an actually impeccable game -- as both a single-player experience, as a multiplayer phenomenon and as a platform for usermaps

darker and more dynamic than doom 2 -- the enemy roster trades off being able to command large, open playfields for having much more of an upper hand in close quarters. the player arsenal, in response, is more reflexive and freeform.

the renewed focus on melee enemies, cool powerups and close-quarters battling means the 4 episodes can get lots done with comparatively little

full 3d makes it a much more natural experience for new players, while also encouraging a level of intimacy with maps that is rarely seen (show a quake player a small sloped surface on the decorative trim of a hallway, and they will spend ten minutes trying to launch theirselves off it in the hopes of a secret. absolute mountain goat people)

it may seem like a confused jumble of a game, but it's a lot more well-rounded than people give it credit for!

in an episode of gamespot’s audio logs, disco elysium’s lead designer and writer robert kurvitz was asked to discuss ZA/UM’s approach to CRPG design, in which he makes clear the title’s great tabletop roleplaying game influence, contrasts disco elysium against modern CRPGS, and elucidates the rationale behind certain UI decisions the game had made. one of the very first things kurvitz highlights, and what was apparently one of the decisions given primacy in pre-production, was the concept of placing the text box in the righthand side of the screen in contrast to the game’s contemporaries, even outside the CRPG genre, which typically slot the text boxes in the lower middle of the screen. the benefits to this alternative organization seem immediately obvious as kurvitz spells them out: increased screen real estate, far more interesting visual composition, and a modality which seemed to emulate the engrained habits of run-of-the-mill technology. peer at disco elysium’s textbox and your mind may not immediately pick up on the contours of its design, but your subconscious will instinctively understand it relates to the modern desktop experience. it innately resembles the windows toolbar, where the clock and calendar is – the screen is visually ‘weighted’ to the right, where the center of gravity is, and it reflects the placement of the players right hand on the keyboard.

the deceptive genius of this UI design is that it wasn’t enough to simply reflect a desktop, which disco elysium’s target demographic was instinctually bound to – ZA/UM wanted to snuff out any and all competitors. that means taking inspiration from unlikely sources, one of which was social media. this helps explain why the prose of disco elysium is so confrontational, sharp, abrasive, sensational; it explains why the text-box was designed to reflect an addictive scrolling experience ala twitter; and it builds upon centuries of entrenched human behaviour in its column design, which may inadvertently reflect a phone but also reflects the structure of a newspaper article. in an era where developers have now fully committed themselves towards eradicating loading screens in a veiled effort to curb the impoverished, stimulation-craving instincts of their player bases (a major hardware decision which is replete with as many pros as cons), ZA/UM subtly adapted the topography of phones that so many players were already used to for their own purposes.

kurvitz’s final salvo is illuminating. every element of this design is an amendment which reflects a critical problem in the games marketability, that disco elysium, judging by its phenomenal success, ameliorated fully: how do you sell a modern CRPG that is simultaneously defined by its lack of combat and by its verbosity? well, it’s simple. everyone says they don’t like reading and claims they don’t want to read – but reading is all we do on social media, in private messages, in news articles. we take it for granted. player retention was a big problem for ZA/UM, so the designers intelligently made what seems like a very easy observation, but then engineered everything about the game’s flow in order to manufacture a state that hopefully will allow players to immerse themselves and to truly salivate over every last written word the game has to offer.

so, reading is something we do every day. no-brainer. but the same exists for writing. both exist in a connected equilibrium. just as we read every day, we write just about every day – whether we realize it or not. some research even suggests that where the mind is allowed to wander while reading, neurons will roar to life and the brain will mimic and simulate the act of pen flowing on paper, gliding betwixt margins with grace and individualized efficacy.

it would be more accurate, however, to make the claim that we’re typing every day.

are typing and writing of the same scholarship? could one make the claim that writing is therefore impoverished by the usurpation of typing – the same way kurvitz attributed to his audience a kind of destitution of readership? reflecting on this opens the floodgates of a perennial chirographic concern. the digital epoch has not responded with kindness to the eloquence of handwriting. surveys often suggest swathes of people go more than half a year without handwriting, and countries that are at the forefront of educational theory like finland suggest that it may no longer bear the same relevance on day-to-day activities as it once used to. the practice is fading, its dominance curtailed by the dissemination of keyboarding. this is in spite of a marked increase in literature suggesting the many benefits of handwriting. among the myriad cognitive benefits there are particularly noteworthy virtues such as attention sustenance, increased capacity for memory, improved self-regulation, and the ability to plan ahead. children who learn to write by hand are known to activate adult-like pathways in their minds which aid in facilitation of improved memory.

and for many, handwriting is an exercise in aesthetic pleasures, a distinct mark of individuality, and a reiteration of a practice undertaken by even their ancestry that innately links mind and soul, body and space, the sensate and the insensate, an unwitting cooperation between all the ontological elements of lived experience that inform existence and being, a unification of self and language. there is the concern that the abstractions of writing, that once in the past were nothing more than pictographs painstakingly carved into slabs and yet was still a decidedly intellectual, tactile, expressive, and intimate practice, are lost in the mechanical era and the complex beauty of it has vanished. many continue to remind and advocate for the pursuance of ‘bilingual writing’ – education that fosters children who can handwrite as well as they type and thus don’t fail to attend to their expanding minds. on a more anecdotal level, all of this rings as true – too often does the pursuit of typing education boil it all down to a callous, impersonal drudgery that serves only to prepare children for the rampant dehumanization inherent to the workforce.

if any of this discourse seems like a relatively modern concern, don’t worry – it isn’t. let me take a quick step back. walter j. ong indicated that our history in knowledge storage can be divided into two phases: the oral-to-literate stage and the chirographic-to-print stage. in the former stage, culture began to transition into a society that relied more and more on the written word and began to leave oral tradition behind – as far back as 3500 BC, sumerians sought to preserve their history by capturing and transcribing oration. in the latter stage, the individual handwritten texts began to be mechanically produced and widely disseminated by means of the printing press. this evolution of writing technology invariably altered the way humanity came to grips with their own awareness and how this changed the epistemology of the time. in ong’s view, it was this shift from the oral tradition to a society of literacy that broke apart the old ways of tribal unity, as fostering literacy operated in tandem with greater levels of individuality. the chirographic-to-print stage of the 1500’s only further reinforced this.

it is here where i must remind that typing is the apotheosis of these differing stages of written tradition, and one that has remained in the public consciousness since the late 1800s – far from a modern invention. the first commercial typewriters were made available in 1874, and the first stenograph was invented in 1879. the history of typing predates the personal computer. but nevertheless it is the fixed rigidity of typing – when taken from its latent form and iterated upon, recontextualized in the digital epoch as an apparatus to be used with the computer – that ong sees as a synthesis of the oral and the literate. it’s a kind of folding together of space and time, one of the arguments of this viewpoint being the idea that the premise of instantaneity central to typing on a computer transforms printed word into something more akin to oration and therefore reunites our own epoch with the era of oral tradition as a result of totally reconfigured relationships between all the constituent elements of the past two stages: the writer, the text, the audience, the interfacing, the medium.

others are not so kind – any technological evolution brings trade-off, and some philosophers note that history is simply an unfolding narrative of intangible gains and omitted losses. of the many philosophers to grapple with the heady question of how the modalities of writing inform existence, heidegger is an authoritative voice and spoke often of the cultural loss typing imprinted on society. it is his view, and that of his supporters, that typing represents something perverse and impersonal, something amputational in logic. the body is diminished and conveyance is thus diminished too; the essential realm of word and hand is shattered, depriving the person of dignity and irreversibly altering our relationship with language and distances ourselves from it, changing something from beautifully abstract transmission to simple transposition. certainly, this view seems almost supported by modern empirical studies that uncannily echo some of these concerns!

and yet, type dreams seems to believe otherwise, and treats all text within as something to be given primacy, something that is profound and bold and transcendent. richard hofmeier’s second developmental outing is an anachronism-laden victorian-set game about typing. so committed to typing it is that everything about interfacing with the game involves the use of keys rather than the mouse, removing yet again any semblance of a bodily gesture that might conflate modern typing with traditional handwriting. you enter a username and password to begin the typist’s journey, and from there depressions of the spacebar cycle through menus, tapping the enter key confirms, hitting the escape key…escapes, and the very act of typing itself provides shortcuts with which to access menus.

as you play type dreams, you get a greater sense of where its priorities lie, and it’s something coincidentally shared with tetris effect, another game i recently played and appreciated: the answer is transcendence. actually, it would be far more accurate to say that what type dreams pursues is something close to ong’s vision of modern typing: complete synchronicity across boundaries of space and time. and it does so by providing an utterly unique audiovisual experience that goes far beyond the simple educational value of a typing game. in type dreams you find a wealth of categories of typing exercises: rote exercises, poetry, classical literature, even smut and songs/lyrics. and in each ‘stage’, reconfigured as a kind of desperate arcade scenario, the player, alongside their chosen imitation avatar, competes with only themselves for faster and faster words-per-minutes, for fewer errors, for unapproachable streaks of correctly placed letters. at the onset of the game you must choose between digital keyboard and typewriter and i must wholly recommend the typewriter – passages are smartly fragmented by the continual rhythm of the player sliding their fingers across function keys f1-f12 to emulate the carriage of a typewriter, a sensory experience unlike anything else that inadvertently calls to mind musicality and instrumentation, suggesting that rather than representing a kind of blasphemous automatism typing may well be a new kind of instrument. a tidbit that is particularly noteworthy and relevant to my argument: typing activates an area in your brain that is equivalent to what drumming activates in your brain.

