Super Mario RPG: Legend of the Seven Stars Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 1/22/2026)

[Image from igdb.com]

Super Mario RPG: Legend of the Seven Stars

Developer: Square

Publisher: Nintendo

Genre(s): JRPG

Platforms: SNES

Release Date: March 9, 1996

Narrative and world-building are not and never were Mario’s strong suits. I don’t think that Nintendo should lose sleep over their mascot getting crushed under the competition any time soon, but perhaps the simplistic story it insists on repeating will become a bigger blemish on the franchise the more that gaming continues to emphasize telling a substantial, coherent story as an integral part of the medium’s evolution. But if Mario’s assorted forays into other gaming genres are any indication, the way that Mario maintains his cult of personality status is refusing to be shackled and bound by the platformer grounds that he has paved. If Mario can race like Dale Earnhardt and host parties like Jay Gatsby, he can therefore expand the narrative breadth of the Mushroom Kingdom setting that he typically resides in, like JRR Tolkien. Given that Japan’s patented role-playing genre tends to stretch its narratives to an elongated, epic proportion that require as much patience to play through as its turn-based combat, I can’t think of a better vehicle to facilitate the expansion initiative of Mario and his greater gaming universe. Personally, the RPGs that bear the brand of the Italian plumber are the pinnacle of the Mario experience. It’s not to say that I don’t enjoy straightforwardly soaring onto platforms or stomping on Bowser’s minions as per usual. Still, reinterpreting these Mario tropes into the amplified realm of the RPG genre blossoms an air of whimsy, humor, and a storybook grandiosity that is either faintly sprinkled in crumb quantities or absent from the mainline Mario series altogether. It’s like adopting a jaded attitude towards a perfectly competent film franchise after reading the meatier material in the novels it was adapted from, except that it's the source material that seems lackluster in this case. I adore both Paper Mario and the handheld Mario & Luigi series for unleashing Mario’s latent substance, but neither can claim the credit of being the first to do so. No, the godmother in this case would be Super Mario RPG: Legend of the Seven Stars, an SNES title that birthed the Mario RPG foundation that both notable successors were built upon. While this pioneering staple in Mario’s catalog still bestows plenty of rich appeal on its own merits, I can’t help but compare Super Mario RPG to its offspring. Growing up around the fair daughters it produced and looking at their mom in comparison unfortunately reminds me that madre ain't no spring chicken.

My assertion of a Mario RPG’s overarching objective to elevate the simple source material might be proven null and void by the fact that Super Mario RPG establishes its plot premise by having Mario rescue Princess Peach (still referred to as “Toadstool” here in this earlier era of the Mario franchise) from her beastly, reptilian rival monarch. Admittedly, this game and many future Mario RPGs are still disappointingly slaves to the exhausted mainline Mario conflict conceit, but it’s the ways in which these elongated Mario experiences subvert the trappings of the tired, traditional Mario fare that make them relatively refreshing. Firstly, the lengthy, multiworld-spanning journey from one Mushroom Kingdom castle to the other is expedited entirely, as Mario arrives at the impressive ivory doors of Bowser’s imposing estate immediately. Targeting the vertical link chain of the chandelier hoisting Bowser’s monstrous mass instead of the Koopa King himself may also catch some players off guard, but this is rather an homage to an early series trademark of advantageously manipulating an object situated around the arena to outwit Mario’s arch-nemesis. Once the game establishes a clear victory for Mario in record time and makes every gamer who purchased this game in 1996 feel cheated when they opted not to rent it, the game reveals that the ordinary Mario arc presented here is but a red herring ruse when a colossally-sized sword falls from the heavens and implants itself perfectly into the castle’s thick stone brick exterior. The impact of such a convergence quakes the perimeter immensely, launching Mario downward to a cozy Toad cottage below as if he were just shot out of a catapult. Upon reorienting himself from the precarious voyage he just underwent, Mario returns to Bowser’s Castle to discover that his mission to save the princess has been inconveniently sidetracked more than he had initially thought. To Mario’s surprise, the goliath sword is sentient, informing our hero that they’re an affiliate of the “Smithy Gang,” who have usurped Bowser’s domain as the headquarters in their operation for world domination. Only by procuring the mystical seven star MacGuffins alluded to in the right half of the title’s colon will Mario be prepared to unsheath this mighty, sinister sword like Excalibur to halt its noxious presence. Sure, finding the whereabouts of the kingdom’s female monarch remains a relevant issue, but prioritizing a source of conflict with far loftier stakes and relegating the standard Mario narrative struggle to a secondary status is already a maverick mode of displacement in the grand scheme of Mario stories. Maybe rescuing Princess Peach (sorry, “Toadstool”) will always persist as a plot point because the opportunity for punani is the only way to motivate Mario to get off his doughy, spaghetti-eating ass. I don’t want to be the one to tell Mario that his efforts in this regard are futile, for it seems to drive his energy for these excursions in a way that cannot inspire any other Mushroom Kingdom resident.

