This game is a keeper.
Ueda has described his approach as "design by subtraction". ICO was seen as shockingly sparse and minimalist in its day. Even its most influential and daring contemporaries like GTA3 and MGS2 were still utilising floating power-ups, on-screen status bars and detailed objectives, and it was strange to see a game without them. Picking up an old save today, there's an almost instinctive search for a map screen as you try to recall your bearings. Ueda has frequently cited Another World as a primary influence, and it wouldn't be right to suggest that this style of game design was entirely his invention, but for a game with this level of nuanced interaction and free movement, it was quite daring. There's no old RPG mechanics holding this thing together. You're not looking at numbers and trying to determine the best strategy you can afford. It feels physical. If you need an item, you have to go find it and pick it up. You're not told what state the protagonists are in, or how strong the enemies might be, and there's a fear in the ambiguity.
I expect this is basic knowledge to anyone with a similar attitude towards games, but so much has been lost in the utilitarian homogenisation of camera systems today. The right stick swivelling around the playable character as its constant centre. It's so boring and limiting as a design principle. Back in the early days of game design, there was real thought put into what a screen needed to show. That one screen was your whole game, so it better be good. Predetermined camera angles have as much potential to games as they have to films. It's also good when your artists don't have to piss around texturing every pebble from every conceivable angle and just focus on making each moment look as good as possible. In ICO, you're always looking down at the characters. Ico and Yorda are always very small, and the full dimensions of the giant, suffocating castle are difficult to discern. In the action scenes, you don't always know where the shadowy figures are. Yorda might turn her head towards them, as a subtle warning, but that aide is gone if she's ever taken away, and it's a scramble to determine where she is. The emotion in the game wouldn't resonate nearly as effectively if it played like Ratchet & Clank.
Then there's the sofas. A surreal sight in the middle of these stone ruins. Ico and Yorda sit side by side on them and you can save the game. They don't exist in the scenario's logic. I don't know if I even want to recognise them as canon. They're brilliantly symbolic, though. A small home comfort in this desperate, lonely situation. You don't have to suffer through this. You save and return when you want to come back. Ico and Yorda sit side by side. There's no implication of romance or anything, just mutual trust, respect and devotion. The castle is intimidating, but there's nothing to distrust in these two.
The rigid, uniform, endless brickwork you find yourself trapped within, and the rare glimpses of the boundless, vibrant forest beyond. The catharsis you feel whenever you work against the castle's symmetrical, straightline logic.
Sometimes, I like to keep the game paused and let the ambience take over. The rolling waves and birdsong. There's a mood that envelops the room whenever I turn on ICO.
ICO is in no ways a perfect game. It's easy for current fans to overlook how obtuse an old favourite can be, or even admire it for that very quality, but it's not really an aspect of game design to be applauded. Anyone who has played an old adventure game will know the frustration of not knowing how to progress, rummaging around in desperation and fighting off the growing desire to quit. A first-time ICO playthrough has plenty of those moments to offer. They add to that important sense of powerlessness, sure, but you feel you need to be very gentle in recommending the game to potential players.
I sometimes talk about the frustration and anguish in ICO's combat. How that complements the setting. You know - I'm not confident it's fully intentional. With as much as folk love ICO, we tend to forget the scene it came out of. Have you played any of those late-90s hack n slashes recently? When was the last time you had a go on T'ai Fu or Ninja: Shadow of Darkness? I'm not confident that they're a million miles away from ICO's punishing repetition. This game was made by a small, somewhat inexperienced team, and it's probably a little pretentious to suggest that everything in the game was done with great insight and intent. When there's something really great in this game, you can typically attribute that to Ueda and not the handful of software specialists under him.
The surprising thing is that ICO remains very gamey. You solve puzzles by sliding big blocks onto platforms and lighting giant Tom & Jerry bombs. Puzzles are self-contained and utilise a small selection of playing pieces. Core Design-era Tomb Raider climbing and Pikmin 1 partner management. It's good. We like games.
Ueda has frustrated interviewers who have attempted to pry into the game's setting and lore with a down-to-earth, utilitarian attitude. He insists the ruins aren't intended to suggest anything. They were just a good match for the gameplay he wanted to explore. I don't think he's being dishonest. ICO is first and foremost a video game, and seemingly, any abstractions on top of that are only intended to guide the player's emotion. I've always enjoyed reflecting on the out-there ceremonial purpose of each location in the castle, but that's really just me seeing what I want to in this series of elaborately decorated puzzles. There isn't a fantasy novel behind this, though Ueda's never deterred audiences from their interpretations. ICO is just a distinctive, ambitious artist trying to make his own version of Kula World. If this was all a serious, dour exploration of the nature of trust, do you think he'd have put a hidden lightsaber in this thing?