and it is this kind of ‘music’ and kinaesthetic experience that forms the basis of what type dreams achieves so excellently, as so few games do, interrogating ideas that similarly, so few games do. in type dreams the keyboard is an instrument, a weapon, a guide, an anachronism, a representation of shared consciousness, reflecting an understanding of the infinite forms of text as well. type out these chords of text via an angry letter to a newspaper and listen to the game channeling these frustrations in the forms of aggressive grunts with each letter misspelled or each error in keystroke; explore the textual melodies of some poetry and watch as the visuals accompanying your office change, freeing the mind and allowing poet and player and avatar to be intimately linked like nothing else; type out an account of keyboard rebellion and understand that the drudgery linked between workforce and the word processor can be subverted by the daring, that there is more to text than copying or correspondence; be transported across space and time to verbose scrawlings on prison walls, to the history of stenography, to socrates on trial. it’s a thrillingly evocative experience that lessens the temporal and spatial boundaries of history and literature and that is characterized by efficiency and dexterity in a way that recalls music, so it helps that the music accompanying each stage is really solid – the bimanual and repetitive nature of typing necessitates an audiovisual layer to allow the mind to coalesce with text and wander freely.

all of this serves to strongly re-evaluate typing in the modern era and to rebut most of the concerns of heidegger with new presumptions on what it even means to type, and it allows the self to feel the keyboard as something other than a symbol of workplace productivity. it filters in expression and individuality back into typist methodology, which may explain why there is no mechanical difference between the two typewriters on offer – only an aesthetic one. you begin to pick up on the subtleties of typing’s topography, on how hands moving across keys can influence emotion and thought, on how it serves as an appropriate contrast to the unimanual nature of handwriting. handwriting allows for reflection, for contemplation, but what type dreams suggests is that typing can become a tool for embodiment. this makes sense given the increased tempo that contrasts the two modes of writing, but it’s yet another point in the game’s favour- can you still feel the significance of the game’s text in spite of that breakneck pace, or has it slipped through the permeating fog of synchronicity? type dreams works its ass off to have your answer be a resounding yes. yes, in spite of the kaleidoscopic nature of digital text, in spite of its immaterial and infinite nature, in spite of the concern for the lessened significance of text and how it may erode at our senses and reduce our attention into fragments, transcendence can still occur. meaning can still be felt. text hasn’t necessarily been impoverished – not when it’s so lived-in.

that isn’t to say the game is perfect. in fact, the game is laughably imperfect, probably the most laughably imperfect game i've given such a high rating. it’s buggy, there are some UI issues and several technical dilemmas, and the greatest kicker of all: it’s unfinished. as i tried to unlock more of the game’s levels in proto-drakengardian fashion i came to realize there was only so much available, that the game was in an adolescent state and might never see completion. yet so much of the game contains the seeds of what is such an unexpectedly ideal game for me that i cannot help but give it such high accolades – the immensity of the experience is deserving of far more attention and far more interrogation from far smarter figures than i.

richard hofmeier is a complex figure for the games media to reckon with. after the smash hit success of cart life in indie games circles, he vanished from the public eye and released cart life in open source format, citing its imperfection as a barrier to its permissibility as a for-profit release. type dreams was his second major outing, released on itch.io in an incomplete state, originally at a price so that hofmeier could make ends meet. by his own admission, he disliked the fact that he had to do so, but he had been working away at this and several other projects over the course of several years, so he had to release at least something to get past his perfectionist tendency. since then the game has received several inconsistent updates before the pipeline of developer communication shut off entirely without warning in november of last year. currently, the game is listed as cancelled on itch.io. the version of the game you can download, uploaded 81 days ago, is listed as td_final.zip. when you try to click on the game’s “story” mode (one might assume the game’s main campaign would have been papers, please-esque; reliance on electricity was a drawback for the digital keyboard made apparent to the player when they are prompted to choose their instrument of choice), you are greeted with the following message:

“These stories were boring. Consider making up new ones; new stories about [PLAYER NAME] might be worth writing.”

as it stands, i have no way of knowing if the sentiment of this message and the title’s abrupt and unquestioned ‘cancellation’ are related. but in my heart of hearts, i hope hofmeier returns to this project. there’s nothing else like it.

https://hofmeier.itch.io/type-dreams

ALRIGHT, blanket announcement: on top of the game being available on the internet archive, as was wisely pointed out by DJSCheddar, MrPixelton was kind enough to get a mega link up and running for type dreams using their copy of the game since my laptop was indisposed. so shouts out to you guys, you both rock, and all of it helps to keep this game preserved and alive. i think the internet archive solution will be the public one and ill keep the mega link open for private channels/as a backup. thanks everyone for your efforts! whenever hofmeier returns to the public eye please try to financially support him, we need this kind of creativity in the medium

be sure to reach out if you'd like the mega link!

     'In a land of clear colours and stories,
     In a region of shadowless hours,
     Where earth has a garment of glories
     And a murmur of musical flowers...’
     – Algernon Charles Swinburne, 'Dedication', 1865.

It took me several years to understand my girlfriend's fascination with translation. At first I thought it was an expression of her bilingualism and that it came naturally to her. She liked to compare texts at her desk, with two books open and bookmarked. I remember seeing Jane Austen and Plutarch, T.S. Eliot and Cicero in different editions. One book she kept coming back to was George Steiner's After Babel (1975), which I later took with me. When I was younger, its seven hundred pages frightened me with their complexity, and I kept the volume only as a souvenir: the spine was cracked from heavy use, and some of the pages were slightly worn and yellowed. These marks identified her presence, her aura, her memory.

     Understanding is a translation

It was only when I was later writing notes on After Babel that I understood what she valued in translation. It is difficult to capture Steiner's theses, since they do not form a grand, all-encompassing theory, but a key idea – formative for the field of translation studies and comparative literature – is that the communication of information is a secondary part of human discourse. For him, each language colours the individual's relationship to reality in a different way, allowing them to express a situated point of view, an otherness of being. As much as Steiner represented an ideal of the Renaissance man for my girlfriend – and still does, in a way, for me – he was not without his faults. His erudition was often the result of clumsy approximations, where it was more important to keep exploring elsewhere than to specialise.

Through it all, he remained the image of a reader, eager to compare and understand the texts he encountered. My girlfriend loved translating and comparing because, in her illness, she found in it a way of travelling and experiencing spontaneously the rich imagination of texts. Compared to the simple act of reading, translation forces the reader to immerse themselves in the text, to decode its signs, to identify cultural markers and to discover the various references hidden within it. A first glance will reveal expressions and objects that refer to a more or less precise period of time; a closer look will reveal word choices and content that were in use a few decades or centuries earlier; the scansion of the text will also make it possible to delimit a style and influences. Translating means observing and experiencing these elements in order to render them as faithfully as possible into another language, knowing that the result will still be distorted.

     Un petit pan de mur jaune and the rock of the Lighthouse

To transcribe is to experience. Certain scenes, conveyed by contemplative narrators, always linger in my mind. In Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse (1927), Mrs Ramsey reads extracts from the famous anthology The Oxford Book of English Verse (1900), edited by Arthur T. Quiller-Couch: each passage, chosen a priori at random, resonates with the previous ones, allowing the reader to enter Mrs Ramsey's consciousness and the atmosphere of the house. The way she picks the verses, as if plucking petals, contributes to the strange languor of the moment [1]. In Marcel Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu (1927), the narrator fantasises about his trip to Venice. However, this vision of the Serenissima is largely altered by Proust's own readings [2] and his desire to leave a mark, however subjective, through his literary account.

Type Dreams is fully aware of this artistic and ontological strength, drawing on the aesthetics of the typewriter and transcription to instantiate moments of contemplation in the present moment. KB0 offered a sublime insight into the relationship between the physical act of writing and existence; as such, I will not elaborate on these issues here. However, I would like to point out that, beyond the systems and anachronical Victorian aesthetics that seem to run counter to technological progress, the choice of texts is part of a veritable journey into the history of human production and Richard Hofmeier's mentality. The exercises are like musical études, and their poetic absurdity contrasts strikingly with the more concrete texts. There is something deeply wistful about these meditations on existence, death, love and memory. Just as the narrator of La Recherche instantiates his life in a literary production – to inscribe it in Time – Hofmeier seems to conjure up a malaise and an absence by transcribing texts that evoke this sorrow.

