this game is really good and i think every suda fan should play it! the story is fantastic and the gameplay is great! since there is no official fan translation patch for the game, here are the resources i used in order to experience it.

- this game has zero tutorial, and if you dont know what you are doing its impossible. luckily here is a thread that tells you how to play: https://hg101.proboards.com/thread/977/control-fire-pro-sotenga

- there is this awesome translation thread by "shadowmaster" which i used to follow along with the story. most of the translation is solid, and to me i got a great sense on what the story was trying to say: https://criticalclub.com/thread/1657/super-wrestling-special-translation-project

enjoy!

this was the moment in which the playstation made any and all competition look like a goddamned embarassment. if final fantasy vii wasn't already enough of an indicator that maybe nintendo should've reconsidered that cd-rom collaboration with sony, the release of metal gear solid is where they must've looked at themselves with their dicks in their hands and gone, "what the hell are we even doing here?" regardless of personal opinion or subjective takeaway, there is an objective throughline to the narrative design and storytelling of essentially the entire modern single-player gaming industry that leads back to 1998's metal gear solid. to call it one of the most influential video games ever made doesn't do its legacy justice. it's a game that continues to morph, bend, and redefine itself almost 25 years after its initial release. hell, it's a shame it didn't inspire MORE of the modern gaming world, in the sense that its experimentation and willingness to dip into the absurd and self-aware clearly was left behind in the shuffle tothe current generation's blockbusters. metal gear solid is a timeless experience that must truly be experienced to be believed.

the cumbersome burden of solid snake is felt in the control scheme, and while on some objective level it's aged, i'm willing to consider it part of the character and how the game defines snake in a metatextual sense to the player; the two may work in symbiosis by design of it being a video game, but there's also a discreet awareness in metal gear solid as a series that this is all, indeed, a video game - so regardless of whether it's intended or not (i'm willing to admit the likelihood kojima was bullshitting when he brought this up down the line, lol) i think it works to an effect. metal gear solid isn't difficult to control if you're used to titles of the era. the level design is immaculate - truly has an intentional "video game-y" feel especially in areas like the second vulcan raven duel, or the section where snake can't use his weapons, or the furnace section - that carries a distinctly futuristic and militant vibe heightened by the score. every piece of music in this game has to be etched into my skull at this point, the highest point of all undoubtedly being the vocal track "the best is yet to come" and its various instances in leitmotifs throughout the game. of course one can't discuss metal gear solid without nodding to the truly game-changing, top class voice performances across the entire class. this had to be a deep scare to the rest of the market at the time - english dubs of this level and with this much spoken dialogue was unheard of in this day and age, and to this day the performances and writing have aged tremendously.

the cinematography and scene composition of metal gear solid is truly amorphous. there are sequences where you might get away with calling this a horror game; the hallway before the cyborg ninja battle where you meet otacon, or the entirety of the psycho mantis sequence. there are moments in which characters' tension or intimacy is highlighted; the seductive ferocity of sniper wolf and snake's interactions, or the sparse moments of genuine care and peace between snake and meryl, or otacon. threats often are 'shot' to feel larger than life, like the sequence with the hind on the roof top, or the titular metal gear rex, which the game forces you to consider the sheer scope of by actually having you traverse its entire scale. while the narrative storytelling is deserving of its constant praise, i think it's these instances of master 'camera work' and visual storytelling that help the game feel a true cut above all the same.

there's much to be said about metal gear solid's sociopolitical messages or the means with which it deconstructs the media it draws much of its inspiration from, but i think one of the most prevelant themes of the game that resonated with me when i first played it as a teenager, especially in tandem with its sequel (a game i wonder if i could even talk about here to any level of justice) was its warcry in the name of individualism. what it means to be a free person, what freedom means and who, if anyone, has the means to attain it. metal gear solid makes it clear there is no war and no country that might offer you peace and liberty - it's a matter of self-attained enlightenment and a tranquility with your reality and surroundings that offers man the means to find true freedom. snake, otacon, fox, meryl, liquid, mantis, wolf, they're all soldiers of circumstance. to be a dog of war is to offer your life for the sake of freedom to observers - we see meryl go through the motions as she realizes, though, she IS green and that her perception of war and heroism was also propoganda all along. pretty girls and gruff rambo would-be's get shot and bleed out, too. the masters of war turn a blind eye and deploy the next one. if you want freedom, as dave and hal find out, you're going to have to go off the grid and find it yourself, no matter the cost.

metal gear solid wasn't afraid to consider possibilities that major titles even now tiptoe around - today's gaming industry has seen massive shooter franchises no longer even disguising their ulterior motives as nationalist propoganda. we've seen an industry willing to trounce creators and small teams in hopes of following trends that peter out within months. we've seen games that dare to question the status quo and dare to do something unique and challenging, thanks in no small part to this pioneer, only to be met with backlash about how games "are all political now" or some centrist hogwash talkpiece nonsense like that. look to the past, to metal gear solid, to learn the truth; when savant visionaries are given the resources, this is a medium that can offer truly life-changing experiences that will force discomfort and challenge preconcieved notions to its entire audience, while remaining heartfelt, loving and tender - universal. a story, a work of art without borders. in the 24 years since its release, metal gear solid still remains damn near the top of the line - one of the finest works of art in this entire medium.

     'Those great, beautiful ships, rocking silently on the calm waters, with their idle and wistful sails, are they not telling us in a silent language — when will we depart for happiness?'
     – Charles Baudelaire, Fusées, VIII, 1887 (personal translation).

One of the most difficult issues in fantasy studies is to define its contours and, by extension, its relationship to reality. In her seminal study, Fantasy: The literature of subversion (1981), Rosemary Jackson points out that fantasy violates the conventions and rules of our reality and: 'threatens to subvert rules and conventions taken to be normative [and] disturb "rules" of artistic representation and literature’s reproduction of the "real"' [1]. The capacity for deviation that speculative fiction offers is both an opportunity and a danger. Jackson points out that this subversive potential does not mean that fantasy or the fantastic are genres that always aim for social progressivism. In fact, the overwhelming majority of the pulp tradition was steeped in racist, homophobic and misogynist tropes that exerted a lasting influence on fiction throughout the late twentieth century and to this day.