Super Mario RPG is also notable for being one of the final passengers to board the SNES before the 16-bit system lifted off into sunset and flew somewhere over the rainbow (or, more likely, a box in someone’s garage) to let its N64 successor take the mantle of representing Nintendo in the console market. With any title arriving late enough in a console’s lifetime to be considered a swansong, I always detail how impressed I am at how visually superior they are compared to games released previously on the same hardware engine. Once again, I’m obliged to belabor this point not only because Super Mario RPG looks spectacular, but also to comment on the specific visual flair that makes it beam with radiance. Whoever at Rare decided to prepare pre-rendered 3D models to then compress them to a poppy, carbonated pixelation deserves some sort of lifetime achievement award for their contributions to gaming. I’d say that it’s the most practical method of innovation that the greater gaming industry implemented in their efforts to precociously emulate that third dimension before the medium was truly prepared for such an undertaking, and Super Mario RPG exhibits as much aesthetic effervescence as the DKC trilogy that popularized them. Still, I must distinguish the differences of intent between these two pre-rendered classics, for Super Mario RPG holds higher ambitions with this specialized SNES aesthetic.

While DKC simply strived to aerate the flat, garden-variety 16-bit visuals of the system by draping a pinch of photorealism over its graphics, Super Mario RPG uses pre-rendered models and backgrounds to simulate the broad spatial depth of the third dimension as much as humanly possible on hardware that evidently couldn’t cut it. After spending its entire lifespan painstakingly trying to shoot for the moon and chronically collapsing with muddled Mode 7 rotation and the faulty FX Chip that struggled immensely to simulate space battles in Star Fox, I can proudly declare that Super Mario RPG at least directs the SNES’ premature aspirations close to the orbit of gaming’s once-outer limits. Foreground setpieces such as the palm trees and elevated cliffs of “Mushroom Way” protrude from the stages they inhabit with such visual prominence, and the directional range used to maneuver Mario around said setpieces adds a broader circle of movement that supersedes the basic four-triggered directions of the controller’s D-Pad. The way in which Super Mario RPG maintains manipulating our senses is by exhibiting Mario amongst the setpieces through an askew, isometric angle like a convenience store security camera. This way, the game is forced to expose the rounded elements of its environments while simultaneously honing their sights on Mario without complicating the viewpoint with an unachievable intimate angle we’d commonly find when proper 3D came to fruition. Admittedly, our immersion that comes with warping our perceptions in this fashion is only retained when Mario is traversing through areas of a darker enclosure, such as the mines beneath “Moleville” or the “Forest Maze” that evokes the hazy trajectory of Hyrule’s infamous “Lost Woods.” In areas where the background is lighter, the conspicuous void surrounding the perimeter presents an incongruous clash of visual details. The various towns scattered around the kingdom especially look like their society is suspended in an ether that exists somewhere even beyond that of “Star World.” Ironically, the Super Mario RPG successor that would emphasize paper-thin aesthetics maintained a stronger visual cohesion in its environments, and every foreground piece of that game looked like it was sculpted by an elementary schooler in art class. Still, it’s so astonishing how competently something so advanced is running on this system, almost as if the game was actually released for a console hypothetically wedged between the last hurrah for the norm of 2D pixels and the advent of polygonal practices. Upon realizing that this console did exist in the shape of the abhorrent Virtual Boy, I retract my statement–but I hope you still understand the sentiment.