There are imperfections in the texts that remind the player of their humanity, whether due to the author's playfulness or a simple typing error. These deviations from the norm force the player to grasp their mental universe and compare it with their own. The extracts from Plato's Apologia Socratis (4th century BCE) are given in the translation by Miles Burnyeat and Christopher Rowe. A long debate about the translation of the dialogue seeks to determine whether ἀρετή should be understood as 'goodness' or as 'virtue'. Burnyeat and Rowe have argued, on philosophical grounds, that the correct translation is 'goodness' – but there is no consensus on this analysis [3]. Nevertheless, the choice of this version, rather than a translation from the Loeb Classic or that of Thomas G. West, allows Hofmeier to situate the theme of death and memory within his system of thought. These long extracts can be contrasted, for example, with the inclusion of 'Seeking Feelings for Words' by Felipe Carretoni, a confidential Brazilian writer.

     And I love you so much

The prose poem is addressed to a significant other, acknowledging their presence and the lessons they have taught the author. 'It has been some time now, love, since you taught me what love is,' the poem ends. There are echoes, deliberate or not, in the text of T. S. Eliot's 'A Dedication to my Wife': 'No peevish winter wind shall chill / No sullen tropic sun shall wither / The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only. / But this dedication is for others to read: / These are private words addressed to you in public' [4]. Carretoni's poem unfolds as the keys are struck, while the surroundings in which the typographer finds themselves slowly change. Starting with the empty, colourless room and the window covered by a light rain, it gradually regains its vibrancy as the player's avatar reappears. The act of writing exorcises the memories of a melancholy love. It is impossible to know what Carretoni and Hofmeier actually mean by this poem, but it hardly matters since the interpretation is left to the reader and player.

Both Apologia Socratis and 'Seeking Feelings for Words' remind me so much of my teenage love and the boundless affection she left me. Sometimes it overflows without knowing where to go: Type Dreams, in its mechanically contemplative approach, channeled that flood by conjuring up the virtues and lessons my first love left me – or what I imagine she left me. Over the past few years, I have spent long hours rereading and transcribing the many letters we exchanged. It was a way of reliving the feelings I had once committed to paper, of instantiating her presence once again. I have not done this for a long time, partly because the tenderness and lost love that surrounds me is painful, and perhaps because I have found other ways to honour her memory. Nevertheless, Type Dreams has brought back all those feelings and bared my heart once more.

Type Dreams is an unfinished work. The campaign for the game is not available, as Hofmeier interrupted the development of the game for personal reasons, and only a summary gives an idea of the themes addressed: 'The world's two fastest typists fall in love just as a new century is born'. A love that has nowhere to go and lives only in the imagination. Like Cart Life (2010), Type Dreams touches on everyday feelings with great humility. Typing the various texts with their distinctive tastes was a gentle stab in my chest: I felt the rustling of the trees, the kiss which tasted of the sea, the mysterious photograph by the lake and the walks on the beach all come back to me. And I cannot leave out the words we always used to close our letters.

And I love you so much.

__________
[1] Virginia Woolf meticulously constructed this atmosphere, which echoed her own vulnerability. In On Being Ill (1925), drafted while she was bedridden, she wrote: 'We rifle poets of their flowers. We break off a line or two and let them open in the depths of the mind, spread their bright wings, swim like coloured fish in green waters' (Virginia Woolf, 'On Being Ill', in The Moment and Other Essays, Hogarth Press, London, 1947, p. 19). The hermetic aspect of a poem is increased tenfold by a patient who hallucinates an entire universe.
[2] Proust was greatly influenced by the writings of John Ruskin, especially The Stones of Venice (1853). Ruskin denounced the effects of industrialisation on the Romanesque and Gothic heritage and became a leader of the Gothic Revival, an aesthetic that had a lasting influence on Proust. As such, '[his] Venice is an old provincial town, full of medieval vestiges, where intimate, parochial life is magnified; but it is also a fabulous garden, filled with fruit and birds of coloured stone, blooming in the middle of the sea that comes to refresh it' (Georges Cattaui, Proust et ses métamorphoses, Nizet, Paris, 1972, p. 26, personal translation).
[3] For example, see Joy Samad, 'Socrates’ Pragma and Socrates’ Toughness: On the Proper Translation of Apology 30b 2–4', in Polis, vol. 28, no. 2, 2011, pp. 250-266.
[4] Thomas S. Eliot, 'A Dedication to My Wife', in Collected Poems, 1909-1962, Faber & Faber, London, 1974.

"Here I am, stranded on a toxic planet, fighting to survive, and yet I'm intrigued...I must research this fascinating creature!"

The first Pikmin game is so pure in it's design. The man had a vision and they let him cook. It gains so much in its simplicity. The levels are open and beautiful and have so much variety in their challenges utilizing the core three pikmin. The 30 day time limit provides a really comfortable amount of time to accomplish your goals but also creates a very visceral end point and deadline. The arcade feel with the short run time and multiple different leaderboards promotes replays. Even the terrible little pikmin who get caught on the tiniest of corners - what should annoy me only endears me more. I loved reaching my destination only to turn around and realize 5 or 10 of my guys got left behind under some bridge. I'd think "what are they stupid.....oh well yeah I guess they kind of are"

Pikmin is such a one of a kind game. Olimar is just this tiny tiny dude who overcomes fear and isolation with curiosity. The world is equal parts dangerous and beautiful. The man does not know if he is ever going to see his wife and kids again but he can't worry about that cause the blue pikmin just tilted its head to the side a little bit. My dog does the same exact shit.

     'Rui, do people’s hearts forget how to react to a town that leaves nothing behind to remember it by? In comparison, there is something cruel, merciless about the sight of the Sanriku region, where everyday life was transformed into ruins. For that mountain of debris was the “hope” people had spent years building.'
     – Kyōko Hayashi, Futatabi Rui e, 2013 (tr. Margaret Mitsutani).

Kyōko Hayashi's works attempt to convey to younger generations the lived experience of the hibakusha, the direct survivors of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A particular feature of her work is the blending of temporalities and events, which illustrates her chaotic and almost unspeakable recollection of the events of the 9 August 1945. In Futatabi Rui e (2013), Hayashi writes a new letter to Rui – following the one included in Torinitii kara torinitii e (2000) – meditating on the effects of the Great East Japan Earthquake and the Fukushima disaster. She writes: 'perhaps the Great East Japan Earthquake was what turned this destruction in the natural world I thought was eternal into a sign that everything I’d believed in was now crumbling before my eyes' [1].

     Disasters and environmentalism in Japanese fiction

The atomic bombings and the Fukushima disaster have had a lasting impact on Japanese cultural production, like a never-ending ghost that is periodically fanned by current events. Fumiyo Kōno's Yunagi no machi, sakura no kuni (2003) illustrates this concern in a multi-generational story. It is a cathartic narrative whose main purpose is to nurture and reconcile the painful memory for the hibakusha, but also for those who did not directly witness the events. The acceleration of climate change and Japan's new energy mix are also of growing concern, conjuring up an image of a Japan on the brink of extinction and ravaged by disasters. Two examples illustrate the epidermal nature of these issues. In 2014, the famous gourmet manga Oishinbo (1983) tackled the aftermath of the Fukushima disaster head-on, highlighting the harmful effects on the environment and the people of the region, who suffered regular nosebleeds. These scenes clashed with the official discourse on the effects of the accident, so much so that Shinzo Abe directly condemned the manga [2], leading to the series' ongoing hiatus.

More recently, Makoto Shinkai's films have oscillated between neo-traditionalism and social conservatism, as in Tenki no Ko (2019). Maria Mihaela Grajdian has already pointed out that Mamoru Hosoda's films, by idealising concepts such as family, parenthood and masculinity, 'shows both that he understands the critical situation and that he does not regard it as his duty to offer alternative solutions, more in tune with the spirit of the 21st century' [3]. In Tenki no Ko, Shinkai is content with the same naive, depoliticising position: climate change and the disappearance of Japan under the sea are seen as inevitable natural phenomena, and the film prefers to focus on the fleeting happiness of a few teenagers from a purely individualistic, conservative perspective.

With The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017), Nintendo's flagship series has also taken up these themes anew. This is less a first exploration than an updated discourse. The Zelda games have always contained elements of shintō philosophy, contrasting Arthurian mythology with the typically Japanese depiction of environments, whether through non-human creatures, the abundance of islands – literal or figurative – or the sacred aspect of nature. Breath of the Wild depicted the world after a catastrophe and the restoration of nature, everlasting despite the scars left by disasters. Tears of the Kingdom is a direct reflection of this vision, by reversing the representation.

     Flowers of ruin: looking at micro-gardens

A variation on the theme of Majora's Mask (2000), Tears of the Kingdom also shows humanity on the brink of extinction. However, the tone is quite different. Whereas Majora's Mask was a journey into nihilism and the lack of communication that breaks down interpersonal relationships, Tears of the Kingdom explores the persistence of solidarity and the opening up of societies. Recontextualised, the world of Hyrule is a fable that sings of the resilience of nations in the face of natural disaster. Even within the first few hours of surface exploration, the world is teeming with life, yet societies live hidden away, sheltered from the elements. There is something charming about re-exploring a world that is decidedly optimistic, but still a little fearful, like the first buds of spring breaking through the snow.

