Going to be succinct on this one. Controls are not great, something that needs to be perfect for a light gun game, the menus and UI scream “cheap cash-in”, and technical issues hamper what should have been an easy slam-dunk of a game. Zombie designs are pretty bland and lifeless (something that’s been an issue of the series since HOTD4; comparatively, look at the designs in 1, 2, and 3, which tow the line between “generic” and “immediately recognizable”.) Typos and sound balancing issues left and right leave an air of amateurism. The worst way to play an arcade classic. Never trust Forever Entertainment, folks!

Well, he ain't my boy, but the brother is heavy
Gave away my possessions and moved in to a Chevy (van
Yeah, that's the master plan)
(Drive to woods and eat corn out the can)
Yeah I gave it all away, the hard rock band
The groupies, the booze, the all-night jams
Now all these fans, askin' "Where did he go?"
(Meditating on a rock lettin' go of the ego)
So rapping with the squirrels is the way of the mountain
They took half my nuts and berries and riddled "Who's countin'?"
Bit my finger with the truth, the blood was spoutin'
Now my cup overfloweth, just like a fountain
Seen birds in the sky, trees in between
Grubs in the ground, it was so serene
The sky was blue, yeah the grass was green
(And that's three square meals if you know what I mean!)
So now I wake up every morning with a fat cup of piss
My third eye's open, so give me some Swiss Miss
Saw a thirty foot fairy walking down your street
Thought I was down with God, I had to yell "Retreat!"


Because I gone guru so cut the ballyhoo
Rock the tambourines and the didgeridoo
Set the animals free from the pimpin' zoo
And I'll elevate your mind like airplane glue

Out in the desert on a three-day stint
I had a revelation and I made a mint
So take a hit and won't you join the club
Send your wives to my hut for the body rub
Mental guru in the Subaru
Four-wheel drive to the commune
Pick up the crew
And we out to the zen monastery on the prairie
Where I milk the holy cow, but quit the dairy
So run with the yeti eatin' veggie spaghetti
Don't have to live like no refugee, peace to Tom Petty
Ready, steady, spiritually grow
Til I found out my boy worked for the COINTELPRO
Graham, damn, now I gots to scram
And start handin' out my leaflets in Bethlehem
Cause the Bible's played out, so I'm writing a new text
(We are all one, so what's the problem with group sex?)
And so many children want to join the fold
(Mike Love on line two) Put that sucker on hold
And shine, to thine own self be true
They can't tell you what to do when you've gone guru
(Yeah, shine, to thine own self be true
They can't tell you what to do when you've gone guru!)
(You got to shine, to thine own self be true
They can't tell you what to do when you've gone guru)

Gone guru, I'm the new Nehru
So rock the tambourines and didgeridoo
I'll deliver who-ever pays what's due
That's nine for me, and one for you

Awwwwwwwww yeah, we got it going on and it's strong up in here tonight!
We got that incense burning! We got them peacock feathers, tickling!
We got all that cuckoo karma connection, that you can use
So come on, people, get with the program!
We can get this together...
Tonight!

Too many wives for Ohio, they were looking to try me
So I got twelve divorces said aloha, Hawaii
Arrived without traveling, they lost the bags
Another trial for my people, don't scratch the Jag
(They might say hang loose, but they really don't mean it!)
Deported me to Rio and you watched it on CNET
News chumps had me singing the blues
Til thirty thousand showed up with the right to choose
Rose petals in bed, milk in my bath
And now Harrison Ford wants my autograph
I laughed when we met, cause he busted a sweat
Then I stuck out my tongue, he donated a jet
(Stole the spotlight from the Dali Lama
Cause my crews coming tight in the orange pajamas)
(Got 16 Caddies and 29 Rolls
Fuck the shoes, I transcend through soles)
With constant expansion, I live in a mansion
Getting jiggy with Madonna and Marilyn Manson
60 Minutes exposé, taxes you never paid
Papparazzi, Code Blue! Down toupee!
Yes I'm starting to age, I can feel it in my bones
My advisers tell me (Start thinking 'bout clones)
Found out! Heaven is a place on earth!
I cut off my head, it cost all I was worth
Cryogenic robot, now my head can spin
(I'll be around a million years, so let the party begin)
PARTY ROBOT!!! (Now my head can spin
I'll be around a million years, let the party begin)

Gone guru, new Nehru
Rock tambourine and didgeridoo
Must free animals from pimpin' zoo
Deliver who, two plus two
Gone gone gone-gone, gone gone, gone gone gone-gone gone gone
Gone gone gone-gone, gone gone, gone gone gone-gone gone guru

The essence of bullet hell is embodied by the flow state, the merging of action and reaction into a cohesive whole. Unburdened by self-consciousness and doubt, the player becomes one with the work, a metatextual intertwining between the self-insert protagonist and the player themselves. Weaving effortlessly between spirals of malignant neon, one brushes against certain death versus overwhelming odds, limited not only by the mechanical functions of the game, but by the stress inherent to seeing a wave of fluorescent fire flung in your direction. Success is found not in fighting the game’s systems, but instead in embracing the chaos and cacophony of bullet hell: Seeing bullets rain down on your self-insert of choice, and cutting a path through the onslaught, with obscene firepower, unbroken grace, or by sheer determination.