     The misogynist issue in Western-style fantasy

Many authors hide behind these historical precedents to conceal a conservative discourse. The existence of multiple races allows for the perpetuation of social oppression, and while female characters have generally become more active in recent decades, they continue to fit into old-fashioned stereotypes [2]. The Final Fantasy series is part of this dynamic and has always oscillated between these major themes of fantasy fiction, notably by offering a regular comparison between magic and technological modernity, nature and industry, good and evil, humanity and divinity. These dichotomies are relatively common and allow the story to touch on issues such as capitalist exploitation and the use of natural resources. However, the representation of other topics remains disastrous: Final Fantasy XIV (2010) is especially characterised by deep-seated racism and sexism, the latter partially masked by the presence of strong female characters in positions of power.

It is hard to say whether these precautions were taken to appeal to a particular audience, but it is clear that Final Fantasy XVI ignores all these concerns and plunges into the most outrageous archaism, piling on misogynistic scenes wherever possible, supposedly justified by the harshness of European medieval society. Excuses of this kind obscure the real issues. The player follows the story of Clive Rosfield, drawn into a quest for revenge after the Phoenix Gate incident, which spells the end of the Duchy of Rosaria. Miraculously reunited with his childhood friend Jill Warrick, he joins Cid's group, determined to change the situation of the Bearers – magic-capable individuals enslaved across the continent. Final Fantasy XVI is therefore a tale of free will and independence, pitting the dark nature of the world against the purity of Cid and Clive's ideals.

To create this atmosphere, as well as the division between good and evil, the title makes extensive use of violence, sex and sexual violence as narrative drivers. Lenise Prater explains that Fiona McIntosh's Percheron trilogy (2005) constructs: 'a series of juxtapositions between good and evil [...] through the representation of sexual violence' [3]. The same processes are at work in Final Fantasy XVI, from the very first narrative arc of the adventure, where Benedikta is cast as the archetypal femme fatale, ready to use her body to manipulate her rivals: the character is constantly brought back to her status as a woman, and it is the threat of sexual violence that cements her development – Annabella is constructed in a similar way. Final Fantasy XVI revels in the dichotomy between whores and innocent virgins. Despite the Western aesthetic of the title, Jill is no more than a yamato nadeshiko who is constantly sidelined by the game. She mostly serves as a narrative device to advance the plot, through her multiple visits to the infirmary or because she is kidnapped by Clive's enemies. The title denies her any agency, and her nuanced fragility is only hinted at in a few sentences before being brushed aside: it takes almost thirty hours of gameplay before Clive explicitly asks her how she is, despite her constant concern for the protagonist's anxieties.

     A case for centrism and laissez-faire

This conservative portrayal is echoed in the discourse on the Bearers. The game is moderately critical of slavery on the continent and fails to make it a structural issue for Clive, who always remains somewhat detached from the problem. This issue is structurally embedded in the way the player interacts with the world, as they are extremely passive in relation to the events portrayed in the story. While the player is aware of the political manipulations taking place in Storm, they cannot act on them directly; Clive is blindly thrown into the fray and the situation is simply resolved in a battle that depoliticises the social stakes. Similarly, the Seals donated by certain NPCs guarantee Clive's reputation in the community in a highly artificial way, removing any roughness from the interactions. Clive fights to free the Bearers because he inherits this mission from his father and Cid, but this task seems disembodied throughout the game.

Beyond the main quest, the side quests are particularly lacklustre and do little to deepen the world-building. Because they can be accessed at any point in the game, Final Fantasy XVI chooses to exclude companions from them. They simply disappear from the cutscenes and thus have no chance to react to the world around them. Since the intention is to establish Clive as an ideologically good, open and self-governing character, all side quests are resolved by Clive's ideological concessions or miraculous unifications in the face of artificially created danger, without the slightest contradiction from any of the other main characters. Only in the final stretch does someone point out Clive's hypocrisy and domineering power over Jill, but the scene is quickly swept away by the return of Gav, the comic relief of the group.

Final Fantasy XVI is more concerned with shocking, melodramatic or cathartic platitudes than with radical denunciations of inequality and oppression. Worse, these shocking scenes do not even make the world dynamic, so poor is the structure of the narrative. Two problems stand out. Firstly, the interweaving of high-intensity sequences with slower passages: instead of building up the world through genuine slice-of-life sequences, the game multiplies banalities that the player has already understood for several dozen hours. The temporality of the story is also incoherent. Clive seems to cross the continent in a matter of hours, while his rivals remain completely passive. The confrontation between the Sanbreque Empire and the Dhalmekian Republic is characterised by irrational stagnation and passivity, allowing Clive to strike unhindered. The Twins always remain static, despite long ellipses in time.

     A hollow and meaningless experience

Perhaps Final Fantasy XVI should not be taken so literally, but rather accepted as the nekketsu it becomes in the second half of the game. Such an interpretation would be acceptable if the game did not take itself so seriously. However, as in Final Fantasy XIV, the writing wallows in a very uncomfortable theatrical heaviness – which the actors generally manage to save from disaster – as if clumsily mimicking the drama of Shakespeare's historical plays. However, Clive's disillusioned, self-deprecating, borderline comic character breaks up this fiction. Some characters work well, playing up their theatrical nature, such as Cid or Lord Byron, but they are quickly relegated to the background or an essentially comic role.

The shifts in tone and pacing detract from the development of the narrative, which cannot be saved by a few flashes of brilliance. The aetheric floods seem to have been imagined as a reflection of nuclear risks, highlighting the danger of Japan's post-Fukushima energy crutch, but in the end they are only used as a narrative expedient to create danger where the plot needs it. The pinnacle of dishonesty and disrespect for a title that centres its discourse on human free will lies in the choice of names for the NPC fillers. In the pure tradition of Final Fantasy XIV, they include puns and comical alliterations ('Broom-Bearer') that strip them of all substance and reduce them to ridicule. In the second half of the game, a little girl is introduced as a character of some narrative importance, but the title does not even bother to give her a name or address her living conditions.

