This review contains spoilers
In Takehiko Inoue’s manga interpretation of Samurai Philosopher Miyamoto Musashi (better known as Vagabond), he imbues the character with an ethical dilemma. Musashi’s appreciation for the value of life blossoms over his many travels and encounters, but it clashes dramatically with his unimpeachable passion for the way of the sword. No matter the wisdom he earns, the barriers he pushes past to extinguish the flames of his ego and achieve synergy with the world around him, Musashi feels most alive when his own life is balanced along the edge of a knife, when he’s taking the lives of his most respected opponents in honorable combat. The test of his physical and psychological limits, the blade as an extension of his will, the process of honing and unifying his body and mind against any rival, these are the things which give his life meaning. Time and again we watch this thirst for blood nearly consume him. It bubbles up and overflows, but he’s grounded again by his loved ones and the guidance of those who’ve walked his path before. He endeavors to understand the meaning of strength, and the higher value his practice may bring. As I played through Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice again and again, overcome by the visceral thrill of its most spectacular clashes, I became conscious of my own efforts to maintain the lessons of Vagabond…
…Because Sekiro’s combat clicked so shockingly hard that I can hardly keep away from it long enough to write this review. Its focus on deflections and counters and the interplay between health and posture means that every moment becomes an opportunity to seize an advantage. Thanks to Wolf’s shinobi prowess, offense and defense blend together, and pressuring opponents by interrupting their attacks and asserting the flow of battle isn’t only possible, but key to breaking their composure and delivering a climactic deathblow (for the uninitiated, “deflecting” and countering the enemy causes their posture gauge to fill up, and it recovers more slowly as their health decreases. Maxing out and breaking the enemy’s posture is often as or even more viable an option for victory as depleting their health bar, though your own posture is just as vulnerable). The game’s most formidable challengers push back with their own barrage of beautifully choreographed strikes, and the fight becomes a relentless back and forth, a dance of slashes and clangs where the hovering specter of Death lies crouched between every lunge and parry. It’s never been so satisfying to follow the arc of an enemy’s blade, deflect the strike the instant it connects, and retaliate with a flurry of my own. Without a stamina meter to dictate the player’s strategic cadence, every moment of battle is one of breathless action, full of split-second pivots between striking and carefully reading the enemy to choose which counter to execute in a given moment. If anyone unfortunate enough to have read my previous work was confused by my appraisal of overly evasive 3D combat mechanics, I can’t emphasize enough that Sekiro is the other side of that coin. I don’t have to be able to juggle enemies or pull off insane combo strings, the parts can be few, it’s about an ever-present give and take between the player and the AI. Even having delved further into and enjoyed other 3D single-player combat systems since my first brush with Sekiro back in April, nothing else has yet achieved that same flow state, that sublime unity of aggression and cool-headed defense. I’ve never felt so validated in the preference that action games are best when they focus on a single character’s unique capabilities.
The shape and rhythm of Sekiro’s every obstacle and environment is specially tailored to Wolf’s weight and dexterity, which is why its stealth mechanics feel so naturally integrated into the whole. Not only does quiet sneaking serve to expertly pace the game’s adrenaline-fueled highs, the sheer precision and effort required during combat makes it all the more cathartic to pick off surrounding guards or get the drop on a group before a battle begins. The best of Sekiro’s areas had me scavenging the level design for stealth deathblows and opportunities to gain a strategic advantage, and it’s rare that the game doesn’t accommodate this marriage between its most prominent modes of play. Stealth isn’t massively deep here (lest we forget that guards have been able to follow snowy footsteps at least as early as the PS1), but it doesn’t especially have to be in order to serve its purpose as part of Sekiro’s broader loop. Not for nothin’, but it crossed my mind more than once that stealth might operate better as a complimentary flavor to a punchy, but punishing combat system than the core conceit of an entire game (as much as I appreciate Metal Gear Solid 3). Getting caught in Sekiro doesn’t cause the gameplay to fall apart, it doesn’t require a reset before returning to the Actual Game, and it has just enough variety in approach that it never gets old, even five playthroughs later. But it’s not as though we’re murdering irredeemable metaphors for Evil in Sekiro, even when demons are involved.