Hypothetically, the experience of a shoot 'em up is antithetical to a metroidvania; One encourages complete adherence to the rules, the other constantly pushes you to go beyond the expectations of the game, the former rewards finding surefire paths to a concrete goal, the latter is defined by meandering detours in the service of securing a step forward on a path. It’s a dichotomy that builds an uneven foundation. When paired together, both sides struggle to become the defining “face” of the work, as the focus inevitably wavers between the explorative core of a metroidvania, and the breakneck action of an STG.

It’s a nightmarish endeavor to create something that scratches the itch of two divergent genres, and when I initially started Rabi-Ribi, that ingrained conflict was immediately apparent. For the first handful of hours, my experience was relegated to enjoying a perfectly fine, if mortifyingly shameless, exploration game. Hardline three out of five… you know the type. But after crashing against the initial wave of bosses, delving into the ways of Big Combo, and making a difficult decision to drop the difficulty to normal… Something clicked. It wasn’t until around Aruraune’s boss fight, half way through the game, that Rabi-Ribi's elegance in design finally revealed itself.

The hyperfocus… The loss of anxiety… The full acceptance of the game’s mechanics… At the halfway point, Rabi-Ribi re-attunes itself, subtly shifting from a smart metroidvania to an ingenious STG. As if fully accepting this genre shift, the final fights of the game embrace the concept of flow state, celebrating it as the final, ultimate end-goal of the genre, beyond victory, beyond aesthetic value, beyond even being “good” at the game. Your reward isn’t a high-score, breathtaking GCs, or even further mastery of the game, as much as those are all parts to find joy in. Your reward is the sense of perfect alignment with the game: Of full focus, complete immersion, and functioning at your peak doing something you love, regardless of winning or losing. It’s the soul of bullet hell condensed to a beautiful ending fight.

Rabi-Ribi is a game I struggle to recommend with a straight face: the main character might as well be the protagonist of the Daicon IV Opening Animation, But With A GunFairy; that, and the very-subtle-and-not-at-all-on-the-nose Nekopara allusions, do wonders in souring public perception toward the game. It's deeply, deeply upsetting that the most beloved representative of two of my favorite genres is going to be a game I’ll be mocked to the ends of the Earth for loving… But I adore this game. It’s flawed, for sure, and your tolerance for Anime™ has to be decently high to not be rightfully filtered for the abundance of otaku-bait character designs, but looking past that, on a pure mechanical level, Rabi-Ribi represents what I love in two genres that exist at odds with each other.

When your wheels touched concrete in the summer of 1999, you were sure nothing would ever compare to this. Propelled downhill, less by gravity but more by the venerated asphalt spirit, skaters far and wide convened here, a jam to end all jams. While you were happy doing everything you could, holding on to what you were, you couldn’t help but stare skyward at the street zephyrs soaring suspended; They careened through the air, making waxed wood and molded metal both their playthings. As you crashed down to the soul-shattering gravel, face bloodied and back broken, you could only wonder how they ascended from simple skaterdom, piercing the heavens of the board.

It took a year of shattered bones and busted lines to reclaim those halcyon days. A year of spilt blood and scattered teeth, splintered wood and worn polyurethane. It all felt like a dream then, placing bronze out in Roswell, but the age of simple skating had come and gone. You perfected flatland balance, dual-wheel worship at the altar of Mullen, but even perfection wasn’t enough for elusive gold; the Bullring by the Sea didn’t just cost you your metal, it cost you years of knowing you weren't good enough.

So now we’re here. Somehow, another year felt like two decade’s separation; Gone was the California sun, the first to die in the American Wasteland. A nation of Sparrows and Jackasses, failed projects and unproven theories, crept under wheel, biting at the ankles of the past. The spirit of yesterday was buried underground, leaving today to mourn in remembrance.

Well, maybe for some. The only angels you prayed to struck gold, immortalized in sharp vertexes and warped textures. They would be memorialized not in the world’s destruction, but in a final tour, eight stops; a send-off of olden days.