Meanwhile, the action sequences prove to be particularly hollow. The choreography in the first few hours is quite ingenious, highlighting Clive's agility with complex movements and rather creative camera angles. As the title progresses, this aspect is abandoned in favour of fights that drag on and resort to nekketsu clichés. The duel against Titan lasts forty minutes and is a miserable succession of attacks around the stone tentacles. Final Fantasy XVI even has the audacity to end the battle not with the obvious cinematic climax, but with a dull and particularly unpleasant aerial sequence. Subsequent encounters also drag on for no apparent reason other than to demonstrate a genuine – if futile – mastery of the lightning engine.

     Ergonomics, gameplay and fluidity

While Final Fantasy XVI boasts detailed environments at first glance, the facade quickly cracks. The early areas are indeed highly detailed, to the point of drowning the player in detail – navigating through the thick vegetation is quite difficult, forcing the player to use Torgal to progress – but the quality deteriorates as the game progresses. The dense environments disappear in favour of vast open areas that struggle to convey the majesty of the world. Although the cities visible on the horizon are beautiful backdrops, they fail to radiate materially onto their surroundings, which then become mere abstractions. Moreover, Clive's movement is extremely sluggish: even getting on his chocobo is an unpleasant task that constantly interrupts the fluidity of the action, while the player is condemned to an extraordinary passivity in order to get from one place to another.

In the Hideaway, this impression is reinforced by Clive's inability to sprint: in the second half of the game, getting to the backyard is a gruelling chore. The magic of this cocoon quickly vanishes, as the various characters keep repeating themselves and are only mediocrely animated. Despite the detailed scenery, the game borrows all its animations from Final Fantasy XIV, giving a very artificial tone to the discussions. The Hideaway is less a place where the player can comfortably catch up with their favourite NPCs, and more a burdensome obligation to access NPCs, side quests and the hunt board – requiring the player to physically go there to see the location of elite monsters, a design mistake that even Final Fantasy XIV avoided.

The enjoyment of the combat system is left to the player and their experience of other character-action games, but it is absurd that the player has to wait at least twenty hours to finally be given a modicum of flexibility in their attack options: Final Fantasy XVI justifies its unique protagonist with a deep combat system that encourages the creation of diverse builds, but this philosophy is only appropriate in a New Game+ where all powers are unlocked from the start. In a first playthrough, the player must suffer from an impressive slowness, to the point where the Story Mode becomes an obvious option. The title here echoes the recent problem of Shadowbringers (2019) and especially Endwalker (2021), which first designs its battles with the Extreme and Savage versions, before cutting out the most difficult sections for the Normal versions – the result is a sense of incompleteness that is particularly damaging when combined with the very slowly evolving combat system.

It is difficult to place Final Fantasy XVI in the landscape of modern Japanese video games, so awkward is it in every way. With the title still in its cycle of artificial marketing in preparation for the DLCs, one can only speculate as to the reasons for these failings. Perhaps the lack of coherence can be explained by the fractured development team working on two major games, and the highly eclectic nature of the directors brought together by Naoki Yoshida. His design philosophy is particularly well suited to an MMO, but Final Fantasy XVI suffers greatly from it: the endless succession of side quests involving the Hideaway characters just before the final battle is incomprehensible, as if the game had remembered that it needed to conclude. Hiroshi Takai and Kazutoyo Maehiro's narrative vision is a series of shocking, empty, meaningless scenes: players of Heavensward (2015) had the opportunity to suffer from Ysayle's portrayal, and it is surprising that Final Fantasy XVI does even worse, a standard-bearer for passive misogyny in modern fantasy. That Jill's theme becomes 'My Star' and denies her any agency in the game's final moments is particularly painful and aptly sums up the title.

__________
[1] Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy: The literature of subversion, Routledge, London, 2005 [1981], p. 14.
[2] On the topic, see for example Peter Bebergal (ed.), Appendix N: The Eldritch Roots Of Dungeons & Dragons, Strange Attractor Press, London, 2021. In the afterword, Ann VanderMeer discusses the conservative roots of pulp fantasy and of the historical TTRPG.
[3] Lenise Prater, 'Monstrous Fantasies: Reinforcing Rape Culture in Fiona McIntosh's Fantasy Novels', in Hecate, vol. 39, no. 1-2, 2014.

When I was younger and I hadn’t played many older games and I wasn’t really paying attention to the ones that I HAD I would often find myself thinking that while some games were obviously worth recognizing for being the first in iconic series and having cool music and being the foundations upon which great things would be built, there wasn’t ACTUALLY that much separating something like a Mario or a Zelda from the kinds of games that we had in my house growing up that were utterly forgotten by history like Kung Fu Heroes and Swords and Serpents, or actively maligned like Home Alone 2 or Battletoads. OBVIOUSLY this was an ignorant way to think about these games, a dismissive attitude informed by an unwillingness to branch out of my comfort zone, one that I talk about often on here. Making an active effort to shed this attitude is a general good because it not only helps me better appreciate the more run of the mill or forgotten games of the era as worthy of attention and examination but it does also help me identify DA CLASSICS and goddamn is Castlevania ever one of those.

Obviously there’s a lot here that does this, from the nonstop bangers (a game with ten pieces of music where every single one of them is a stone cold classic broooooooo) that are perfectly matched to the tone of each stage, to the variety between those stages despite the relatively limited bag of tricks the devs were working with, to the deliberate control scheme, to the distinctly minimal number of fuck off dickhead unfair set pieces. Even the premise is pitch perfect, goofy enough to be remarkable, for every moment where you turn a proverbial corner into a new boss pulled from the classic movie monster canon to be worth a hearty chuckle without shedding the instantly classic schlock horror vibe it’s cultivating.