Sadly, more complications arise regarding Super Mario RPG’s peculiar presentational formula other than consistent visual discordance. It should be noted that Nintendo is not the one tackling Mario’s debut venture into this uncharted genre realm, but has commissioned Square to pop their mascot’s RPG cherry–undoubtedly a sensible choice. They evidently trusted that this third-party developer would propel Mario out of an inexperienced amateurishness with the RPG construct, given their extraordinary output on the same system and their overall synonymity with the genre alone. Still, one aspect of translating Mario’s properties to a more methodical mechanical domain is that he still had to retain some semblance of his fundamental platformer buoyancy–unlike the brooding protagonists of their original RPG IPs who probably perceive lifting oneself off one’s feet momentarily to be a barbaric, undignified display. To appease Nintendo in what they probably thought would be Square’s one developmental blind spot, they’ve ensured that jumping would be as second nature to Mario here as it is in his platformer comfort zone. The overworld outside of the turn-based combat utilizes Mario’s frog-like hopping prowess to great effect, and not just to entertain annoying fans at their behest, like harassing Jaleel White to utter his “did I do that?!” catchphrase. Every area will feature wooden treasure chests suspended in midair, located low enough off the ground for Mario to impact them with his skull and unlock their secrets as a result, exactly in the same fashion as a standard Super Mario Bros. title. Yellow tiles with those questionably-sentient oval eyes that appear all over the Mushroom Kingdom will often move on their own once Mario plants his feet upon them; the bounce physics of the trampolines will propel Mario sky-high, and Mario can shoot himself out of a cannon while hiking through the steep “Land’s End” canyon.

Highlighting Mario’s god-given talent for aerodynamics are the assorted minigames discovered between various plot milestones. I’d say that the barrel balancing act in the river rapids or playing “whack-a-goomba” with the soles of Mario’s shoes in the “Pipe Vault” sewers complement Mario’s Air Jordan abilities the best, but that might be because the minecart minigame is so calamitously fast or because struggling to identify the rhythmic sequence during the Yoshi cookie race exposed my embarrassing whiteness. Personally, the problems pertaining to Mario’s platforming here are much more jarring in sections that aren’t optional. Hopping across an army of red paratroopas to ascend a particularly lofty cliff in “Land’s End” comes to mind, or perhaps climbing the series of fairytale beanstalks in the sky afterwards revealed some serious incongruities. No, the most egregious example of Super Mario RPG misstepping (no pun intended) Mario’s platforming capabilities is two separate jumping-intensive gauntlets located at the end of Bowser’s Castle on its late-game reentry. Giving the player a mere ten chances to survive this cavalcade of constant miscalculations due to the lack of a defined line of sight between Mario and the platforms was reminiscent of when a certain green witch from a future N64 title put me through the wringer in her foreboding fortress, and that bitch was explicitly trolling me. Isometric angles are all fine and dandy when it comes to fleshing out the visuals, but practically executing anything in this perspective exposes the lack of proper Euclidean distance that still exists in this proto-3D title.