The central questions surrounding Sekiro’s setting and character motivations are of parasitic immortality, stagnation, and loyalty, but beneath it all lies a more dormant conflict. Wolf begins the story bound to the “Iron Code” of his father, Owl, so for him, every life taken is justified for the sake of his master’s protection. He’s been indoctrinated into a world where Owl’s word is law, and his master comes second. It’s established very quickly that this Code determines the parameters of his entire purpose; Wolf doesn’t enjoy killing any more than I enjoy keeping Kosher, it’s simply an unalterable fact of life which grounds his existence. This is what we’re made to understand, but it’s called into question not only by way of the incredible friction of the game mechanics and the dramatic presentation which punctuates every successful deathblow, but the suggestions of certain key characters across the narrative. In a fantastic little touch, bringing sake to these characters from time to time inclines them to open up and offer some insight into their backgrounds and philosophies. Delivering Monkey Booze (don’t ask) to Isshin Ashina, founder and namesake of the province the player is fighting through, inspires him to warn Wolf that he may be at risk of succumbing to the wrath of “Shura,” becoming an entity without reason who kills purely for the joy of it. He’s brought up his attendant Emma in the way of the sword to oppose such monsters, to kill a “demon” should one present itself. The kindly, but troubled sculptor of the dilapidated temple reveals that he too was a shinobi once, but is now locked in a desperate inner battle to atone for the murders he’s caused, carving the buddha to prevent himself from transforming into a creature of pure hatred.
At a critical juncture in the story, it’s possible for Wolf to become consumed in this same way. By now, Wolf has already had to reckon with the Code of his upbringing. He’s been faced with a situation wherein, to honor the request of Kuro, his young master and the Divine Heir of the Dragon’s Heritage, he’s had to bend his allegiance to the Iron Code by agreeing to set off on a quest to sever their shared bonds of immortality. Now, his father commands that he adhere to the Code once more and betray Kuro. Owl’s word is, and always has been, absolute. If he does as his father asks, Wolf’s humanity evaporates, and he becomes one with Shura. Grim though it may be, it’s no less valid a conclusion to the story and his character than the alternative. It is in rejecting Owl that Wolf embraces what both himself and the player realize he’s always known; Iron Code or no, Kuro’s mission is just. He’s already ventured across all corners of Ashina and witnessed what corruption this obsession with immortality has wrought upon mankind, upon even the wildlife of the land. In finally grounding himself in a cause he believes in, without question as to whether or not he’s mindlessly adhering to the standard of another, Wolf is liberated, no longer susceptible to becoming a host for Shura. The drastically different outcomes of this moment belie that, for all of his stoicism, all of the killing he’s done up until this point has had him teetering on the edge.
It’s with newfound assurance in the righteousness of his quest that Wolf can continue to forge on, and thereafter, his appreciation for battle is no longer suspect. In his purpose and loyalty to the people he cares about, he begins to walk Musashi’s path. Perhaps not in the same way, he’s not necessarily invested in swordsmanship for the art and enlightenment its practice may bring, but this revelation allows him to see the beauty, and not simply the utility, of his own skill. He may be an agent of violence, but the kindness in his ultimate cause, to help cure Ashina of its all-consuming curse and bring peace to Kuro, resolves the imbalance in his soul. At least, for the moment.
Meanwhile, the nature of my soul was still up in the air. I never succumbed to the Shura ending, even to battle its unique bosses, but every passing playthrough saw me skipping more and more of the reasoning for my quest. Even after achieving the “Dragon’s Return” ending on my second run, perhaps the most peaceful possible resolution, I was still frothing at the mouth to reset and return to the fires of war, to lock swords with Genichiro, the Guardian Ape, Priestess Yao, Owl, O’rin and Isshin again and again on higher and higher difficulty settings. In seeking out the “Purification” ending during one playthrough, I completely swept past the necessary requirements for that conclusion, full knowing what was needed, in pursuit of the more immediate, animalistic thrill of progression toward that tantalizing finish line. But nothing was waiting for me there. Nothing but the sight I found at the end of my first playthrough, but it felt changed, and all too appropriate now. It was Wolf, carving the buddha, staving off his transformation into a fiery demon like the sculptor before him. That resolve, that sense of purpose, had all but burned away. My lack of consideration directly resulted in Kuro’s death, and it was completely avoidable. It struck an area of my brain I hadn’t felt since Cave Story, when my younger self unwittingly left that sad world to its demise, but I was more aware of and more responsible for the consequences here. I’ve never been much for sculpture, so my true quest for the “Purification” ending would have to serve as penance.