I think the thing that’s really cool to me though, especially for a game from 1986, is how well Castlevania establishes, uh Castlevania. Like, the castle itself. For a game with literally no text in it, Castlevania (the game) does an incredible job at rooting you in its senses of character, of narrative, of place. The theme park tour of Dracula’s castle takes you through grounds and gardens, over towers and parapets, down into dungeons and caves, and it all feels like a natural progression. You get that little map screen in between stages that shows your progress through the castle and you can really feel it. Castlevania does the smart thing of mixing you up between moving left-to-right and moving right-to-left too, which doesn’t sound like much but it does make it feel a lot more like you’re working your way through a real building complex and less like only a series of levels. This kind of attention to detail is what elevates those good games to Great ones. It makes Castlevania a real pleasure to experience, it makes it immersive. It’s so cool to find that degree of world in a linear sidescrolling action platformer on the NES. Games are so cool! It’s this kind of shit that keeps me excited for the medium.

FUCK the hallway before the grim reaper though, all my homies hate the hallway before the grim reaper.

NEXT TIME: SIMON'S QUEST

Now, I wasn't originally planning on giving this one a shot because I thought it was gonna be more generic wii mario, but I immediately picked it up when I saw that hilarious xbox brain poisoned tweet that went like:

THEY WANT YOU TO BELIEVE THIS
mario jumping around getting coins yahoo
IS BETTER THAN THIS
guy just walking in starfield doing fucking nothing

DONT WATCH THE GAME AWARDS!

Remarkably, the good majority of Zelda holds up in the current day. It's interesting to hear people call this a "guide game" in a negative lens because... that's always how it was marketed and sold to us. The manual that comes with the game not only expands quite a deal on the story and context of this first entry, but includes gorgeous artwork and maps - complete with walkthroughs for the first few dungeons - to get a new player started. This was indeed always meant to be an adventure, one the player would get their nose lost in manuals, handwritten notes and drawings, and of course not the least of which murmurings and tips passed between friends in the schoolyard and the fabled Nintendo hotline.

That said, the original Zelda experience isn't without flaw, for all of its adventure purist expression. I think Miyamoto and the team learned pretty quickly that an indicator for which bushes to burn, which boulders and walls to bomb, and stronger guidance for the sake of general gameplay flow were all in order by the time Link to the Past would roll around. The combat so desperately wants Link to have an arced swing of his sword, evidenced by how much combat relies on inter-tile maneuvering, but it's not quite there yet. Still a massive step in the right direction from the competitions' push-combat approach... much as I do like early Ys. What's here is still very solid, and a great deal of fun. I just replayed this with my best friend in an impromptu single session and it didn't drag at all. For as minimal and bare-bones as Zelda feels now, that adds to the unique charm and status it takes within its series and adventure games as a whole.

     ‘In those dreams, I loved one woman... No matter the day, no matter the era…’

My adolescence was marked by the exploration of video games and RPGs already had the strongest attraction over me. There was an evocative quality to them that made them convenient getaways, places of reverie and poetic fables. Final Fantasy VI (1994) was certainly the first big shock of that time: in this universe torn between magic and technology, the adventures of this peculiar company resonated with me and I still consider Celes to be one of the characters dearest to my heart. Many other games have punctuated these adventures in those fictional lands, but Xenogears (1998) holds a rather distinctive place.

Final Fantasy VII (1997) didn't have any of the much-vaunted charm on me, certainly because it wasn't the story I needed, probably because the characters didn't speak to me that much. Xenogears, on the other hand, proved to be a rough gem, which I didn't know I liked that much. Perhaps it was because I had shared the experience with my then girlfriend. She and I shared this infinite love for literature and a melancholic soul. For various reasons, Xenogears was a game that moved us: from the story told to the clever use of the PS1's limitations with an art direction that embraced the very geometric aspect of the graphic assets, a poetic breath ran through the title. The silence of the final seconds in the ending cutscene was a testament to the contemplative force that fed Xenogears. Yet, as important and grandiose as this game was, I always found it difficult to place it among my favourite games. Was it because it reminded me of an era that is painful for me today? Was it because the memory of my tender love crushed my heart whenever I thought of Elly?

While playing Xenoblade Chronicles 3, all these memories gradually rose to the surface of my consciousness, bursting into nostalgic recollections. For Tetsuya Takahashi, Xenogears is the one project that never came to fruition, for editorial reasons. Although the Perfect Works book gives a glimpse of what this titanic project could have been, the idealised Xenogears lives only in our minds, and those who played the game nourish this unrealized title with their speculation and love. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 looks like a way for Takahashi to move on and rewrite a Xenogears, while also taking on the legacy of Xenosaga and the Xenoblade Chronicles. Since the release of the first Xenoblade Chronicles (2010), Monolith Soft has confirmed its prestigious position within the JRPG genre. This success has put the studio back in the spotlight, and it is involved in the development of major Nintendo titles such as The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword (2011) and The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017), to name but a few, while continuing to work on the Xenoblade Chronicles franchise. Xenoblade Chronicles X (2015) served as a counterpoint to the original opus, borrowing its structure, but moving towards a very sci-fi story, under the writing of Kazuho Hyodo (Gundam SEED). The second numerical opus reveals the definite influence of japanimation on the development team - surely, because of its youth compared to the industry average. While Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (2017) was very well received, the sexualisation of the female characters did not go unnoticed and offended a part of the community.

Xenoblade Chronicles 3 thus appears to be a title that synthesises all of Monolith Soft's work. By presumably concluding the Xenoblade Chronicles series, it asserts that it learnt lessons from its predecessors. At the same time, it operates a return to the origins, since the title made no secret of being a retelling of Xenogears. Even the name of the protagonist, Noah, echoes the original name of the first game: Project Noah. For veterans of Xenogears and Xenosaga, the references are undeniable, right from the first few minutes. From similar exposition scenes to passages reused almost word for word, it is obvious that Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is a game of mourning: that of a project that never came to fruition, that of an era that is now over, that of a producer who must look to the future. It is therefore necessarily also a game that propels Monolith Soft towards new horizons and towards a breeze of renewal.

     ‘A tiny ripple has just been born in the world that surrounds them.’