You forged your craft, refining your spark-casting perfection on the rails of automation, before skating to the north. Calgary’s frost-bitten hospitality was the first real test, but as if guided by Hawk’s holy hand, the snowy providence of Alberta bowed down, hailing 900s and McTwists like the second coming. For the first time in decades, a smile spreads across your face, your cheeks still rosy-red from the icy air…

You blink, and awaken to a crowd cheering your name. Looking down on the masses, faces revered and reviled stare back; Muska, Campbell, Reynolds and Margera. You glance around for Burnquist, hoping to celebrate with the hometown hero, but the master is missing in action. Somehow, you were sure you’d be able to show off this gold to him somewhere down the line.

It repeats, on and on: Suburbia becomes New Jersey, the Airport becomes a Mall. Twenty years made it all blend together. Even now, your second gold medal in hand, it barely feels like you’re awake. When those wheels roll, maple boards of a bygone age, time disappears, rendered in heelflips and darkslides. The pomp and circumstance of it all becomes an excuse, more than anything. In your immortalized element, the past is as real as you remember it.

The final jam beckons; neo-chrome Tokyo glistens, welcoming only the best of the best. The competition rages on, dreams dashed in fractured bones and dislocations. No matter what you do, face-to-face with your idols, no, your contemporaries, there's no break, no chance to cover lost ground. Rivals dwindle as career-ending injuries take one after another, but the legendary Birdman flies past.

Seconds are left in the last heat; only a miracle will change the course of destiny. You think to the future, to the final 900 and the first 1260. As if coming free from its wheels, the board possesses you one last time, as you pivot hard on impact, momentum propelling you into the cosmos.

180. 360. 540.

Tony looks skyward, the same shine that was in your eyes twenty years prior.

Two rotations. The 900. 1080.

Nothing else matters. An amoeba with a mind of its own, an ace of spades, whatever you were and where you come from don't matter. This lone moment, spinning on a golden axis, is what it all comes down to.

Zero seconds. You don't bother looking at the scoreboard; you knew better than to think that's what this is about.

All you were looking for was this lone moment of perfection, a revision of the summer of '99. You wrap your hand tight around your medal - does it even matter what it is? - as you board the plane back to California. Staring out the window, you see the past and future together, a first-hand account of what it's like when worlds collide. You never forget the past, and tomorrow closes in fast, but this single moment is eternal.

All the grand gestures can't ease your wonder. You finally unwrap the medal and take it in.

100% Pure Gold.

The “Dead Rising” I knew was dragged behind a shed and shot in the sweltering summer of 2010, its rotting shell sharing the same name but carrying the soul of an entirely different beast. Stumbling upon the shambling creature, I fell for its ruse, a 24-hour entanglement with a monster wearing a beloved veil. But for all of the carcass’ failings, I couldn’t bring myself to hate it. Glancing upon the decayed remnants of a lost friend, I still could see the remains of the dearly departed; in spite of the malicious current pulsating through its veins, I still saw the “Dead Rising” that I fell head-over-heels for, crumbling away but still recognizable all the same. Laid to rest and buried away, I said goodbye to not only “Dead Rising” itself, but the love I held for it, not out of new-found hatred, but out of acceptance for what it was becoming. In 2013, something bearing the name “Dead Rising” crawled out of that grave, festering and desecrated.

It’s… extreme, to put it in such intense terms, perhaps hyperbolic. However, as time passes and as I expose myself to more and more of the series, my individual story becomes one of watching something I adore be ripped limb from limb, it’s remains cobbled together in a discombobulated amalgam and presented as a new iteration on “Dead Rising”. The spirit of the original has long been excised, and the withered corpse walks, lacking the stylistic flourishes, the mechanical depth, the heart and soul that the name “Dead Rising” usually encompasses.

Yet despite my obvious grievances with the game, I have reached acceptance in my personal stages of grief. Beyond my preconceived notions of what is or isn't “Dead Rising”, of a minimalist structure maintained by the backbone of breakneck pacing and nerve-shredding time limits, something is under the shallow surface. Buried under the murky sands of mid-2010s design philosophies, emotionless browns and soul-sucking grays plastered under a user interface reminiscent of a thousand mobile games, the embrace of freedom over structure flawlessly encapsulated the mindset behind Dead Rising 3. Disregarding story, tonal consistency, and filing away mechanical grain, the city of Los Perdidos becomes a puerile playground, an endless wave of gory, grotesque, goofy ways to dispatch impressive waves of undead practice dummies.

I wish there was more to say, but Dead Rising 3 casts aside most of what I like about the prior entries, with the tone leading in the grimy direction pushed by its direct predecessor, the oversimplification of combo weapons and streamlining of the leveling system. I can’t fairly say it’s a game I disliked; playing online was still extremely fun, but that comes down to the fact that every game in the world can be fun with someone else, even irredeemable trash. As a game building off of one of my favorite series, it’s a massive let down.