Amid the terrifying beauty of its violence, those staggering highs which make me feel more than alive, Sekiro never lets me forget the purpose for which I’ve been honing my skills. It doesn’t do this by undermining the joy of its own mechanics, but by encouraging me to engage more deeply, to honor the responsibility of my role, and remain loyal to my purpose. We could spend all day talking about how it could’ve shaved off those skill trees and sharpened itself down to an even finer point, but none of those things cloud the clarity of its intent, or dampen the resonance of its themes. It’s a game whose victories always feel most gratifying when I’ve taken the time to sit down and listen to the people I’m fighting to protect, and gone out of my way to struggle further for the sake of their happiness. I couldn’t move on until I was staring down The Sword Saint with the bell demon tucked well inside the pocket where Kuro’s charm used to be, but I did it knowing that Kuro would live. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. How ironic that this, of all games, cannot have its immortality severed.
…Because Sekiro’s combat clicked so shockingly hard that I can hardly keep away from it long enough to write this review. Its focus on deflections and counters and the interplay between health and posture means that every moment becomes an opportunity to seize an advantage. Thanks to Wolf’s shinobi prowess, offense and defense blend together, and pressuring opponents by interrupting their attacks and asserting the flow of battle isn’t only possible, but key to breaking their composure and delivering a climactic deathblow (for the uninitiated, “deflecting” and countering the enemy causes their posture gauge to fill up, and it recovers more slowly as their health decreases. Maxing out and breaking the enemy’s posture is often as or even more viable an option for victory as depleting their health bar, though your own posture is just as vulnerable). The game’s most formidable challengers push back with their own barrage of beautifully choreographed strikes, and the fight becomes a relentless back and forth, a dance of slashes and clangs where the hovering specter of Death lies crouched between every lunge and parry. It’s never been so satisfying to follow the arc of an enemy’s blade, deflect the strike the instant it connects, and retaliate with a flurry of my own. Without a stamina meter to dictate the player’s strategic cadence, every moment of battle is one of breathless action, full of split-second pivots between striking and carefully reading the enemy to choose which counter to execute in a given moment. If anyone unfortunate enough to have read my previous work was confused by my appraisal of overly evasive 3D combat mechanics, I can’t emphasize enough that Sekiro is the other side of that coin. I don’t have to be able to juggle enemies or pull off insane combo strings, the parts can be few, it’s about an ever-present give and take between the player and the AI. Even having delved further into and enjoyed other 3D single-player combat systems since my first brush with Sekiro back in April, nothing else has yet achieved that same flow state, that sublime unity of aggression and cool-headed defense. I’ve never felt so validated in the preference that action games are best when they focus on a single character’s unique capabilities.
The shape and rhythm of Sekiro’s every obstacle and environment is specially tailored to Wolf’s weight and dexterity, which is why its stealth mechanics feel so naturally integrated into the whole. Not only does quiet sneaking serve to expertly pace the game’s adrenaline-fueled highs, the sheer precision and effort required during combat makes it all the more cathartic to pick off surrounding guards or get the drop on a group before a battle begins. The best of Sekiro’s areas had me scavenging the level design for stealth deathblows and opportunities to gain a strategic advantage, and it’s rare that the game doesn’t accommodate this marriage between its most prominent modes of play. Stealth isn’t massively deep here (lest we forget that guards have been able to follow snowy footsteps at least as early as the PS1), but it doesn’t especially have to be in order to serve its purpose as part of Sekiro’s broader loop. Not for nothin’, but it crossed my mind more than once that stealth might operate better as a complimentary flavor to a punchy, but punishing combat system than the core conceit of an entire game (as much as I appreciate Metal Gear Solid 3). Getting caught in Sekiro doesn’t cause the gameplay to fall apart, it doesn’t require a reset before returning to the Actual Game, and it has just enough variety in approach that it never gets old, even five playthroughs later. But it’s not as though we’re murdering irredeemable metaphors for Evil in Sekiro, even when demons are involved.
The central questions surrounding Sekiro’s setting and character motivations are of parasitic immortality, stagnation, and loyalty, but beneath it all lies a more dormant conflict. Wolf begins the story bound to the “Iron Code” of his father, Owl, so for him, every life taken is justified for the sake of his master’s protection. He’s been indoctrinated into a world where Owl’s word is law, and his master comes second. It’s established very quickly that this Code determines the parameters of his entire purpose; Wolf doesn’t enjoy killing any more than I enjoy keeping Kosher, it’s simply an unalterable fact of life which grounds his existence. This is what we’re made to understand, but it’s called into question not only by way of the incredible friction of the game mechanics and the dramatic presentation which punctuates every successful deathblow, but the suggestions of certain key characters across the narrative. In a fantastic little touch, bringing sake to these characters from time to time inclines them to open up and offer some insight into their backgrounds and philosophies. Delivering Monkey Booze (don’t ask) to Isshin Ashina, founder and namesake of the province the player is fighting through, inspires him to warn Wolf that he may be at risk of succumbing to the wrath of “Shura,” becoming an entity without reason who kills purely for the joy of it. He’s brought up his attendant Emma in the way of the sword to oppose such monsters, to kill a “demon” should one present itself. The kindly, but troubled sculptor of the dilapidated temple reveals that he too was a shinobi once, but is now locked in a desperate inner battle to atone for the murders he’s caused, carving the buddha to prevent himself from transforming into a creature of pure hatred.