The sequences that I find the strongest in JRPGs are those that manage to recontextualise the gameplay into a unique narrative proposition. Those who played Final Fantasy VI will of course remember the passage where Celes is on the solitary island, which opens the second section of the game. The Xeno franchise has always sought to impress through exploration. Cinematography has been a strength of the studio, and the most recent titles place a particular emphasis on the gigantic world, which overwhelms the characters, particles moving with the flow of time. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 takes these approaches and adds a large tinge of nostalgia and intertextuality, constantly referencing elements from previous titles, using players' memories to invoke particular emotions. The discovery of the Dannagh Desert or the Erythia Sea is bound to strike a chord with players who have done the first two Xenoblade Chronicles. In addition to the sense of vastness, both horizontal and vertical, these regions are also filled with a wistful quality. The edges of the map help to circumscribe this magic, making this universe a moment cut off from time: chasms that soar into a sea of clouds or waterfalls that flow to who-knows-where do not allow for a grasp of the horizon. What the player sees is infinity.

To make exploration more fluid, Xenoblade Chronicles 3 opts for a more direct narrative breakdown. The side quests and the main story rarely mix, so that it is possible to finish the game fairly quickly, ignoring the former. The strength of the game comes from the positioning of these side quests. They form, for each colony, a slow evolution towards the future: despite uninteresting objectives, they contextualise individuals within communities that seek to survive and find meaning in existence. Moreover, each quest directs the player to new locations, contributing to the organic nature of the exploration. Some may regret this approach, which makes exploring relatively linear, if you attach it to the resolution of side quests. As a corollary, finishing the exploration before the side quests empties them of some of their purpose. Nevertheless, it is an ideal way to get the player to interact with the world and to become familiar with hundreds of minor characters, whose lives make up and depict humanity in all its forms. This is probably why the side quests in Chapters 6 and 7 are the most compelling, as they have a solid narrative base to tell their story. Although still too short, these little vignettes of human life in Aionios work when put together.

While the game design is geared towards accessibility for the general public, with Monolith Soft understanding that several dozen hours is an investment that is increasingly difficult to make for the completion of an RPG, it is apparent that the ideal experience requires total completion – prior to passing the point of no return. This is perhaps one of the pitfalls of Xenoblade Chronicles 3. Apart from the assiduous player who fully completes the side quests before tackling the final hours of the main story – which I did – the title fails to combine the contemplation of the world with its thematic discourse. Haunted by the question of existentialism and the future, like the other Xeno games, it takes a very similar setting to Xenogears with two nations at war and the couple of Noah and Mio, largely echoing Fei and Elly. The same questions are asked, especially from the beginning of Chapter 6. The issue with Xenoblade Chronicles 3 could be the density of its cast, preventing us from dwelling too long on the trials and tribulations of each character. The protagonists' side quests are completed in barely an hour, resulting in personality changes that are sometimes a little abrupt. Sena's quest is a perfect example of this problem, as it has very little to do with Sena, but seeks to conclude a narrative thread explored in the previous two chapters. The heroes' quests are also too short, although they suffer less from this: some even manage to be very effective, within the narrative structure of their colony. Colony Mu is certainly the most successful in this respect.

The protagonists also engage with each other much more and always offer feedback, even in very minor quests, which helps the game to be more digestible. Admittedly, the relative silence of Noah and Mio, due to their propensity for introspection, can clash with the pace of their development, especially when compared to the very strong personalities of Lanz, Eunie or Taion. A real arborescence of relationships is created by a very rich voice acting. The English version I chose continues the tone of the previous games, with definite English, Scottish, Irish or Welsh accents; the writing adapts to it and one could almost believe that the game was first written in English, so much the mannerisms and idioms are naturally used. They also help to enliven the world by bringing an extra touch of humanity, with characters being rougher in their diction and speech. The English version of Eunie is completely different from her Japanese counterpart, much more focused and less expressive. It's a personal choice, but I think that playing in English – even if one can lose some cultural nuance – contributes to the singularity of the adventure that Xenoblade Chronicles 3 offers.

     ‘Your fate was sealed when you rose against us!’

The combat system is also smoother and clearer than its predecessors. Xenoblades Chronicles 3 introduces the concept of Fusions Arts, which allow battles to always have a steady tempo. The title combines the systems of two Xenoblade Chronicles – Agnian attacks are charged with auto-attacks, while Keves' ones are on a fixed timer - to provide a welcome variation in gameplay. Each battle benefits from the player's attention to the positioning of the various characters, as well as the combination of different abilities, to maximise damage via the effects created by combos. The result is almost cinematic sequences, sometimes lasting for dozens of seconds, in which the player finds themselves switching between characters very quickly to unleash a series of coordinated attacks. In particular, it is very easy to mix up attacks thanks to the cancel animation of the Fusions Arts. The Interlink is also a mechanic that keeps the fight very aggressive. It can be used in two ways: either the player uses it when they are level 3 to maximise the damage output, or they can use it defensively to protect a character whose life has dropped severely, as the Interlink provides invincibility.

The show really culminates in the Chain Attacks, which are much more understandable than their counterparts in previous Xenoblade Chronicles. The concept is simplified to opening each round with a damage dealer, then using a healer before closing with a tank: a simple formula that encourages the use of Chain Attacks. The influence of Persona 5 (2016) seems obvious, but Xenoblade Chronicles 3 takes a much more grandiose route with its catchy musical theme and cinematography that supports the power of the blows dealt to the enemy. One might regret that these attacks are so powerful that they become a convenient expedient for finishing any fight quickly: boss fights often come down to surviving until their life drops below two-thirds, before unleashing a powerful Chain Attack – unless the player is already crushing the opposition with their level difference.

In essence, the combat system allows for a real sense of empowerment during battle, without being difficult to pick up. While it is possible for veterans to build a very custom team by changing the classes of each character, the game gives clear advice for those who are not adept at the genre: simply keep a balanced formation (two damage dealers, two healers, two tanks and the hero as a joker) to create an effective team and cover one's back. In the same way, if it is possible to spend long moments choosing skills, arts and other accessories, the title leaves the possibility of using a standardised build, with regard to the acquired skills and equipment, by pressing the Y button in the character menu. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 pursues Monolith Soft's broad-based philosophy, reversing the mistakes that previous combat systems have made; at the same time, the title still offers difficult challenges for the most seasoned players. Excluding the Challenges, the ultimate peak of difficulty is found in the hunt for Aionios' biggest monsters. Four of them must first be killed before the game's most powerful enemy – whose base level is 120 – can be faced.