Rather tellingly, the Zonai Ruins are still harbouring life: the sky islands are still inhabited by birds, while the debris that has fallen to the ground is home to plants that normally only grow in the heavens. Despite these chaotic elements, however, the world of Hyrule is somewhat more domesticated. The roads are well trodden by travellers, stables provide regular resting places, and construction materials are plentiful along the roadsides. Tears of the Kingdom has swapped the 'miniature plant garden' and 'garden in a box' (hakoniwa) [4] for a lusher shrubland. Hyrule is shaped by the collaborative work of its inhabitants, and their presence can be seen in the little accents that dot the landscape: Zelda and Magda's little flower garden, or Pyper's glittering tree, are clear signs that humans have made the environment their own, creating a symbiotic relationship between society and nature.

Tears of the Kingdom is, in a way, an ode to primordialism and man's passivity when it comes to influencing nature. Unlike Breath of the Wild, where the equipment forged by humans quickly becomes the most powerful, the player can make do with items found on monsters for most of the adventure. It's not until fairly late in the game that the shift occurs, when Zonai items can become more valuable. More generally, Tears of the Kingdom allows the player to contemplate the world and its inhabitants through tighter resource management, at least in the first few dozen hours. But even when Link is well equipped, nature is not easily tamed, as the introduction of world bosses keeps exploration somewhat terrifying or majestic. The exploration of the Depths, while often undermined by visual monotony, illustrates the sinister nature of what crawls beneath the gaze of the living, and the importance of ruin, not just of human civilisations, but of a world tainted by corruption (kegare).

     A melancholic sky: fall and burden as elements of game design

This aesthetic owes a great deal to the vision of Hidemaro Fujibayashi and Daiki Iwamoto, given that they apprehend the sky through the act of falling. There is a certain tragic irony to this Upheaval, as it is used to discover the reasons for the fall of the Zonai. As in Skyward Sword (2011), the exploration of the skies begins with a long fall. But the world of Skyward Sword allows for much easier exploration thanks to its bird mounts [5], whereas in Tears of the Kingdom Link is constantly being pulled down by gravity. He is destined to fall, and this sense of heaviness is present throughout the game: in particular, the interactions with the various inhabitants of the world emphasise their insecurity and, by extension, their fallibility. Despite the humour and joviality that runs through the dialogue, all the characters are undermined by self-imposed desires and missions. Addison continues to hold signs for endless days, Reede is forced to admit that his vision of tranquillity is no longer sustainable, and Penn struggles with his fear of actively participating in field investigation. There is something deeply human about them, and Link emerges in turn as a mythologised figure as he performs heroic deeds and helps others. In this respect, it is striking that everyone knows his name, but his identity sometimes remains a mystery.

This philosophy no doubt helps to explain other design elements and Fujibayashi's characteristic wandering. Tears of the Kingdom opts for a more scripted progression, with the player openly encouraged to help the various tribes. Each storyline is fairly engaging and recontextualises nicely the characters met in Breath of the Wild – with the exception of the Goron quest, which neutralises its anti-capitalist themes far too quickly. The main quests in each region are refreshingly varied, with some unexpected sequences such as the defence of Gerudo Town. The downside of this approach is the disappointment of the dungeons. These are particularly mediocre, a simple series of puzzles inferior to those in the Shrines. The same structure as The Minish Cap (2004) is found in Tears of the Kingdom, with an inability to think holistically about design. These sequences do a poor job of incorporating the great freedom of Link's powers; it would probably have been more interesting to emphasise the oppressive aspect of confined spaces and a survival approach, for example by removing the map in dungeons.

As it stands, the non-linearity of the title works against many of the design ideas. In addition to the identical flashbacks for each Sage, the dungeons do not adapt well to the upscaling that players experience as they accumulate more resources and power. For the most part, the dungeons restrict the new skills unlocked, rather than showcasing them as other mini-dungeons and celestial islands can, where Ultrahand shines very brightly. The Fire Temple is perhaps the only exception, as it is possible to completely ignore the various puzzles if the player has enough resources and has been diligent in their exploration. On the other hand, the non-linearity works well with the side quests, as it feels genuinely satisfying when an NPC tells Link that he has already completed the mission he was given. Similarly, the Proving Grounds Shrines benefit greatly from player progression and a larger heart pool, turning a careful experience into a speed challenge, while the other Shrines allow for creative expression for players familiar with the advanced grammar of the various powers and machines.

Perhaps more importantly, it is the combat that suffers greatly from this approach: while Tears of the Kingdom features much larger waves of enemies, the system remains clunky. The combat system is designed for duels rather than large-scale melee, and the lack of ergonomics often renders Fuse unusable in battle. Similarly, the Sages' avatars are a welcome touch, emphasising the fact that Link is no longer alone, but the implementation is so unpleasant that it is easier to ignore their powers outside of certain puzzles. To a certain extent, the heaviness of the game and the idea of the fall serve to underline a contemplation of the world and its societies, provided one is receptive to Fujibayashi and Iwamoto's themes, but at the expense of the gameplay and the fluidity of the experience.

     To live is to atone for one's sins: neo-traditionalism in Japan

Breath of the Wild had already begun to return to a very Japanese aesthetic, a trend that continues in Tears of the Kingdom. Certain elements are obvious: Kakariko Village retains the same visual appearance, and the soundtrack features many more Asian elements – 'Master Kohga Battle' makes more use of the shamisen, and the 'Main Theme' is largely driven by an erhu, to name just two examples. Thematically, the universe more readily embraces East Asian mythology. Dragons are explicitly Japanese, as are the quest for immortality, magatama, the constant search for home (ibasho), and the genealogical links between humanity and the gods – the royalty of Hyrule is descended from the union of Zonai and humans, just as Emperor Jimmu is described as a descendant of Amaterasu.

Strikingly, the noble female characters in Tears of the Kingdom are all marked by the Japanese stain of tragedy, whether through the burden of blood, motherhood or the sins for which they take responsibility. The thematic development and presentation of Rauru and Sonia form a striking parallel with Izanagi and Izanami. As parental figures, the royal couple represents a familial and affective ideal, albeit a highly traditional one. Despite its seemingly progressive themes, Tears of the Kingdom revels in social stagnation and a status quo that must be protected at all costs – the True Ending emphasises that the point was not just to defeat Ganondorf, but to preserve 'eternal peace' (eien no an'nei) [6]. Hyrule may have undergone a number of transformations since Breath of the Wild, but they have always occurred within continuities: clan leaders have changed, but only to be replaced by blood descendants. Similarly, the multicultural discourse is always tempered by the service that the different tribes provide to the Hylian royalty, according to a strict hierarchy.

Tears of the Kingdom is a parenthesis and a intermediary conclusion to the series. At the end of the adventure, Link returns the powers he used to explore the world. The gameplay of the title is designed to be a natural extension of the powers used in Breath of the Wild, increasing the creative and traversal possibilities. It is, however, a temporary experience; to the player, Tears of the Kingdom repeats the same old message: 'this is what I propose, and if you do not like it, so be it'. The title makes no concessions in its approach, to the point where it suffers structurally. Its extraordinary density may seem almost antiquated – but such has been Fujibayashi's legacy since The Minish Cap – and some will find the idea of the game providing bits and pieces of the solution to every puzzle heavy-handed.

Hyrule is still scarred by the damage of the Upheaval; there is no sign of the islands falling to the ground again, nor does Hyrule Castle. The Chasms are unlikely to close either, with only the Gloom gone. Mankind will have to learn to live with this new and distorted world. Like Japanese disaster fiction, Tears of the Kingdom looks to the future – to the resilience of the people – but it also reflects on the trauma that will not fade away: Kyōko Hayashi laments the inaction of institutions while the traces of destruction are still present in Japan, and the promise of the Sages at the very end of the game seems to be a response to this concern. Tears of the Kingdom guides the player's gaze almost relentlessly towards a contemplation of Japanese society in its environment, even if it means verging on the artificial, and whether or not this approach is welcomed is up to the player.

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[1] Kyōko Hayashi, 'To Rui, Once Again', tr. Margaret Mitsutani, in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 15-7, no. 3, 2017, p. 3.
[2] Justin McCurry, 'Gourmet manga stirs up storm after linking Fukushima to nosebleeds', in The Guardian, 22nd May 2014, consulted on 10th July 2023.
[3] Maria Mihaela Grajdian, 'Compassionate Neo-Traditionalism in Hosoda Mamoru’s Animation Movies', in Russian Japanology Review, vol. 3, no. 2, 2020, p. 148.
[4] Victor Moisan, Zelda : Le jardin et le monde, Façonnage, Lyon, 2021.
[5] On spatiality, the traversal aspect and the design of the sky and Skyloft, see 'Volume Five: The Dense Sky and Town', in Nintendo, Iwata Asks – The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, 2011.
[6] Note that the English translation conveys the original idea slightly differently, balancing Ganondorf's defeat with the idea of 'eternal peace'. The Japanese text reads: 「あの方たちが願ったのはつかまあ束の間ではなく永遠に続くハイラルの安寧。」Here, the comparison is much more focused on the ephemeral and the eternal, while the term 安寧 expresses both Hyrule's public peace and Zelda's inner tranquillity.

