Sat at the mouth of a serene underground river flowing far into the surrounding bioluminescent cave system, I aim my camera upwards towards a craggy volcanic plateau atop which two Wroggi sleep and a third keeps watch. I’m far enough away that the one watchful sentinel doesn’t see me slowly line up my shot and snap a few photos for research purposes — no need for the rule of thirds or precise framing here. One hour into my solo excursion and I finally feel like I have an idea of the topography here, the ways in which my companions and I can weave effortlessly in and out of the twisting and expansive natural tunnels in the heat of battle, and the places in which we can replenish our stock of items in a pinch. For the moment, at least, the area is calm. The sound of running water and the soft reptilian purr of sleeping Wroggi are only punctuated by the infrequent shifting and splashing of my canine companion in the river. When I return from my tranquil expedition I’m greeted joyfully by the denizens of the village, each with a request for materials that can be used to offer increasingly impressive services to myself and others.
Surrounded by three of my closest friends, things are not going according to plan. Magnamalo, a hulking tiger-like creature sporting purple-plated armor for skin, is making quick work of the four of us as its frenzied blows come faster than we can react. With every slow swing of our comically large weapons, the monster manages to dodge swiftly and retaliate with the swipe of its claws or purple hellfire from its jaws. Standing again at the mouth of an underground river beneath a craggy volcanic plateau, I shout to my companions that grappling upward and outward to heal our wounds and hope Magnamalo doesn’t follow is our best bet at survival — which is becoming more important than victory at this point. Before we zip into the sky, one brilliant mind among us takes the opportunity to throw a flash bomb at the beast, ensuring it won’t be able to see our escape plan as we clamber to safety. Atop the plateau, we eat steaks and drink health potions and sharpen our weapons and continue laughing the whole way through. Within the hour Magnamalo has fallen, and we all sign off until tomorrow’s hunts begin.
In my free time I find myself chatting with the residents scattered around the village of Kamura, taking care to learn more about them as people instead of as walking-talking vending machines. Yomogi, a young chef who runs the village tea shop, sees her constant menu expansion as an expression of artistry and the best way to serve her community. Iori spends his days surrounded by felynes and palamutes, and by using his unique gifts can help them grow in strength and resourcefulness. Both separately express to me their desire to do something more overtly cool, like becoming a monster hunter, but by utilizing and honing their talents they’re able to impact Kamura as much as, if not more than I ever could.
Monster Hunter has never been known for its story, despite the series’ multiple attempts to put narrative first. At best, entries have been innocuous to the point of forgettable, and at worst the franchise has a tendency to play into troubling colonialist attitudes dressed up with a fantastical albeit ignorant sheen. Rise though, more than any other entry, smartly focuses on the hub village itself as its emotional core. By endearing me to the place in which I find myself safe and at rest, I care more deeply when that safety is threatened by outside forces. I would never let anything bad happen to Yogomi or Iori or the many other faces of Kamura. For the first time in its seventeen years, Monster Hunter smartly centered every piece of its gameplay around the betterment of the community — both human players and NPC alike.
That focus bleeds into every decision and mechanic on the multiplayer end, where my time spent sitting at a table eating dango and talking with my friends can feel as fun as the hunts we’re ostensibly preparing for. In 2021, Monster Hunter Rise was my continued link to socialization in the ongoing pandemic-addled world. Just like Animal Crossing: New Horizons before it, Rise represented an on-ramp to the franchise for many of the people I hold dear. Although I always hoped Animal Crossing would realize its potential to catch on with mainstream audiences, I never imagined a world where Monster Hunter broke out of its “hardcore” shell. I recognize this wasn’t the norm in 2021 the way New Horizons was for just about everyone in 2020, but to see so many willingly toss themselves headlong into a title known for its complex mechanics and opaque design was a joy. As with most things, to be able to teach your friends how to play Monster Hunter is a dream come true.