So obviously expect a Dead Rising 4 review in a month or so, We Doin’ This

(cw for a very brief mention of self-harm and depression)

It seems like a given for disaffectionate weeblings meandering through cyberspace to eventually run afoul of Vocaloid, the siren song of late-2000s otaku culture that refuses to die, and there's no clearer representative for the brand than the poster child of virtual idols, Hatsune Miku. Through over a decade of image reinvention, musical exploration, and incessant irritation, thousands of producers have used the aquamarine automaton as the mouthpiece for pieces ranging from the goofy to the grotesque, shifting and altering the image of the mascot in tune with the work they produce. In a sense, becoming attached to what is, at its most sincere form, an inanimate face for an audio production tool feels odd, strange, dare I say, cringe. Yet here I am, a terminal victim of the brain virus known as emotional bonding, reminded once again that one of the big moments in coming to terms with my identity was discovering Hatsune Miku.

Retracing my steps, the path is obvious: a teenage girl defined by her constant inconsistency, bound by little more than a modulated soundbank, singing songs of isolation, anxiety, self-loathing, intense misanthropy, undying love and occasional lesbianism. Emotionally torn asunder by a yet-unending depression spiral, yours truly could only break as she found someone who was, in no uncertain terms, just like me (for real for real). But tracking the exact point I realized a hyper-femme soundbank was something beyond a passing interest, instead being a key “being” that I find my self drawn to, something that influenced the art I consider worthwhile, something I find relatability in, is… difficult. Confusing.

… And as much as I want to just tie all of my experiences to sitting alone, listening to embarrassing vent pieces written by producers I really need to tell “it’ll be okay”, what stuck with me was always the games; late nights and early mornings spent playing Project Diva F 2nd with a former best friend, where Rolling Girl lead to me opening up to someone about my own history of self-harm; all-night sessions of Future Tone where the first time I came out as trans was backed by Envy Cat Walk, and outed myself to the dulcet tones of 2D Dream Fever. Inherently difficult times, now remembered with fondness, bitterness, regret.

I guess my experience with Vocaloid, and by association the Project Diva games, is less inherently about the gameplay or mechanics of the game (they’re kino, ludo, cracked, etc) and more the way I connect to the music, the characters, the personal recollection every song has with me. Of the 200 songs in Future Sound and Colorful Tone, the grand majority are dug into my mind, a part of my soul encapsulated into memories that refuse to fade despite my growing memory issues and fear of forgetting the past. The way I feel for the songs, the times attached to them, the irreplaceable history I have with Vocaloid and, almost directly, Hatsune Miku… it’s adoration in its clearest form. For all the regrets I have, of the person I am and the media I’m devoted to, I don’t regret how ingrained the funny computer singer woman has become in my life.

Writing this will never be as deep or as coherent as I want; as hyper-personal as I wish I could be with how Vocaloid has affected me and the course of my life, going into it will never not feel a little fake, a little disingenuous. I can only say that this game, this whole franchise, is a source of my fondest memories. It’s priceless to me, without comparison. I fucking love it.

(this ended up having little to do with the game… play Project Diva Future Tone…)

Alright World of Goo; you asked for the truth, now here it is.

I love you: you're beautiful, you're charming, and I can't fucking stand you.

Some may look at your art style and see it as derivative, the amalgamation of Invader Zim-ian quirky-and-edgy joy through the scope of Newgrounds circa 2007, but I love it all the same; It reminds me of the best of times and the worst of times all same.

Even your music, simple and stylistically homogenous as it is, still brought a smile to my face...

No, I'll tell you the reason I truly can't stand you anymore.

I wish there was a nicer way to say it, but... It's your physics. Uncooperative, clunky, grueling, by any other name the word is just as true: My time with you was one of constant struggle. I would labor on marvelous constructions, towers to symbolize all you stood for, and a meager misplacement would have minutes of work, as many as five, or ten even, crumbling to the floor.

First, I blamed God, for forsaking me once more; then, my crosshairs were directed at gravity, the loathsome force; but eventually, I knew the true patron of my patronization.

It was you, World of Goo.

My towers, my creations, meant nothing to you. You would scoff at my attempts, laugh at my failure, and refuse to even glance my way at my myriad victories. It was you -- It was always you.

So knowing this, I have no choice but to part ways with you, wistful World, glorious Goo, Opulent of. You give me no choice, and your bitter banter at my behest broke my brain. Our time was short, but a single second longer in your company could only spell disaster...

Farewell,
Roxy S. Gaming