     'So to Celephaïs he must go, far distant from the isle of Oriab, and in such parts as would take him back to Dylath-Leen and up the Skai to the bridge by Nir.'
     – H. P. Lovecraft, The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath, 1943.

Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (27th Jun. – 3rd Jul., 2023).

The late 1980s and early 1990s are generally credited with the introduction of a hybrid concept combining action, platforming and RPG elements, but the exploration of this genre took different paths depending on the platforms on which the games were released. Computer titles emphasised the formulas Falcom invented with Xanadu (1985) and Ys (1987), namely the dungeon-crawler aspect and the very labyrinthine dungeons. Other developers, such as Game Arts and Renovation Game, came up with Zeliard (1987) and XZR: Hakai no Gōzō (1988), both featuring a side view inside the dungeons. XZR also adopted the idea of a top-down perspective when moving around the overworld.

     The vibrant tradition of Japanese action RPGs in the 1980s

This tradition undoubtedly contrasts with that of arcade and console games, which favoured accessibility and shorter experiences. Contrary to popular belief, the history of this genre is far more complex than the well-known attempts of Zelda II: Adventure of Link (1987) and Castlevania II: Simon's Quest (1987). These titles were part of a movement that had been underway for a number of years, most notably since Dragon Buster (1985). The genre cemented its place in the Japanese collective imagination, to the point where Hudson decided to copy the formula for the surprising port of Xanadu, Faxanadu (1987), which embraced the action side while retaining only a few RPG elements.

Cadash should be seen as a melting pot of ideas from all these pre-existing influences and experiments. Players are sent by King Dilsarl to rescue his daughter, Princess Salasa, who has been kidnapped by the sorcerer Baarogue. As in Gauntlet (1985), each player can choose one of the four available archetypes, each with their own set of abilities. Cadash immediately seems to be a thematic continuation of Taito's earlier game Rastan (1987). The magical skills of the Mage and Priestess are also reminiscent of the spells used in Zeliard, as are some of the bosses they face. The title is packed with references in a strange synthesis of Western high fantasy aesthetics, tropes from previous JRPGs and writing similar to Adventure of Link. Among other things, the slightly unsettling absurdity of the Gnomes' 'horses', whose appearance is ultimately that of featherless chocobos, is quite amusing.

     A heap of borrowed ideas

This chaotic collision of ideas is reflected in both the progression and the gameplay. While the PC Engine port is to blame for the particularly rigid controls, Cadash remains clumsy throughout. Using magic is awkward because the player has to hold down the attack button to cycle through the various spells, wasting vital time as the action becomes frenetic. The game fails to communicate its intentions effectively, and the various stages exemplify this shortcoming. Some sequences are oddly labyrinthine and particularly uncomfortable with the arcade version's timer, while others are unduly linear. The Underground Forest, for example, offers several winding paths, but Cadash Castle is a dull succession of small chambers that disguise the linearity of the progression.

Similarly, the RPG elements seem superfluous. Money is handled in an inconsistent manner: equipment is very inexpensive, but the prices soar for certain key items and stays in inns – this aspect is limited in the console versions, where all prices are somewhat standardised. As a result, Cadash sends out odd signals, putting players in a stressful situation by constantly asking them whether or not they should save some money for a potential key item by avoiding spending the night at an inn, which is the only consistent way to recover hit points. Cadash is still quite enjoyable to play, as the title is very short, but this artificial tension, although it may serve the purpose of immersion, is largely antithetical to the title's exploratory intentions conveyed through its narrative.

     Unsteady narrative temptations

Indeed, Cadash has a surprising narrative structure that stands above the average console title and is closer to the writing style of computer RPGs. Each stage is wrapped in a narrative arc involving the inhabitants of the various regions. There is something touching about Marinade's quest, even if the title never lives up to its potential: the dialogue in the town remains the same even after the young girl sacrificed to the Kraken has been rescued. The vibrant, believable quality of the world invites exploration, but this urge is constantly thwarted by the rather unpleasant combat system. Occasionally, the title – or at least its Western localisation – abandons its serious tone for no reason at all, name-dropping The Ghost Busters (1975) or Carl Sagan. These contrasting moods add to the game's volatile aspect.

The game's title, though probably unrelated, invites a comparison between Taito's approach and that of H. P. Lovecraft's The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath (1943). The novella explicitly relies on a persistent and subtle reference to the stylistic materiality of Lord Dunsany's works. In particular, Randolph Carter's feverish, oneiric quest to find Kadath is imbued with the macabre and the spectre of the Great Old Ones. Peter Goodrich points out that '[Lovecraft's] "forbidden knowledge" is the dark side of the equally common "further wonders waiting" topos that Burleson properly identifies as one of Dunsanian features' [1]. In other words, Lovecraft mobilises the wonder of Dunsanian mythology and transmutes it to express the tormented existence of Randolph Carter. Cadash plays to some extent with the same referential framework, but the proposal struggles to establish coherence between all the ideas and remains hollow; by contrast, the strength of Adventure of Link and Castlevania II was precisely the deliberate interplay of contrasts with the previous episode.

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[1] Peter Goodrich, 'Mannerism and the Macabre in H. P. Lovecraft's Dunsanian "Dream-Quest"', in Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts, vol. 15, no. 1, 2004, p. 46.

How do you follow up the likes of that which has never been seen before? Could you even hope to surpass the video game equivalent of lightning in a bottle? Keita Takahashi didn’t think so, but Namco saw the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and wanted more. So, he compromised. He agreed to direct the sequel after learning that Namco was willing to forge ahead, with or without him, and in exchange, the sequel became a metaphor for his mixed feelings regarding sequelitis and his eventual alienation from videogames as a whole. The result is We Love Katamari, a successor that tackled the subject of pandering to those around you while attempting to maintain the spirit of the original. The original Katamari Damacy was interpreted by many as an object of childlike wonder, railing against any form of cynicism while explaining absolutely nothing to preserve that joy. We Love Katamari on the other hand, turns the irreverence up to 11… and honestly, I’m all for it. As the Prince and the King of the Cosmos attempt to fulfill every fan’s request while repopulating the sky, they’re confronted with increasingly absurd situations. There’s a baby that outright tells you that he’s glad he was born to see the Prince of the Cosmos fulfill his lifelong dreams. Animals send requests a few times too, with some white dog telling you to roll around a zoo so he can attend a concert with more friends. To top this all off, the astronaut from the first game begs you to save the Earth from impending doom by rolling up countries of the world to stop an asteroid. The requests are all over the place and just as wild, if not wilder, than Katamari Damacy, and it’s fascinating how simultaneously off-the-rails the plot and worldbuilding have become even as the game remains one of Takahashi’s most intimate works, conveying his complicated feelings in this microcosm of cathartic destruction.

In terms of gameplay, We Love Katamari takes many of the logical steps in terms of progressing its simple yet realized formula. While the original game was content setting up its structure and letting players romp about in an expanding playground, We Love Katamari actively tests its limits of experimentation, challenging perceptions of what could be achieved with its level design while making players sweat with more complex goals and stricter time limits. Now granted, I concede that not everything in the sequel impresses me. The firefly level has a solid concept (roll up fireflies in a camping ground so a student has more light to study with) but doesn’t achieve much in terms of sense of scale or underlying complexity besides “roll up things quickly to get bright,” I could have done without three different variations of the Saturn levels where you just have to decide when you’re of the proper size, and I personally am not a huge fan of the underwater level where you have to handle floatier physics while dodging fishing hooks that put you out of commission for a bit. That said, the expansions that I did enjoy, I ended up really enjoying. There’s another campgrounds level where you control a burning Katamari and must carefully consider pathing on the fly to make sure that you never run out of fuel while avoiding any water sources that would snuff you out. Conversely, there’s another zoo level that sets a limit not on time, but on the things you’re allowed to roll up; as a result, it becomes an interesting exercise of restraint and sight-recognition, figuring out exactly the biggest things you can roll up at any time while outright avoiding anything else. Other favorite levels here include a racetrack where you “race” against a flurry of karts on a looping island road while barreling through anything in your way, and a sumo wrestling level where instead of rolling a Katamari, you roll the awkwardly-shaped sumo wrestler himself, and must prioritize foods as part of training him up to eventually KO his awaiting opponent. While some of the sequel's levels are content just playing with the established formula of “roll up things to get bigger to roll up more things,” the best levels here emphasize Katamari’s arcade and puzzle-like qualities by enforcing familiarization with the intricate object placement while accentuating the need for careful routing to avoid larger obstacles only to consume them whole later.