But writing this in 2022, Kamura is less vibrant than it once was. Life in its natural state is a series of ebbs and flows, and the friends I once found myself surrounded by have since moved onto other adventures. Every once in a while, the most die-hard Monster Hunter fans among us will jump in for a hunt and a chat, but it’s nowhere near the nightly ritualistic experience we’d all briefly had at launch. Still though, I’m happy to knock out a hunt or two with my buddies when the timing is right. Every moment spent together, virtually or otherwise is a moment to be cherished. To spend so much time in a place as beautiful as Kamura is a privilege, and sharing that time with others is the best experience I had playing a video game in 2021.
Surrounded by three of my closest friends, things are not going according to plan. Magnamalo, a hulking tiger-like creature sporting purple-plated armor for skin, is making quick work of the four of us as its frenzied blows come faster than we can react. With every slow swing of our comically large weapons, the monster manages to dodge swiftly and retaliate with the swipe of its claws or purple hellfire from its jaws. Standing again at the mouth of an underground river beneath a craggy volcanic plateau, I shout to my companions that grappling upward and outward to heal our wounds and hope Magnamalo doesn’t follow is our best bet at survival — which is becoming more important than victory at this point. Before we zip into the sky, one brilliant mind among us takes the opportunity to throw a flash bomb at the beast, ensuring it won’t be able to see our escape plan as we clamber to safety. Atop the plateau, we eat steaks and drink health potions and sharpen our weapons and continue laughing the whole way through. Within the hour Magnamalo has fallen, and we all sign off until tomorrow’s hunts begin.
In my free time I find myself chatting with the residents scattered around the village of Kamura, taking care to learn more about them as people instead of as walking-talking vending machines. Yomogi, a young chef who runs the village tea shop, sees her constant menu expansion as an expression of artistry and the best way to serve her community. Iori spends his days surrounded by felynes and palamutes, and by using his unique gifts can help them grow in strength and resourcefulness. Both separately express to me their desire to do something more overtly cool, like becoming a monster hunter, but by utilizing and honing their talents they’re able to impact Kamura as much as, if not more than I ever could.
Monster Hunter has never been known for its story, despite the series’ multiple attempts to put narrative first. At best, entries have been innocuous to the point of forgettable, and at worst the franchise has a tendency to play into troubling colonialist attitudes dressed up with a fantastical albeit ignorant sheen. Rise though, more than any other entry, smartly focuses on the hub village itself as its emotional core. By endearing me to the place in which I find myself safe and at rest, I care more deeply when that safety is threatened by outside forces. I would never let anything bad happen to Yogomi or Iori or the many other faces of Kamura. For the first time in its seventeen years, Monster Hunter smartly centered every piece of its gameplay around the betterment of the community — both human players and NPC alike.
That focus bleeds into every decision and mechanic on the multiplayer end, where my time spent sitting at a table eating dango and talking with my friends can feel as fun as the hunts we’re ostensibly preparing for. In 2021, Monster Hunter Rise was my continued link to socialization in the ongoing pandemic-addled world. Just like Animal Crossing: New Horizons before it, Rise represented an on-ramp to the franchise for many of the people I hold dear. Although I always hoped Animal Crossing would realize its potential to catch on with mainstream audiences, I never imagined a world where Monster Hunter broke out of its “hardcore” shell. I recognize this wasn’t the norm in 2021 the way New Horizons was for just about everyone in 2020, but to see so many willingly toss themselves headlong into a title known for its complex mechanics and opaque design was a joy. As with most things, to be able to teach your friends how to play Monster Hunter is a dream come true.
But writing this in 2022, Kamura is less vibrant than it once was. Life in its natural state is a series of ebbs and flows, and the friends I once found myself surrounded by have since moved onto other adventures. Every once in a while, the most die-hard Monster Hunter fans among us will jump in for a hunt and a chat, but it’s nowhere near the nightly ritualistic experience we’d all briefly had at launch. Still though, I’m happy to knock out a hunt or two with my buddies when the timing is right. Every moment spent together, virtually or otherwise is a moment to be cherished. To spend so much time in a place as beautiful as Kamura is a privilege, and sharing that time with others is the best experience I had playing a video game in 2021.