The variety of side quests, which sometimes require a specific hero in the team, contributes to the diversity of the combat system, as the composition of the party often changes. In the same way, since skills and arts are shared between classes, it is strongly advised to switch from one to another often, in order to unlock all the abilities. Meanwhile, raising a hero class to level 10 unlocks its Ascension Quest, a convenient reason to constantly try new compositions. Thus, it is quite unlikely that the player already has a fixed team in the first part of the game: personally, it was not until chapter 6 that I did not change classes anymore, having already gained enough experience to unlock all the Ascension Quests.

     ‘It's okay not to feel whole. A part... is better than zero.’

In 2016, my girlfiend passed away. It was a few months after we had played Xenogears together. The golden age of JRPGs established character development as a central part of its plot: if one must save the world, one must also save oneself. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is a game that balances between the quest for the future and the chains of regret. In 2016, I was still a teenager whose life was difficult and whose ordeal of grief was a silent acid burn. Even today, something is missing. There is still a hole in my chest that won't close: you can throw words, thoughts, emotions into it, but it is a black hole that refuses to fill. The pain of mourning is one of the most existential, because it is at the intersection of life and death. It is felt only by beings who are essentially separated: some are still living, others have left the world. Nothing can bridge this fundamental divide. The living are not meant to live with the dead.

My thoughts on this subject are not settled. My mourning is not over. On the scale of my life, six long years represent an interminable pilgrimage in search for an answer. Nevertheless, I have managed to find some truths that content me, if not fully satisfy me. When I think of my self of a few years ago, I see a creature that has been so painfully wounded by fate. It's hard to understand, at that age, why life can be so unforgiving. The resentment I harboured at that time was directed at myself. Doubts and guilt threw me into the throes of loneliness and despair. 'What if...' asks the cracked soul, in the hope that events that have already happened would have turned out differently. When drifting on this sea of darkness, any wooden plank is a salutary reef, at least to hold on a little longer. I regret that my self could not experience Xenoblade Chronicles 3, as my still developing mind could have found answers in the game's narrative.

If the title continues in the anime turn of the 2010s, with a generally juvenile writing style, it does so with a real sincerity. The questions asked are those of teenagers or young adults: they echo those I have experienced myself. As such, some sequences are particularly touching and give a glimpse of a terribly sensitive humanity, if not subtly expressed. The climax of Chapter 5 presents the emotions of the protagonists, taken on the spur of the moment. It is a torrent of emotions that pours out in a few minutes, after the silences and the unspoken words that punctuated the previous chapters. Of course, not everything works. Some scenes are too brief and superficial. Where Taion's quest works because of its pace and the poetic composition of its setting, Eunie's quest seems too hasty and too cheap to be convincing.

This gives the impression of a somewhat convenient sentimentalism, which is not exclusive to Xenoblade Chronicles 3, as it seems almost part of the DNA of modern JRPGs. This turn is noticeable in the 2000s, but has recently resulted in the placement of maudlin scenes in key sections of a game. Final Fantasy XV (2016) has several moments of great emotional intensity, but they seem almost disconnected from the rest of the experience. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 doesn't fail at the same pitfall, because the characters constantly interact with each other, even if some have to wait until the last few chapters for their development to finally begin - this is especially true of Sena. But because the characters are these teenagers, caught in a world they didn't choose, the doubts, the tears and the joys feel genuine. It is hard not to be touched by their experiences.

     ‘The future, it really is a foreign country...’

These experiences seem natural, because they echo those of post-Fukushima Japanese society. Through a web of parallels, Aionios evokes, to varying degrees and with greater or lesser accuracy, the difficulties of Japanese youth in the face of capitalism and the feeling of abandonment experienced over the past several decades. At the beginning of the 1990s, Japan experienced a major economic slump, caused both by the bursting of the real estate bubble and the weakening of banks' investment in businesses [1]. With the failure of Keynesian policies, Japan found itself trapped by its overspecialisation and its tendency to invest only in its domestic market. This psychological closure of Japanese companies to foreigners, despite government trends towards deregulation and the effects of globalisation, has deeply affected Japanese society to this day. From being an economic model for the world, Japan has become synonymous with structural problems, a discourse echoed by the Japanese themselves. This declinist impression is also fuelled by the country's demographic collapse and the failure of educational reforms in Japan. These reforms have increased inequality and divided the country in terms of access to employment: as a result, the number of applicants to universities has fallen, and with it the quality of the education system [2]. For young people, the consequences are manifold. The difficulty in accessing employment has created a distrust of the education system and of globalisation. Because traditional solidarities have also been eroded, young adults are waiting longer to enter into a relationship and a significant proportion of them are struggling to integrate into society, which official discourse wrongly groups under the term hikikomori.

Recent studies have pointed out that Japanese youth generally consider themselves happy, but without any hope for the future [3]. This essential contradiction is echoed in Xenoblade Chronicles 3, where armies of teenagers and young adults seem to find contentment in the relentless fighting, but without ever really thinking about the future. They survive in a universe imposed on them by various authorities. If the Castles illustrate the weight of government (in)action in their lives, the Consuls appear as a representation of the corporatist spirit in Abe's Japan, where everything is a question of productivity and efficiency, to the detriment of the employees' very well-being. Soldiers in the various colonies must continue their task - attacking other ones - at the risk of being destroyed by the system to which they contribute. Unable to develop their individuality, they do not find solidarity beyond the battle lines. Throughout the game, the terms 'culture' and 'family' are foreign to the characters. It is through the exploration of their repressed emotions that they are able to describe these concepts, associating them with a positive valence. As such, Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is part of a precise ideological discourse, which challenges the Japanese policies of the last decades and tries to suggest ways forward for the Japanese youth.

Aionios is a world that is riddled with the notion of risk. In addition to the constant fighting, the threat of the Annihilation with the Black Fog clouds is an echo of the doubts that have plagued Japanese society since the Fukushima accident. This was caused by a combination of natural hazards and the myth of the total safety for Japanese nuclear power plants: for a country already accustomed to earthquakes and tsunamis, the Fukushima disaster has aggravated fears and discredited the political class. In Xenoblade Chronicles 3, the theme is never discussed in depth, but it serves as a framework for the universe, whose existence is always endangered by nature or human action. It is not surprising that the Annihilator works on the model of the Annihilations.