I must admit that despite my appreciation for what the sequel brings to the table, there’s a part of me that still prefers the original. There’s a sort of cohesion present in the original from repeating the same three levels but in slightly different ways and exploring them with different sizes that I think is missing in the sequel; rather, the sequel feels a bit more disconnected, with all the different fan-requests pulling from all different sides and a lot of the environments showing up for just a couple of stages or so. As a result, despite having more fleshed out execution of its base formula, I still feel as if the sequel could have more thoroughly explored certain levels in order to realize their full potential. In addition, I do find the sequel slightly more grindy than the original: not necessarily just because it’s harder (though I can’t rule out the possibility that this might be a factor), but because one of the final levels can’t be unlocked until you collect all the cousins (more or less just a cosmetic in the original), and multiple cousins are often present in the same level even though you’re only allowed to roll up and unlock one cousin per run. Finally, I must agree with everyone else in that I don’t think the extra Reverie levels from the remaster add much to the core experience, or at the very least didn’t wow me in the same way that many of the more experimental base game levels did. Rolling up clutter in a room as fast as possible and creating a variation of the racetrack level (just with the goal of snagging tires instead of overall size) doesn’t quite hit the same I suppose. Nevertheless, don’t let my personal gripes distract you from the fact that I absolutely recommend this. It's everything that a sequel could hope to be and more, providing a satisfying evolution to the series that stresses its understated design principles while serving as both a love-letter to the franchise and a send-off to Keita Takahashi’s most famous contributions to the medium. At the end of the day, we love Katamari, and while it may not be enough for Takahashi, it’s enough to matter for me.

people that haven't actually played this game complain about world tendency.

people that have played it know that there are moments in this game that have not been matched in its many generally-better descendents.

they never made a dragon bridge as good as 1-2.
they never made a fucked up jail as good as the tower of latria.
they never made a gimmick boss fight as good as maiden astraea.

me though i just split it down the middle and wonder how this japanese-developed game somehow contains 3 or 4 of the best scottish accents in the entirety of video gaming

SHODAN is the best villain ever put into a video game. That alone wouldn't sound like much in proving it's a great game, given it just implies a tight narrative but nothing about how it plays, yet this is actually a huge deal because I'm talking about her in a gameplay sense. Looking Glass' design philosophy was always to simulate the balance between a player making active choices, and the game master responding adequately in tabletop games. SHODAN is a living representation of Citadel Station, and a pure evil game master on top of that, as the bridge between the concept and execution of this "simulated game master" idea bringing it into more literal territory with a computer trying to kill you. Everything that goes after you in the game and every trap that befalls you is SHODAN. She sometimes unfairly sweeps the rug from under you, locking you in game over scenarios or opening up monster closets, but this combined with her voicework only adds to realize her in a way no other villain has ever achieved. Each step you take in Citadel Station is a fight against SHODAN herself as she's always finding ways to one-up you. Standard action-adventure game progression is flipped on its head as you don't know what to predict and must carefully observe clues, manage resources and take notes to get further while expecting the worst, stooping into straight up dungeon crawler territory more with each level. This tense crawling approach to a usually speedy genre is what separated System Shock at first from contemporaries, but you could really argue this is just an extremely abstract form of adding in more "realistic" mechanics; it adds a lot of believability ducking behind cover as you desperately fiddle with the user interface to reload or consider opting for the specific position on the screen you'll throw a grenade from, just imagine a few animations instead of a user interface being fiddled with and it suddenly clicks. System Shock juggled tons of concepts modern games still struggle with relatively effortlessly; from the precision in combat only VR games seem to have given a shot, to genuinely tactical and intimidating firefights while exploring an immersive environment. It may seem sloppy at first, but taken as a whole, it's extremely elegant.

The thing barring most people from enjoying this genuinely amazing game is that the user interface and controls are too clunky and dated... or are they? Really, I think it's just the visuals that date this game. We live in a post-Cruelty Squad post-Receiver world, it's not like these unorthodox approaches are out of place now, they're usually just prettied up... or slathered in shit in the case of Cruelty Squad. Either way, if those games can be enjoyed for what they are now, what's stopping someone from enjoying System Shock today too?

You're trying too hard, bro! More or less, the main reason as to why I'm generally disinterested in modern horror games, which tend to serve as vehicles for cryptic lore dumps for YouTube analysts to pore over rather than fright-enhanced decision making. I don't want mindfuckery, I want regular fuckery, something that I was hopeful would be present in this kind of return to form. This game was sold to me as the best of Resident Evil meets the best of Silent Hill, but, in reality, it's the worst of both: Resident Evil's cramped item management without any of the brilliant circular level design that makes Spencer Mansion thrilling to route through even after dozens of playthroughs, and Silent Hill's scary-because-it's-scary imagery without any of the dread that defines each and every one of Harry Mason's fog-enveloped footsteps. Instead, we've got jumpcuts to character closeups and spooky stanzas of poetry, pulsating masses of flesh on the ground, and handwritten notes conveniently censored at the most ominous places- surface-level stuff that makes horror games effective for people who don't understand what makes horror games effective. I'm not engaged enough to decipher your jumbled-up story, I'm not interested in your generic sci-fi setting, and I'm not even scared! But, maybe if I actually felt like the character I was playing as, I would be! Fast movement speed and wide hallways make enemies pitifully easy to juke, and thus not at all intimidating. Exploration isn't exciting or intriguing because of how straightforward it is on a grand scale. Plentiful items and infinite saves mean there's not any pressure on you even if you do wind up making a mistake somehow. I initially chalked this all up to misguided attempts at balance, but they get harder and harder to defend once you realize that all you're really doing is (often literally) opening up a locked door just to find a key for another locked door somewhere else on the map, which makes the experience feel more like a parody of classic survival horror games rather than an earnest attempt at recapturing the magic. I hardly took out any enemies, I didn't burn a single body, and, on several occasions, I killed myself on purpose because doing that was quicker than having to run back to the save room to retrieve the specific contextual item I needed, which is about as damning as you can get for this kind of game. The only strategy to pick up on is keeping nothing at all on your person in between storage box visits so that you can handle when the game inevitably dumps five key items on you in successive rooms. Mikami's rolling in his grave!

The lone bright spots are the traditional puzzles, which, although are few and far between, frequently nail the physical satisfaction of fiddling around with a piece of old, analog equipment that you're half familiar with and half in the dark on. If this game had understood its strengths better, it would've been a fully-fledged point-and-click or even a Myst-style free-roaming puzzler. The actual survivor horror feels tacked on, as though it's obligated to be this kind of game because it's attempting to tell a story in the same emotional vein as the Silent Hill series and the player needs to have something to do before being shown the next deep, thought-provoking cutscene. I can't even say that it understands the classics from a visual standpoint, forgoing the fixed-camera perspective that gives each of Resident Evil's individual rooms a distinct cinematographic personality and instead opting for a generic top-down approach that makes every location feel the same. Though, that's not to say the art direction itself is bad. In fact, it's phenomenal, and easily the standout of the game's features, but it doesn't make up for how bland everything else is. At some point, this one demoted itself in my eyes from 'mostly boring but worth playing just for the aesthetic' to 'downright painful.' Maybe it was after the game pretentiously transitioned into a first-person walking simulator one too many times. Or, more likely, it was when some of the small details- red-light save screens, items conveniently located right on top of their respective instruction manuals, and even the sound effect of equipping your pistol- started feeling less like homages and more like creative crutches, indicators of an entirely rudderless experience. I really feel terrible for ragging on something that's evidently a passion project and extremely competent from a technical standpoint, and I sincerely hope the devs keep at it. But, man. I wish I got anything at all out of this. The one game I've played that's managed get this done, I mean, spiritually succeeding an era/genre rather than a specific series by remixing several blatant inspirations so proficiently that it ends up feeling like something entirely new, is still Shovel Knight, but I'm not sure the world's ready for that conversation quite yet...

this is Ultima Underworld, but after a lobotomy. it plays as if a shareholder handed a programmer a 10th generation monochrome photocopy of a screenshot of ultima underworld, and the entire design was based on that 10th generation monochrome photocopy of an ultima underworld screenshot alone. it set the stage for all the elder scrolls games (and the radiation poisoned elder scrolls, as adapted from interplay) that would follow, vapid, sprawling expanses with maybe a story or something there. but unlike the (as of writing, and as of playing) most recent two instances of melatonin replacement therapy, you can't attempt to salvage this one with 3rd party enhancments, or 3rd party additions. those that may exist, honestly will not save you here.

so you have this exercise in vapidity, a sprawling procedurally constructed world (not generated, all who play tes: arena experience this same world, unfortunately) lightly (not to be misconstrued as sparesly) filled with like maybe 5 (a generous estimate) town variations. a world so big, with so little to explore, it's no wonder that fast travel is mandatory (recurring). too expansive for its own sake. the percieved expanse to the player, and purported expanse by the publisher ironically results in an experience that itself is lightly packed with content not worth any player's time, despite how it may initially seem, despite how it wishes to present itself. they, time and time again, claim to have been inspired by ultima underworld. at the absolute surface level, i suppose that statement makes sense. if i were handed deep-fried photocopies of something with the pinoint focus of underworld, without getting the chance to ever play it, and had to make an approximation of the experience i imagine that screenshot provides, The Elder Scrolls: Arena would be it.


the problems with the elder scrolls run deep, and they are ALL present here, from the jump, in arena. play daggerfall instead, and you can experience every single one of those problems, and possibly have fun doing so!

after a lobotomy, one might be able to adapt. but recovery? no one recovers from a lobotomy.