Fortunately, the game’s focal role-playing combat is solid enough to offset any awkwardness that might occur in the overworld. Displayed as prominently on Nintendo’s banner they sent Square reminding them to keep his innate abilities intact was the wish to maintain Mario’s accessibility in the gameplay department. In my experience, the gameplay of the JRPG genre is not as dense and complicated as their average lengths and epic scales might suggest. Still, the general haughtiness surrounding the genre in the greater sphere of gaming could’ve alienated a sizeable portion of Mario’s typical audience, so Square still had to conjure up some user-friendly variables and integrate them into their bread-and-butter gameplay construct. Arguably the most essential Mario-RPG-centric gameplay component is the ability to mitigate any amount of damage received with an accurately timed press of a button on the controller. In addition to what this mechanic offers on defense, Mario can also chain a combination of attacks together with the same acute timing to dish out a whopping whirlwind of damage to any enemy on the opposite side of the arena. Not only does the opportunity to augment or reduce damage from either point on the offensive or defensive spectrum provide incentive for the player to pay closer attention, but there is something fundamentally more rewarding about how a Mario RPG underlines a greater sense of effort from the player. Even the most devout JRPG enthusiasts have to admit that at the end of the day, turn-based combat does boil down to scrolling through a menu, deciding on a tactic, and then watching the characters act out your command on screen is a rather languid, armchair approach to interactivity. When the outcome of a turn heavily depends on something that requires skill, whether it be a rhythmic block or blunt impact or enacting the necessary steps to engage one of Mario’s special moves, the player should ideally feel far more stimulated by the greater extent of what the game asks from them. It’s a vital component of Super Mario RPG’s distinctive turn-based gameplay, and ostensibly interwoven into its genetic code, considering that its offspring have inherited it. Personally, I think Super Mario RPG should’ve spread its seed around like Genghis Khan so that future JRPGs outside of the Mario circle could’ve adopted this mechanic, for the typical move selection starts to feel really dull after Mario sets such a shining example.

Maybe Mario’s RPG idiosyncrasies never caught on outside of its own sequels because they’re deemed too lenient for the hardcore JRPG purists. Besides the inherent supercilious attitude towards the gaming universe’s equivalent of Mickey Mouse co-opting their precious genre, other aspects of Super Mario RPG might provide evidence for a claim stating that Nintendo’s Italian stallion is watering down the JRPG foundation for the sake of appealing to a lower common denominator. I forgot to mention that oftentimes, when Mario defeats an enemy after fluidly executing a combo chain, a lotus flower will pop out of said enemy that functions to enhance one of Mario’s various attributes, ranging from increasing his attack power or defense to maximizing his health. Honestly, receiving one of these perks did evoke the condescending sensation of getting a gold star for answering a question correctly in class, or being tossed a treat for obeying a command like a dog. In addition to strengthening Mario’s combat attributes through gaining experience points and leveling up, the player must also remember to change Mario’s means of offense and armor by purchasing them at the storefronts mostly located in every town hub. While the base level of proactivity in this frequent outing is obvious, I couldn’t help but notice that every new piece of clothing and the roulette of hammers, shells, and fisticuff appliances were objectively better than what I already had equipped in every way possible, with no nuance to consider. While some aspects of Super Mario RPG’s role-playing mechanics are somewhat shallow or overly generous, they refrain from turning Mario’s JRPG debut into an effortless experience. Eventually, at a turning point in progression after Mario collects the fourth star, the difficulty curve ratchets up exponentially. Suddenly, Mario will encounter enemies that dish out deadly damage in the hundreds, and sometimes said damage is in the form of every conceivable elemental spell found in the grimoire. Bosses featured far later in the game also cheekily bombard Mario with the aforementioned wide gamut of spells with two consecutive turns, a common tendency that most 16-bit RPGs employ that I still find to be an unfair and artificial method of raising the stakes of difficulty. Super Mario RPG may not offer a complex build system and customize Mario to fit their specific battle inclinations, but if they decide to adopt a frugal attitude with their coin currency and treat every town they pass by like a pit stop to sleep at a motel and nothing more, the game will unleash enough punishment over the next step of their journey to make them regret their negligence.