Building on these elements, the title also seems drawn to the fantasy of a traditional Japan. The image of cherry blossoms - Saffronia, in the game - recurs repeatedly to evoke a peaceful existence. As mentioned above, the representation of the nuclear family is widely emphasised. The birth of infants is a new vision for the soldiers of Keves and Agnus, to the point where the game makes conception sacred, through several quests and cutscenes. These elements must be understood in the context of Japan's demographic decline. The failure of Japan's recent birth policies can be explained by the Abenomics, which have done little to address gender inequalities in the workplace [4]. The difficulty for women to support themselves pushes back the idea of having children. This idea is present in the game, where some female characters seem concerned about procreation, which is largely ignored by their male counterparts. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 thus struggles to construct a discourse on family that corresponds to the aspirations of youth: it advocates a traditional, heterosexual nuclear family and never manages to break out of this framework. If Noah and Mio's relationship seems to be attached to a critique of patriarchy, it is only vilified in its most extreme forms. The title never features homosexual relationships and perpetuates a conservative ideology, under the guise of defending the future. Xenoblade Chronicles 3, because it is a game about forced change, is shrouded in the ghosts of Japanese conservatism and traditionalism.

     ‘It's now so clear to me that you're still far away – a step away.’

Just as Xenogears was a foundational experience in my relationship with my girlfriend, Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is a game that allows me to let go of the teenager regrets I still feel. Despite the revamps brought to life by projects like Octopath Traveler (2018), the Final Fantasy Pixel Remaster Collection (2021) or the Live A Live remake (2022), the golden age of the JRPG is a thing of the past. These games fail to fully capture the atmosphere of the 1990s and early 2000s, as the socio-cultural context has changed. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is not a mindless throwback, but a synthesis of the themes carried by Xenogears and Xenosaga, the game design philosophy at the heart of Xenoblade Chronicles and current Japanese society. There are many things that don't work completely in the game, in its narrative or the way it presents its universe, and it is sometimes regrettable that the title doesn't go through with its intentions. But for me, it has a nostalgic aura to it, without giving in to archaism. It's a game of mourning, situated in the gap between the past and the future. The 'now' that Moebius so ardently defends is destined to come to an end, like our present time.

There are so many things I would have loved to do with you. So many discussions I would have wished to have with you, but you are no longer here. Or rather, you reside in me and it is through my future actions that I can pay tribute to your existence. One day we will meet again, that is a promise. But it's now so clear to me that you're still far away – a step away. For now, this is where we belong. Good night, my Claire, my beloved.

_________
[1] Kobayashi Keiichiro, 'The two 'lost decades' and macroeconomics', in Barak Kushner (ed.), Examining Japan's Lost Decades, Routledge, London, 2015.
[2] Kariya Takehiko, 'The two lost decades in education', in Barak Kushner (ed.), op. cit.
[3] Carola Hommerich, 'Anxious, stressed, and yet satisfied? The puzzle of subjective well-being among young adults in Japan', in Barbara Holthus, Wolfram Manzanreiter (ed.), Life Course, Happiness and Well-being in Japan, Routledge, London, 2017.
[4] Mark Crawford, 'Abe's Womenonics Policy, 2013-2020: Tokenism, Gradualism, or Failed Strategy?', in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 19-4-4, 2021.

     'Three years had passed. Five years had passed, and still the trees remained with their roots spread out on the bottom of the water. It looked almost as if they were still alive now. Ohina thought to herself; in those days my legs were still strong. My eyes could still see far.'
     – Michiko Ishimure, Tenko, 1997 (tr. Bruce Allen).

The post-war years in Japan were accompanied by an ideological shift in the ideas of work and family, with the development of the sarariiman myth. The ideal household, promoted by the Japanese government, was one in which the wife took care of the housework and the children's education, while the husband provided for the family's economic needs. This dream was made possible by the employment conditions of the 1960s and 1970s, when the average worker could expect to spend their entire career with the same company. Representations of the Japanese sarariiman have largely evolved over time, making him both an archetype of ideal masculinity through his loyalty to his employer and his sacrifice for his family (kigyō senshi, corporate warrior). At the same time, other representations emphasise his submissiveness, in line with the westernisation of Japanese culture [1].

     And every morning the door closes

The collapse of the economic bubble in the 1990s shattered this ideal, weakening the labour market and the salaried middle class [2]. The destruction of this family harmony, based on a patriarchal concept of sacrifice, led to the dysfunction of Japanese households and the gradual disappearance of fathers from the family unit. The generation born after the 1970s had no memory of the economic miracle of previous decades and found themselves thrust into a world where inequalities were apparent from school and career prospects were mediocre at best. Authority figures were viewed with suspicion and contempt, including the government, teachers and parents. They are said to have failed in their role as guardians: teachers are portrayed as incompetent or murderers, politicians as indifferent to misery and colluding to steal public money, while fathers resign and mothers weep at their powerlessness [3].

The destruction of traditional masculinity, which is still struggling to build a new mythology, has been followed by a reassessment of the place of women, who are regarded as the driving force for Japan's economic recovery and the bulwark against demographic decline. Unsurprisingly, Shinzo Abe's economic programme has focused heavily on the role of women, both as workers and as mothers. Yet Abenomics have failed to transform the labour market environment: government coalitions have been largely conservative, and measures for women have been anemic at best [4]. What remains is a vain discourse to encourage reproduction – despite the economic conditions hardly being met for raising a child – which is reflected in cultural production.

     Undoing ikumen in post-Abe Japan

The overrepresentation of motherhood, however, should not obscure the transformations of fatherhood in the 2000s and 2010s. Xenoblade Chronicles 3: Future Redeemed is a striking example as it deals directly with this issue, whereas the original game looked at the question of reproduction and family in a broader way [5]. The heroes of the first two games return, each embodying a different vision of masculinity. Shulk retains his candour while appearing more calm and disciplined. He represents a self-controlled masculinity driven by both elegance and intellect, in the style of the erudite warriors of pre-modern Asia. Rex is much rougher, constantly struggling to find a way to express his feelings and frustrations, despite his good intentions. In some ways, his development is reminiscent of that of Ryōta Nonomiya in Hirokazu Kore-eda's Soshite chichi ni naru (2013), an architect who is unable to provide emotional comfort to his family. Confronted with the way Shulk interacts with Nikol, Rex finds a new harmony with Glimmer, full of empathy and love.