At a critical juncture in the story, it’s possible for Wolf to become consumed in this same way. By now, Wolf has already had to reckon with the Code of his upbringing. He’s been faced with a situation wherein, to honor the request of Kuro, his young master and the Divine Heir of the Dragon’s Heritage, he’s had to bend his allegiance to the Iron Code by agreeing to set off on a quest to sever their shared bonds of immortality. Now, his father commands that he adhere to the Code once more and betray Kuro. Owl’s word is, and always has been, absolute. If he does as his father asks, Wolf’s humanity evaporates, and he becomes one with Shura. Grim though it may be, it’s no less valid a conclusion to the story and his character than the alternative. It is in rejecting Owl that Wolf embraces what both himself and the player realize he’s always known; Iron Code or no, Kuro’s mission is just. He’s already ventured across all corners of Ashina and witnessed what corruption this obsession with immortality has wrought upon mankind, upon even the wildlife of the land. In finally grounding himself in a cause he believes in, without question as to whether or not he’s mindlessly adhering to the standard of another, Wolf is liberated, no longer susceptible to becoming a host for Shura. The drastically different outcomes of this moment belie that, for all of his stoicism, all of the killing he’s done up until this point has had him teetering on the edge.
It’s with newfound assurance in the righteousness of his quest that Wolf can continue to forge on, and thereafter, his appreciation for battle is no longer suspect. In his purpose and loyalty to the people he cares about, he begins to walk Musashi’s path. Perhaps not in the same way, he’s not necessarily invested in swordsmanship for the art and enlightenment its practice may bring, but this revelation allows him to see the beauty, and not simply the utility, of his own skill. He may be an agent of violence, but the kindness in his ultimate cause, to help cure Ashina of its all-consuming curse and bring peace to Kuro, resolves the imbalance in his soul. At least, for the moment.
Meanwhile, the nature of my soul was still up in the air. I never succumbed to the Shura ending, even to battle its unique bosses, but every passing playthrough saw me skipping more and more of the reasoning for my quest. Even after achieving the “Dragon’s Return” ending on my second run, perhaps the most peaceful possible resolution, I was still frothing at the mouth to reset and return to the fires of war, to lock swords with Genichiro, the Guardian Ape, Priestess Yao, Owl, O’rin and Isshin again and again on higher and higher difficulty settings. In seeking out the “Purification” ending during one playthrough, I completely swept past the necessary requirements for that conclusion, full knowing what was needed, in pursuit of the more immediate, animalistic thrill of progression toward that tantalizing finish line. But nothing was waiting for me there. Nothing but the sight I found at the end of my first playthrough, but it felt changed, and all too appropriate now. It was Wolf, carving the buddha, staving off his transformation into a fiery demon like the sculptor before him. That resolve, that sense of purpose, had all but burned away. My lack of consideration directly resulted in Kuro’s death, and it was completely avoidable. It struck an area of my brain I hadn’t felt since Cave Story, when my younger self unwittingly left that sad world to its demise, but I was more aware of and more responsible for the consequences here. I’ve never been much for sculpture, so my true quest for the “Purification” ending would have to serve as penance.
Amid the terrifying beauty of its violence, those staggering highs which make me feel more than alive, Sekiro never lets me forget the purpose for which I’ve been honing my skills. It doesn’t do this by undermining the joy of its own mechanics, but by encouraging me to engage more deeply, to honor the responsibility of my role, and remain loyal to my purpose. We could spend all day talking about how it could’ve shaved off those skill trees and sharpened itself down to an even finer point, but none of those things cloud the clarity of its intent, or dampen the resonance of its themes. It’s a game whose victories always feel most gratifying when I’ve taken the time to sit down and listen to the people I’m fighting to protect, and gone out of my way to struggle further for the sake of their happiness. I couldn’t move on until I was staring down The Sword Saint with the bell demon tucked well inside the pocket where Kuro’s charm used to be, but I did it knowing that Kuro would live. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. How ironic that this, of all games, cannot have its immortality severed.
KLAVIERGAVIN
1 year ago