Even though I haven't played through the original PS2 version since getting my CRT, I found myself sucked into the PS3 HD remaster this time. What can I say? I'm weak. I like wireless controllers and an internal hard drive. There are arguments to be made against the purist approach, though. Ueda was deeply involved in the remaster, and the level of detail in some of the more ornate texturework is really something to admire. It's still his vision, even I have my reservations about the sharp, high-contrast tiling covering every floor. I think a washed-out, foggy presentation really benefits ICO's atmosphere, and if there was ever a PS2 game to play on a CRT, this is probably it (please stick with me here, Silent Hill 2 fans), but there's appealing qualities unique to the PS3 release too. Don't get too high and mighty about it. It's a fine way to play. And no matter which revision you play, jumping on that piston always blows.
ICO is just a very different idea of what games can be. What we thought they might be when the PS2 came out. It's so richly evocative of that promise. The launch-era dream that makes me cherish my Horizontal Stand so dearly. The quiet before the Vice City boys got in, and Sony went full boar on getting themselves a Halo Killer. I couldn't put my finger on what was missing from them at the time, but the market's influence on this year's Zelda and Pikmin sequels really made me appreciate another run through ICO. No matter which direction the industry goes in, this game will still exist. The dream goes on.
This isn't a game that's dated. It's always been this unique and defiant of trends, but I think people tend to overlook its strengths on the criteria of a standard videogame. It's like a surreal, somewhat realistic version of Zelda. Like a regular kid actually had to go through all of that, panting and wheezing through every climb and fight. It's not a game that gratifies, but it's so much more tangible and relatable for that. Puzzle pieces are obscured by the imposing scale of these giant halls and walkways. You're very small, weak and unsure of where to go. You'll enter a room you don't belong in, and you feel unwelcome. That's something everyone has felt before, and the game is so effective in conveying that emotion.
ICO is a real credit to the group at SCEI that would later be known as Japan Studio. The cutscene animator from Enemy Zero on the Saturn walked in with an experimental pitch video he'd put together and they supported his project from PS1 prototype to complete overhaul and eventual release on PS2. It's no wonder that when Uncharted 2 turned Sony's fortunes around and determined the trajectory that the company would radically shift towards, would they fire every member of corporate responsible for that decision.
The game runs on a consistent sensation of weight and frailty. The boyish tug at Yorda's hand. The sense of dread whenever you have to separate. The distrust of yourself before attempting a perilous jump that might be the route forward, and the subsequent fear when you have to ask the emaciated Yorda to do the same. Ico, reassuringly holding out his hand to catch her, but shaking in fear at the uncertainty. The relatable tangibility in all of that massively benefits from Ueda's background in visual art and animation. This game is a keeper.
Ueda has described his approach as "design by subtraction". ICO was seen as shockingly sparse and minimalist in its day. Even its most influential and daring contemporaries like GTA3 and MGS2 were still utilising floating power-ups, on-screen status bars and detailed objectives, and it was strange to see a game without them. Picking up an old save today, there's an almost instinctive search for a map screen as you try to recall your bearings. Ueda has frequently cited Another World as a primary influence, and it wouldn't be right to suggest that this style of game design was entirely his invention, but for a game with this level of nuanced interaction and free movement, it was quite daring. There's no old RPG mechanics holding this thing together. You're not looking at numbers and trying to determine the best strategy you can afford. It feels physical. If you need an item, you have to go find it and pick it up. You're not told what state the protagonists are in, or how strong the enemies might be, and there's a fear in the ambiguity.
I expect this is basic knowledge to anyone with a similar attitude towards games, but so much has been lost in the utilitarian homogenisation of camera systems today. The right stick swivelling around the playable character as its constant centre. It's so boring and limiting as a design principle. Back in the early days of game design, there was real thought put into what a screen needed to show. That one screen was your whole game, so it better be good. Predetermined camera angles have as much potential to games as they have to films. It's also good when your artists don't have to piss around texturing every pebble from every conceivable angle and just focus on making each moment look as good as possible. In ICO, you're always looking down at the characters. Ico and Yorda are always very small, and the full dimensions of the giant, suffocating castle are difficult to discern. In the action scenes, you don't always know where the shadowy figures are. Yorda might turn her head towards them, as a subtle warning, but that aide is gone if she's ever taken away, and it's a scramble to determine where she is. The emotion in the game wouldn't resonate nearly as effectively if it played like Ratchet & Clank.