Perhaps the most important aspect of these relationships is that their nature remains implicit. Many of the reminiscent and contemplative passages in Future Redeemed rely on knowledge of the franchise, but the theme of fatherhood runs throughout the DLC. Ultimately, the heroes' distance from their children is a response to the debates surrounding ikumen, a term used to describe fathers who are involved in raising their children in order to make them appear 'cool'. The ideological programme of Abe's Japan relied heavily on this imaginary to encourage fathers to participate in the household, but the figure of the ikumen has been widely criticised for giving men a nice label, even though they contribute to the dysfunction of both the domestic economy and their working environment [6].

The figure of the ikumen can be understood as a way for fathers to make themselves useful somewhere and gain recognition from their peers, a way to find a place to belong (ibasho) after being ejected from both the family unit and the corporate space. Future Redeemed responds to this sociological question in the same way as several local associations have done, through the figure of the ikimen, men who decide to foster communities of solidarity in the same way that they would look after their children [7]. Shulk and Rex, thanks to their experience, become the tutelary figures of the Liberators and Colony 9, but they are more interested in being mentors than leaders. Like the base game, Future Redeemed focuses on building bonds between the various members of the community until their resilience is no longer in doubt. As the various characters point out to Matthew, the virtue of a leader is to bring people together when necessary, not to control their lives. Through the various side-quests, the inhabitants of Colony 9 also gain texture and individuality, autonomy and confidence – more so than in the base game, thanks to a sparser cast.

     Maybe tomorrow

There is an optimistic melancholy to Future Redeemed, between the series' various iconic locations reduced to lonely ruins and the forward-looking language of the characters. Like Tetsuya Takahashi's other games, the DLC shines by magnifying the ties that bind individuals, variations on the theme of friendship, love and togetherness – lessons that must be carried beyond the game. A single existence is but a drop in the ocean of human history. Civilisations, buildings, masterpieces, passions, dreams and memories can vanish in an instant, but there remains an explicit duty to cherish the past, not in blind adoration, but in preparation for the future. Future Redeemed constantly refuses to elevate Shulk and Rex onto a pedestal: they are already fading figures, as their injuries attest. Even A, for all her unwavering calm and penetrating gaze, chooses to remain outside the life that Colony 9 and the Liberators have decided to cherish; not because she is without compassion for the survivors, but because she knows – and this is her legacy – that the future belongs to them alone.

As Xeno veterans know, every story has an ending, and not all sequels need to be told. Looking back at Lost Jerusalem and thinking about building a better world is poignant, but this is the everyday story. Fighting for a fairer and more humane world. It may take generations, but the important thing is to keep dreaming and struggling for it, because there is nothing more tragic than an existence without hope, even when darkness seems to engulf everything. Of course, there is something idealistic and simplistic about this statement, but Future Redeemed, like the base game Xenogears (1998) or Xenosaga (2002-2006), leaves room for misery and sadness. Inequality is part of every society, and Takahashi has no illusions about the ghosts that will always roam the Rhadamanthus of the future. This is how Future Redeemed concludes the epic of the Xenoblade Chronicles, just as Episode III: Also sprach Zarathustra (2006) invited one to close their eyes for a while, until the light of hope reappears, maybe tomorrow. In a way, Future Redeemed is just an open door. Its more meticulous progression with Affinity Points, its more fluid exploration thanks to numerous ergonomic additions, and its gameplay designed around accessories rather than classes all point to rich ideas for Monolith Soft's next projects.

I may still be around to see what paths they take.

Maybe I won't.

I will sleep a while, until the dawn wakes me up again...

I still believe... come what may...

__________
[1] Annette Schad-Seifert, 'Samurai and Sarariiman: The Discourse on Masculinity in Modern Japan', in Arne Holzhausen (ed.), Can Japan Globalize? Studies on Japan's Changing Political Economy and the Process of Globalization, Springer, Berlin, 2001, pp. 206-208.
[2] Some contextual details are provided in my reviews of Kaze no NOTAM (1997) and Power Shovel (1999).
[3] This is a rather simplified picture of the cultural representations of the 1990s and 2000s, but they occupy an important part of successful audiovisual production in Japan. On the topic, see Shuk-ting Kinnia Yau, 'Bad Father and Good Mother: The Changing Image of Masculinity in Post-Bubble-Economy Japan', in David G. Hebert (ed.), International Perspectives on Translation, Education and Innovation in Japanese and Korean Societies, Springer, New York, 2018, pp. 243-253.
[4] Mark Crawford, 'Abe’s Womenomics Policy, 2013-2020: Tokenism, Gradualism, or Failed Strategy?', in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 19, no. 4-4, 2021.
[5] On the topic, see my review of Xenoblade Chronicles 3 (2022).
[6] In particular, wives and employers are very suspicious of the ikumen modoki, the father who prides himself on being involved in running the household and bringing up the children, but in reality makes no effort at all. He builds a positive image of himself on his wife's efforts and uses the household as an excuse to shirk his professional responsibilities. The yarisugi ikumen, the man who is overly proactive in his domestic involvement, is equally feared by women, both because he often disrupts household routines and wastes time, unnecessarily burdening his spouse with additional work. On the topic, see Nicholas Michael Feinig, Rearing the Family, Moving Society: Rethinking Gender, Kinship, and Work through Japan’s Fathering Movement, PhD thesis, University of Toronto, 2020, pp. 99-134.
[7] This figure is also subject to specific criticisms, notably the contamination of spaces intended for women by a corporatist and hierarchical masculinity, and the fact that these groups are more places for fathers to socialise than spaces for improving local community life; nevertheless, they are a new ibasho for men, outside the workplace. On the topic, see Nicholas Michael Feinig, op. cit., pp. 230-276.