Post Note: This write up was made almost entirely with the purposes of promoting a discourse rather than saying something 'accurate' or 'convincing'. Only 1 day later and I mostly disagree with myself here, for instance swapping Chess out with Stratego instead and respecting input randomness far more. As such, this write up can be almost entirely skipped if you choose to do so, otherwise keep in mind that you're reading a process of understanding rather than a firm opinion as you will find in a majority of my other write ups. Thanks for understanding.

Whirling Wind Companion

I thought about saying something overcomplicated here, but instead I'll just like to this excerpt from Richard Garfield's lecture first

The above clip illustrates the concept that Skill and Luck are almost entirely disconnected in theory. You can play chess well and win or lose regardless to the dice output. Obviously it wouldn't be fun, but there's still a skill being tested otherwise from the play experience. While I think this is an interesting illustration though, I don't quite think the full picture has been realized. For example Randochess would cause a player to focus on quick opening wins since there's still the secondary win condition of mating the King. The issue I have with this reasoning is that, even if we assume that the fun of an independent game isn't always predicated on winning or losing (experimentation being a large factor that randomness supports and keeps exciting), the matrix of overall play and retention is focused on the idea of rewarding mindful play. A bad player winning with a random die roll in Randochess is not going to be happy, they will feel their win as phyric and undeserved. A good player winning with a random die may get some relief in independent games but, the underlying stress of this emergent uncontrollable output probability never goes away.

If this explanation illustrates anything, it probably explains why prolonged sessions of any CCG I play start to make me upset. For one, you never know how the other other player is feeling in these games online and even when you do have access to that communication they are usually just using the 'meta' of communication to taunt you. You can feel what you perceive as the random output unfairness as a 'phyrric' victory over you, but you can't substantiate that opinion onto the other player. Fairness in online gaming is isolated, often only found in solidarity through paratextual forums where people can commiserate with you about it at best. However, it's worth noting that I only play CCGs because my nervous system is crappy and I'm at a severe disadvantage in action games. At the end of his lecture Mr. Garfield shows how invisible randomness elements can keep players around in any game, through revealing that his studies caused the TF2 system of critical hits to happen. This new output randomness was sneaked into the system which he said needs to be done in order to make players not complain. If you add high variable output randomness into an existing game, skilled players will dislike it.

While I don't want to write the book on gaming by any means, I think its worth considering how good Chess is for a moment. Chess is a game with an almost infinite number of decisions to make open to the player, giving them room to test things out. Every decision made is maximally fair, and there's still room for experimentation for players that don't care about direct victory. In these cases, at least until a certain level of skill differential, chess as a meta game utilizes its own anti randomness to be more fun. When I play chess with my mom or my girlfriend, I'm not even that interested in 'beating' them, sometimes I'll sandbag pieces because I like the feeling of confusion and bemusement, along with the fact it often lets me experience new forking situations I wouldn't have learned about otherwise. There's an aspect from the lack of output randomness that makes the game better because it transforms the independent zero sum game into a cooperative experience. Chess and learning chess go hand in hand for any player past the 700 elo mark, and why not? Minimal phyrric victories, maxmimal learning opportunities, a resonance between skill and play, plenty of open experimentation. If I want to be so bold I would say that chess has about as much going in as any open world game in terms of guided exploration, but since its happening on the meta level, people dont view it that way.

Anyway the point of all this is to say that Pokemon Chess is just Randochess 2.0 on the one hand. You can miss attacks and get crits just like in pokemon, except here it causes the passing of turns instead of an outright loss, but for anybody even remotely competent at chess the results are the same. The output variables are moved from the dice into the pieces, but its really just automating a process that would have been done physically anyway irl. You have a choice over what to make each piece's type, and I'm sure pokemon experts know for instance, the exact type for instance that is strongest against any other type, and if you knew the typing charts in their entirety you'd have a leg up but after that point there can't be too much strategy to it. You would still be mapping on a system of strategic randomness checks onto an already existing system of non strategic randomness. This isn't stratego, you can still see all the types of the enemy pieces, so at the point it just becomes following a heuristic and hoping the output is on your side (and of course, trying to close out games asap).

Now Pokemon Chess is a miserable game, or at least not an interesting one to get good at for the majority of people primarily because Chess already exists. However, not every game is interested in making its influences clear. TF2 was likely inspired by Quake Arena but its not going to tell you that. Along with this there's a constant desire to redo engines and combat physics in order to add this novelty back in regardless. So my point is this: I think theres a formal point to be made here in what we do and don't desire in games. I think in the majority of cases that answer is actually in whether a game having random elements is in benefit of the game or not. For instance, all card games by design have randomness, but how much of it can be mitigated while keeping the skill intact? Card game players have known forever that in any game where you have control over the number of cards in your deck, the strongest and most reliable decks have the minimum number of possible cards, with the infamy of cards like Pot of Greed in Yugioh being a clear illustration of this fact. At some point though, digital CCGs realized that fixed card numbers for all players just made the game more enjoyable for everyone while also limiting randomness. In this case the input randomness of the entire genre was mitigated. We can imagine a world in which the toy game randochess was made first, and in that case we would have to imagine a world in which chess was not found from it a fucking tragedy. In what world would that happen you ask? In a world where either the copyrighting of fundamental game design is normalized, and/or a world in which people think random output is so entertaining that taking it out would make the game unfun rather than enhancing the enjoyability of the game.

We live in both of those worlds, so chew on that for a moment. If random input and output aspects can be mitigated, and those random elements don't have an explicit narrative application, they almost certainly should be removed, but given the opportunity that simplification of randomness should actually be expressed through a new game or a patched version. Along with that, I strongly believe criticizing these luck based elements and thinking about how they can be simplified away from should be a central struggle of game criticism and design. Let's stop worshipping luck and start focusing on incentivizing systems that give the players a large number of interesting decision making opportunities.

WHEN_ON_HIGH_THE_HEAVEN_HAD_NOT_BEEN_NAMED, reads the remote terminal prompt, beamed to you across the wastes of a forgotten earth. These radio waves, and the data carrying your scout bot's readings, struggle to reach you intact, hampered by signal interference and the irreproducible context of these ruins. Like uncovering the mounds and errata of ancient Sumeria, this process of scouring and understanding takes time and rigor—how much can you really glean or comprehend from this dustbin, flooded and mangled as it is? But a new history beckons deep within the underworld, where Tiamat again surfaces from Abzu and the answer to old apocalyptic riddles presents itself. The post-mortem of lost millennia can finally begin. You're just the first observer.

I've yet to try June Flower's previous games, exercises in minimalism and conjuration dabbling in archaeology and the unknown. Their pixel art and music, both just as mystifying yet inviting, got me interested while scanning Twitter for Itch.io shareware found off the beaten paths. (Plus Thyme's short blurb!) June describes Gunkprotocol as a way to learn coding with Godot, an experience they found vexing and of questionable utility in the end. Even if this didn't work out as hoped, the game itself confidently about the author's artistry and ability to coax fascinating stories from so little. What I've seen of Remnants and Washout Spire, two longer and more ambitious releases, still doesn't seem nearly this economic in size and design. This 15-minute romp through a walled-off world lasts much longer in the back of my mind than expected, and for only good reasons. Going from Samorost to this, a 20-year gap between either program, showed me how far the quote-unquote "walking sim" has evolved without losing sight of minimalism and prodding the imagination.

All you're obligated to do in Gunkprotocol is wander around, exploring and piecing together a simple data transaction between "blobot" and you, a far-off observer investigating these caves. Exactly what happened to this forsaken city, sitting abandoned among gardens and tunnels, becomes clear at the end in a cute moment of meta-fiction. As you sink into the pulsating trip-hop reverberations, June's inimitable pixelated artwork conveys the grit, murkiness, and alien atmosphere of each environment. Much of the visual style harkens back to eye-searing, captivating limited-palette graphics found in ZX Spectrum or Amstrad CPC games from the '80s like Go to Hell. (Given the use of Manic Miner-like room names in Remnants, I suspect this resemblance has precedent.) We're tantalized both by buried wonders and fear of what lies around the corner, though the only horrors here are existential. There's no one down in these depths left to greet us, just crusty legends and vestiges of the almighty.

What closure players get at the end of this very short explore-a-thon also dodges explication, almost like any "lore" here has become garbled beyond recognition. Is this all the work of divine intervention sometime in our near-future, or the result of an AI lashing out at human hubris? Can new life and new memories bubble into being from these grounds, or is our protagonist's belated tour merely an appraisal of what was and no longer can be? Gunkprotocol maybe spends more effort on obfuscation than I'd like, but I won't doubt it succeeds at that. It's a bit repetitive to actually play through due to non-persistent keyboard inputs, meaning you'll have to tap the cursor keys a lot to navigate around the map. Still, something this intriguing in bite-sized form has me excited to try June's other works, let alone what they've got in mind next. Entrancing presentation and a thought-provoking final report, tucked away in a password-locked .zip archive outside the game, has me sated and ready for more.