Then there's the sofas. A surreal sight in the middle of these stone ruins. Ico and Yorda sit side by side on them and you can save the game. They don't exist in the scenario's logic. I don't know if I even want to recognise them as canon. They're brilliantly symbolic, though. A small home comfort in this desperate, lonely situation. You don't have to suffer through this. You save and return when you want to come back. Ico and Yorda sit side by side. There's no implication of romance or anything, just mutual trust, respect and devotion. The castle is intimidating, but there's nothing to distrust in these two.
The rigid, uniform, endless brickwork you find yourself trapped within, and the rare glimpses of the boundless, vibrant forest beyond. The catharsis you feel whenever you work against the castle's symmetrical, straightline logic.
Sometimes, I like to keep the game paused and let the ambience take over. The rolling waves and birdsong. There's a mood that envelops the room whenever I turn on ICO.
ICO is in no ways a perfect game. It's easy for current fans to overlook how obtuse an old favourite can be, or even admire it for that very quality, but it's not really an aspect of game design to be applauded. Anyone who has played an old adventure game will know the frustration of not knowing how to progress, rummaging around in desperation and fighting off the growing desire to quit. A first-time ICO playthrough has plenty of those moments to offer. They add to that important sense of powerlessness, sure, but you feel you need to be very gentle in recommending the game to potential players.
I sometimes talk about the frustration and anguish in ICO's combat. How that complements the setting. You know - I'm not confident it's fully intentional. With as much as folk love ICO, we tend to forget the scene it came out of. Have you played any of those late-90s hack n slashes recently? When was the last time you had a go on T'ai Fu or Ninja: Shadow of Darkness? I'm not confident that they're a million miles away from ICO's punishing repetition. This game was made by a small, somewhat inexperienced team, and it's probably a little pretentious to suggest that everything in the game was done with great insight and intent. When there's something really great in this game, you can typically attribute that to Ueda and not the handful of software specialists under him.
The surprising thing is that ICO remains very gamey. You solve puzzles by sliding big blocks onto platforms and lighting giant Tom & Jerry bombs. Puzzles are self-contained and utilise a small selection of playing pieces. Core Design-era Tomb Raider climbing and Pikmin 1 partner management. It's good. We like games.
Ueda has frustrated interviewers who have attempted to pry into the game's setting and lore with a down-to-earth, utilitarian attitude. He insists the ruins aren't intended to suggest anything. They were just a good match for the gameplay he wanted to explore. I don't think he's being dishonest. ICO is first and foremost a video game, and seemingly, any abstractions on top of that are only intended to guide the player's emotion. I've always enjoyed reflecting on the out-there ceremonial purpose of each location in the castle, but that's really just me seeing what I want to in this series of elaborately decorated puzzles. There isn't a fantasy novel behind this, though Ueda's never deterred audiences from their interpretations. ICO is just a distinctive, ambitious artist trying to make his own version of Kula World. If this was all a serious, dour exploration of the nature of trust, do you think he'd have put a hidden lightsaber in this thing?
Even though I haven't played through the original PS2 version since getting my CRT, I found myself sucked into the PS3 HD remaster this time. What can I say? I'm weak. I like wireless controllers and an internal hard drive. There are arguments to be made against the purist approach, though. Ueda was deeply involved in the remaster, and the level of detail in some of the more ornate texturework is really something to admire. It's still his vision, even I have my reservations about the sharp, high-contrast tiling covering every floor. I think a washed-out, foggy presentation really benefits ICO's atmosphere, and if there was ever a PS2 game to play on a CRT, this is probably it (please stick with me here, Silent Hill 2 fans), but there's appealing qualities unique to the PS3 release too. Don't get too high and mighty about it. It's a fine way to play. And no matter which revision you play, jumping on that piston always blows.
ICO is just a very different idea of what games can be. What we thought they might be when the PS2 came out. It's so richly evocative of that promise. The launch-era dream that makes me cherish my Horizontal Stand so dearly. The quiet before the Vice City boys got in, and Sony went full boar on getting themselves a Halo Killer. I couldn't put my finger on what was missing from them at the time, but the market's influence on this year's Zelda and Pikmin sequels really made me appreciate another run through ICO. No matter which direction the industry goes in, this game will still exist. The dream goes on.