Super Mario RPG’s rude awakening of a difficulty spike also corresponds exactly with another one of the game’s properties: its pacing. Out of the two JRPG series that spawned from Super Mario RPG’s ovaries, its firstborn, Paper Mario, has inherited the progression structure of using the persistent star-collecting premise construct to divide itself into seven chapters that focus on acquiring one of the sacred MacGuffins per chapter. However, Paper Mario seems to have a far better understanding of organization because it was always crystal clear how a subarc was segmented based on a consistent thematic tone for the setting(s) and how its individual falling action always culminated in achieving a star as its primary milestone. There must be some recessive traits floating around in this gaming gene pool; for now, I know where the Mario & Luigi series gets its attention-deficit-addled pacing from. Still, the rate of erraticism differs when it's halved at the exact point where the heat of the turn-based action will start to sting Mario. The overarching issue with the first three stars is that once the objective is established, it’s over before there is any window of opportunity for it to marinate. Mario will kick the gang of Shy Guys and their springy switchblade leader out of the chancellor’s quarters inside the kingdom’s capital castle, halt the archer Bowyer from downpouring arrows onto those who are already frazzled enough attempting to navigate through the Forest Maze, and rescue a helpless little mole from becoming the victim of a mine collapse when some scoundrel is setting off Bob-ombs to erode the interior lickity split and still have time to compose a sonata for Toadofsky at Tadpole Pond. I was relieved when the arc of rescuing Princess Peach (*sigh*, TOADSTOOL) from her new royal captor, Booster, a silver-spooned manchild whose appalling hygienic status makes Wario look marvelously metrosexual by comparison, because it included several different scenes relating to the overarching goal of preventing her from a lifetime of doomed matrimony to this disgusting diva. However, once the princess is procured, the overarching narrative jolts itself awake and reminds Mario that his next star is located in the sublime core of a starry meteor situated on the same island. Shouldn’t completing the objective with the greater screen presence serve as the milestone moment so it doesn’t feel like an arbitrary detour in the grand scheme of the story? With every subsequent star that follows, the game seems to make the mistake of meandering with every milestone achievement. Both the fifth and sixth stars wind up getting stolen by one of Smithy’s goons after lulling the player into believing they’ve bested the boss that possessed the star originally. Instead of being amused by the game referencing the colorful quintet of Power Rangers and twisting their moral righteousness to the side of scum and villainy with the Axem Rangers, I was rather frustrated that the game was blue-balling my sense of accomplishment once again. The last subarc could’ve EASILY been split in half between Bowser’s Castle and Smithy’s industrial factory because both are elongated feats of endurance individually. Coupled together, the game’s climax is a protracted trudge. With the overarching goal constantly deviating or getting annexed to a diversion of evidently greater significance, there is an unnerving sense of incomplete disillusionment felt with what should be partitioned fulfillment.

Then, I realized something extremely important to consider when distinguishing how Super Mario RPG conducts its overarching star-searching concept versus how Paper Mario chooses to present it. While Paper Mario is completely driven by its core concept, it is but a facilitator for conflict in Super Mario RPG that allows for each character to fulfill their own overarching goals. The multiple characters of high relevance in question are yet another Mario RPG staple in the “partner characters.” However, instead of accumulating a coalition of Mushroom Kingdom enemies with external quirks to signify their distinctiveness as standalone characters whose arcs tend to fizzle out after their initial introductory chapter, Mario’s team in Super Mario RPG is driven by an arc that sustains relevancy throughout the majority of the game. It also helps that two of Mario’s partners are established Mario characters that have had a requisite billing in his adventures for over a decade at this point. Is Mario having that dream where he’s riding on magic carpets like Aladdin and tossing turnips down the gullets of morbidly obese amphibians again, because Princess Peach (look, old habits die hard, okay) hasn’t collaborated with Mario in this fashion since Super Mario Bros. 2? Booster must’ve been so repulsive that it sparked an epiphany in the princess, causing her to realize that her damsel-in-distress schtick is quite burdensome on her mustachioed, blue-collar savior. To compensate Mario for his blistering escapades to ensure her well-being at a rate of what must seem like every week, Princess Toadstool has decided that she isn’t content with continuing to pick flowers from her home garden and sneaks away from her estate to aid Mario on his quest as a permanent partner. At first, I was a bit skeptical at first of what Peach could offer Mario, only because I let her lower offensive output distract me from her impeccable healing abilities that soon made her an invaluable asset on my team. While Peach’s (temporary) growth arc is implied by the contextual clues backing her actions, Bowser’s reasons for fraternizing with his eternal enemy Mario are much clearer. The big lug has quite literally become a king without a castle, and this rudderless position has shown Bowser a great deal of humility, besides just letting his guard down around Mario and working together to repossess his rightful throne. Seeing the snarling brute in such a state of insecurity exposes several vulnerable characteristics we often don’t see when he’s propped up as a game’s foreboding final boss. His lines of dialogue haven’t quite reached their gold-standard hilarity yet, but this title still marks another first where the King of Koopas is a personable and even, dare I say, likeable character. Should I even detail why having these two as partners spurts subversiveness out the wazoo?