Firefights in shooters are usually defined by positioning more than anything. Where your Zombiemen and Imps are pretty much defines how the whole thing is gonna go down, and just pulling out the right weapon for the job is pretty much the big decision the player makes when engaging. Halo is different. Positioning matters, but it's not always due to the designers hand that the player and enemies end up in their positions - it's the aliens themselves choosing where they go. Reloading a save for the same encounter will still often see it going drastically differently each time, and this is due to a multitude of factors: Master Chief has a limited arsenal at all times, and the enemies you fight directly tie into this. You will actually need to consider which weapon you want to keep as you can't predict which enemies will be ahead of you, or what they'll be equipped with, or where they'll be. Master Chief also has a shield system that will work alongside your healthbar, with which you get a brief window of protection from oncoming strikes but not full-blown protection; giving you just enough time to perform any risky maneuvers you may need. Everything you do is slightly delayed; from jumps to grenade throws and explosions to reloads delaying your fire to punches landing, giving you a constant need to think about every action you take. The real icing on the cake here though is the intelligence of the Covenant enemies, and how they interact with everything else.

The Covenant has, by no stretch of the imagination, probably the best artificial intelligence ever seen in the genre. The designers have claimed they merely attempted to make them seem smart rather than be smart since they weren't sure how to do that, but I'd argue they hit two birds with one stone. The real trick is that they're reactive, and equal. Reactive in the sense of emotionally expressing reactions to almost every situation, but reactive also in the sense of seemingly playing alongside the player for each gunfight. They'll flank you, toss grenades whenever you get into a comfy position too long or just overwhelm you with numbers. For almost every strategy you have, the Covenant have something up their sleeves to counter it usually. Each Elite has a shield system of their own, so every single fight you get into with an Elite will likely lead in you both taking cover to regenerate since Halo knows to also give the foes some self-preservation instinct. Want to charge in and just damage the Elite? They'll probably do the same; get pissed off and charge at you just hoping to kill you before you put them down. Hell, you might try sniping an Elite only for him to hop in a Banshee and start circling you in the air, and the thing is; this is only the Elites, and while yes: they are the most intelligent Covenant enemies, the true magic is emergence. This is only describing one Elite, what about two? What about his squad of Grunts? Well if you leave the Elite alive they'll have the confidence to charge in and try attacking you on their own terms, but if you take out the Elite first you'll be opening yourself up to them and the Jackals fire. Your assault rifle will make short work of the Grunts, but can it counter the Jackals and Elites shields? That's something new to consider, so you'll want to keep multiple types of weapons on you at once for this situation. What if there's too many to take out? Well there might be a Warthog nearby which you could straight up crash into them with, or just have a Marine fire for you as you strafe around them. Every single encounter requires you to rethink and preplan how you'll handle things, and you'll always need to keep on top of ammo/charge per weapon too; so you can't rely on, well, old reliable, forever.

Just when you've gotten comfy, the game throws the Flood at you. As divisive as they are, and as arguable the Library's quality is, I'd wager they're a necessity. They're a great shake-up to the more strategic combat centered around the Covenant, requiring you to pretty much treat every encounter with them as a gauntlet as they eat up bullets and plasma but just don't go down, and will revive other enemies as more of themselves. But just as is the case with the Covenant, emergence is their true strength. Late-game Halo: Combat Evolved has you overseeing armies of Flood and Covenant fighting to the death and it's your job to just get by while the games systems play their own little RTS as you go off shotgunning more zombies.

The truth to Halo's design is it's multifacted, and it makes the most out of very little. Compared to your average shooter there's not much variety in the enemies or weapons but the core behaviors are so nuanced and dynamic that they change moment-to-moment, encounter-to-encounter. It gives you a sandbox of weapons and vehicles against decently tough enemies (though this will vary depending on the difficulty you pick, but I recommend Heroic as it seems to be the intended experience) and asks how you will deal with it. Halo gives you tons of ways to play, but the enemies can play at that game too and utilize basically anything you can. It leads to an immense creativity in encounters that comes from the most fun form of problem-solving that makes it, in my eyes, one of the crowning jewels of the genre. None of the sequels rivaled the quality of the combat, because it's already the pinnacle of evolution.

The chad Jakub Dvorsky and the virgin Doug TenNapel—not that I actually have anything against The Neverhood so much as its asshole director, but it's nice to know the "funny guys on forested rocks in space" sub-genre found life elsewhere. Amanita Design's first entry in the "self rust" trilogy promised, and delivered, a smaller-scale successor to the bizarre scenes and ambling of a certain mid'-90s cult classic. And unlike that bust, Samorost led to tangible influence and prestige for the bourgeoning indie games scene. This was exactly the kind of Flash-era, outsider art game happy to just invite you into its odd little world, where every screen our gnome reaches has miniature delights and obstacles to overcome. Right as the very notion of "indie game" was coming into being—a reaction against a decline in shareware and rise of industry consolidation—this became an unlikely herald for things to come.

Actually playing the original 2003 game is a bit of a task. Internet Archive's in-browser version breaks after the intro, meaning I had to run the game in Ruffle offline via command line! Otherwise it's as simple as clicking around the screen, presented first to players as a beguiling, fantastic planetoid defying physics and graphical consistency. As I watched our protagonist scope around the void before panicking at the sight of an oncoming world just like theirs, I couldn't help but notice the odd juxtaposition of, well, everything here. Low-res nature photos blown up into scenery; flat-colored munchkins living in and out of more shaded structures; very short music loops, seemingly pulled from anonymous sources and libraries like junk in orbit! Many multimedia CD-based adventures from years before this used far more space to achieve this kind of uncanny valley, yet Dvorsky triumphs in a far stricter filesize.

Our white-frocked fellow's journey from home to hell and back hardly lasts longer than 15 or 20 minutes. Patience, observing the environment, and learning each inhabitants' patterns makes for an engaging time despite its simplicity. An itinerant laborer smokes the herb before throwing away the pipe-key needed to activate a ski lift. The fisherman tosses out a skeleton which the hawk snatches, proudly exhibiting it long enough for us to climb aboard and reach the badlands. What few scenarios Samorost offers feel like forgotten or mangled tall tales, making it fun to solve each puzzle in hopes of something cool. I'll admit that the last couple of screens are less interesting, though. Dvorsky and co-creator Tomas Dvorak wring most of the potential possible from this simple click-action paradigm a bit before the game ends. I hope the sequels introduce just enough verbs and structural changes to freshen things up. Still, this remains as elegant and intuitive as it must have been back in the early-2000s, a pared-down gallery installation in LucasArts form. (Compared to The Neverhood's often overdone riddles and backtracking, something this linear isn't too unwelcome.)

Later stories by the Amanita team(s) would delve into less enigmatic, more overt themes and messaging. Here, the focus is squarely on how one can both explore and interact with alien environments without corrupting or exploiting them in the process. This little world has no prince, yet bears the burden of its own ecosystem and hierarchies which we must acknowledge and work around to save our own land. Yes, one could say it's just a whimsical avoid-the-collision plot with lots of oddities and sight gags, but there's an optimism hiding in plain sight too. Accidents will happen, but a courageous and respectful response to natural disasters like this can work out in the end. As an invisible hand of fate guiding the gnome, we play the most important part in continuing the circle of life, perpetuating predation, survival, and creation in turn.

That's a lot of words to say that I had a good laugh watching the disgruntled man-squirrel finally getting peace of mind after the worms burrowing around him fall prey to a blobby bird. Or how about spooking the goats into the chasm, over and over again, waiting for the angler and some lizards to finish their meal? Samorost indulges maybe a bit too much in these clickpoints at the expense of a meatier adventure, but the commitment to displaying this world's arch antics and irreverence is very endearing. Coupled with unsettling yet comforting library music, the lounge jazz you'd hope to hear in any Eastern European animated film, this clash of styles makes the experience unforgettable. I was sad to leave the suddenly eventful lives of this lil' fella, and everything and everything they chanced upon, but this was one surreal trip I'll think back on fondly.

Seeing as this was one of his college projects, Dvorsky likely had no reason to expect Samorost would win a Webby Award. This led to Internet advertising work, the start of a career making similarly weird but wholly considered interactive media. Amanita Design would eventually ride the wave of indie games popularity via storefronts like Steam and the Wii Shop, plus enthusiastic press coverage, driving this kind of entertainment onto peoples' screens. Machinarium and later point-and-click odysseys shared the limelight with oh so many other author-driven darlings up through the turn of the 2010s, and the rest is history. It's fun to revisit the origins of these big cultural movements, back when games like this, Seiklus, and Strange Adventures in Infinite Space were innovators and standouts in an age of crowded big-box gaming. The era of bedroom coders never truly died, transitioning into browser games and then the digital distribution market we know today. Whether we call it "homebrew", "indie", "doujin", or whatever makes more sense in context, that ineffable David vs. Goliath effort of making one's own interactive art shines through in Samorost. Labor of love indeed.