But before the player can marvel at the novelty of seeing both characters by Mario’s side, the plumber’s first crop of partners he makes a pact with are two wholly original characters crafted by the minds at Squaresoft. And when I say original, I don’t mean by one external difference like sunglasses or a mail bag (no offense, Lakilester and Parakarry). Mallow and Geno are by no means supplementary characters in the slightest. Truthfully, I’d consider them to be the lifeblood of this particular title, and this isn’t solely because they’ve both been condemned to its exclusivity. To expound on this stance, how many Mario RPG partners are treated to a character arc that runs parallel to the majority of the main quest? When Mario finds poor Mallow attempting to retrieve his precious frog coin from the petty thief Croco in the rural outskirts of the Mushroom Kingdom, he’s nothing but a timid little whelp always on the verge of crying. A prime source of the perpetual waterworks is an identity crisis, believing himself to be one of the frogs, or at least a tadpole, that he grew up around under the guardianship of Frogfucius, despite his pitiful jumping capabilities and the fact that he looks like his full name should be “Marshmallow.” Before we have time to theorize that he’s covered in benign tumors like John Merrick, it’s revealed that Mario’s new diffident friend is not an unfortunate freak, but an exalted royal prince of the cloud people that reside amongst the skies in a society called Nimbus Land. Not only is Mallow’s discovery of himself and fracturing his frangibility maintain a consistent relevance between six whole stars, but the process of Mallow reclaiming his rightful seat in Nimbus Land’s royal cabinet from a disdainful despot named Valentina encompasses as much time as Mario rescuing Toadstool from Booster. You know, the standard arc for a typical Mario game.

While his character growth is not nearly as dynamic as the partner that precedes him, that does not diminish the impact of Geno in the slightest. In fact, I’ve come to realize that the cosmic being who possessed a Toad child’s wooden doll one night and scaled him to a lifelike size is THE main protagonist of Super Mario RPG, despite him appearing after the first star is retrieved in a game of Mario’s namesake. The sole purpose for Geno’s presence among the mortals of the Mushroom Kingdom is to reinvigorate the “Star Road” that was ruptured when Smithy’s sword Exor plunged itself into Bowser’s domain, and he’s quite gung-ho in his mission to restore this interdimensional bridge between the people and the wish-granting deities up above the clouds. Geno’s all business, but said business is admittedly the primary overarching plot of Super Mario RPG. Suddenly, Geno’s determination revolving around the game’s main quest struck a chord of clarity within me. If everyone in the Mario RPG posse is working with one another to achieve their respective goals and Geno’s clearly revolves around the quest of the highest precedence, then he is the one commanding the operation as a protagonist would. Hell, the game’s falling action after defeating Smithy and before the credits roll sees the heavenly spirit leave Geno’s wooden body, reducing him to his lifeless existence as a doll to put a bittersweet period on the quest’s completion. Who's to say that Mario wouldn’t have returned to the Mushroom Kingdom capital to kick his feet back and enjoy a piece of Peach’s cake (no innuendo here, laughably) once she was in good hands again if Geno wasn’t around to keep him focused on more substantial priorities? Hey, if you can actually manage to communicate an intelligible refutation to this statement instead of just pantomiming like always, I’ll retract my theory, Mario. I always figured the cult status behind Geno was attributed to his mystique, or maybe his glass cannon battle attributes. Now, I realize that he’s a bona fide video game hero whose unending hiatus after his one-and-done adventure keeps people clamoring for more. Have I become one of his fanboys who will settle for an appearance in Super Smash Bros. to get my Geno fix? Perhaps, but only if Mallow joins him in some capacity. It’s only fair.

Normally, I wouldn’t compare a video game to its sequels because of the inherent advantages of working off an expanding template with more advanced technology. In the case of Super Mario RPG, however, the properties of Paper Mario (and Mario & Luigi, to a much lesser extent) are so heavily ingrained into my gamer brain that I can’t help but base my assessment of their birth mother off of the shared beauty marks that they’ve inherited. Given that it was unlikely that Super Mario RPG would eclipse either Paper Mario or Mario & Luigi in my mind as the pinnacle Mario RPG experience, but being fully aware of its impact and influence, my approach was to critique the Mario RPG genesis point with as much diplomacy and respect as possible. However, this disposition became harder to maintain when the game was disrespecting me by causing so much conflict with my depth perception, or lack thereof, whenever it overconfidently crossed a technical boundary with Mario’s mismanaged platforming. The star collecting process isn’t nearly as riveting, and I much prefer the streamlined, maximum number of teen digits of damage as opposed to a double-dose onslaught of pain in the hundreds like a typical JRPG would dole out. Still, the things that I came to admire and adore about Super Mario RPG were the things that didn’t transfer over to its offspring, such as relegating Mario and his cyclical goal of saving the princess to a seat in coach rather than flying the plot plane as its pilot. Not only do its bits of distinction preserve its intrigue amongst its children, but the fact that only two successors have adopted its specific formula for a Mario-brand JRPG has incidentally aged Super Mario RPG like a classy bottle of Glenlivet. If you’re still upset that Paper Mario has lost its heart and soul and yearn to play other games that share the first two’s similarities, giving Super Mario RPG: Legend of the Seven Stars a whirl comes recommended…for the most part.

Infernax Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 1/19/2026)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Infernax

Developer: Berzerk Studio

Publisher: The Arcade Crew

Genre(s): Metroidvania

Platforms: PC, Switch, PS4, PS5, Xbox One, Xbox Series X

Release Date: February 14, 2022

Usually, when a modern game pays homage to the pixelated period of the NES, it harkens back to the celebrated titles that molded the medium. Yet, we can’t allow this fun little nostalgia streak to color our perceptions of the past. The eraser we’ve been using to etch out the medium’s mistakes cannot be so effective that it completely clears any graphite smudge tracings that indicate a mistake was never made in the first place. Gaming must always preserve the memory of its errors not only for preventative measures, but also to preclude a false impression that gaming had reached its spotless peak ages ago and it's been on a steady decline since. In addition to pronouncing these blemishes with sensible prominence, I’m a vocal advocate for taking these failures back out of the scrap bin and tweaking them to a standard of adequacy, something the industry rarely ever attempts to do. Fortunately, risk-taking is a common aspect of the indie sphere, and Berzerk Studio showed the world how brass and behemothic their balls were when they created Infernax; a fused tribute to both Castlevania II: Simon’s Quest and Zelda II: The Adventure of Link with modernized flourishes. As you all might be aware, these NES sequels live in infamy as the designated “black sheep” of their long-running respective series. I’ve certainly done my fair share of shitting on Simon’s Quest, and while Zelda II holds an ultraspecific position in my heart, I don’t question the unanimous disdain it receives from fans of the series. Still, while I concede with the popular sentiment that both of these games are fundamentally flawed experiences, neither of them was a complete waste of cartridge space. Both titles implemented admirable feats of innovation in world design and action-adventure combat, but were ultimately suppressed by instances of austerity and irritatingly tepid tedium to extreme degrees on opposite ends of the spectrum. Using hardware that is light-years more advanced than Nintendo’s indestructible 8-bit box with over 35 years of criticisms to use as reference, Infernax takes a stand to rectify some of the most salient sequel sins in gaming history. Or, at least that’s what I believed its mission to be, but it became rather difficult to determine if we were on the same page.

I’m not certain whether it's the evolution of the medium’s sensibilities or the unshackling from Nintendo’s family-friendly brand, but Infernax revels in the potential for brutal violence fostered by a fantasy, medieval-esque thematic backdrop that an 8-bit Zelda and Castlevania couldn’t provide. Zelda should ideally limit the level of bloodshed to maintain its fairytale whimsy, but it always struck me as inappropriate to center a series around Dracula with not even one drop of the organic red fluid making an appearance. On the other hand, Infernax spurts and gushes red pixels like a confetti cannon, so vividly that the developers felt obliged to issue a disclaimer stating that its explicit content might terrify and/or warp the minds of impressionable children. Besides the expulsion of cherry-colored sprites leaking like a sieve out of every enemy, Infernax really cranks up the grotesque viscera with its animated, comic-like still shots. Alcedor, the crusader protagonist returning home from an exhaustingly lengthy crusade overseas, finds that there is something rotten in Denmark when a rather feral peasant crosses his path. If the player decides not to trust the ambiguity of the frantic scene, meeting the man with the head of his trusty mace will display a gruesome, stylized image of the commoner's face pulverized to a pulp–where the only discernible physical feature is his eyeball bursting out of its socket by the optic nerve. The screen becoming eclipsed in a jarringly red backdrop as the protagonist meets a terrible fate is a visual reference from Zelda II. Still, I don’t recall this death sequence ever depicting Link getting decimated to a bloody paste in comical, overkill fashion–with the silhouetted screen almost acting as a source of censorship. The game over screen that follows every death is a rather ghastly image of postmortem Alcedor with his entrails wrapped around the murder weapon still lodged inside his torso. Boss designs are creatively freaky and grotesque, and female NPCs tend to be more buxomer than those that invited Link in for some “healing” of the (alleged) Marvin Gaye variety. Considering how suppressed the extent of a game’s visuals can be when pixelated, it’s impressive how genuinely disgusting the overall presentational flair of Infernax is. I certainly never felt the instinct to wince at anything I’ve seen in any NES game, much less Simon’s Quest or Zelda II.

For those uncultured swine who took the line in the previous paragraph literally, no, Infernax’s setting is not the Scandinavian country that owns Greenland. The dark fantasy land of Infernax is the Duchy of Upel, where Alcedor has achieved the noble status of dukehood. Upel features an array of topographical assortments commonly associated with a regal dominion, such as flat, breezy valleys, precarious mountain peaks, musty caves, and a cemetery for good measure to signify the domain’s storied history and its high mortality rate. Several separated burgs are also scattered across Upel, where the player can converse with the NPC denizens for new quest information in addition to providing comfortable respite from the various hostilities that surround them. I suppose that integrating towns as hubs is a mark of world design that can be credited to both of Infernax’s primary NES influences, but the uncivilized lands outside these quaint settlements are modeled 100% after Simon’s Quest. Before you decide that this sentence is a dealbreaker, I’ll place myself in the rare position of defending the legacy of Simon’s Quest–begrudgingly, of course.

Simon’s Quest may not have been granted the distinction of the Castlevania game that prompted the Metroidvania portmanteau, but arguing that it at least laid out the skeletal fundamentals of the subgenre is anything but an outrageous claim. Simon’s Quest failed to ignite the revolution because its broader, non-linear approach to 2D platformer design proved to be more lethargic, disoriented, and disappointingly pathetic than watching an ancient, wheezing dog trying to drop a deuce. In all fairness, Metroid’s NES debut isn’t the one receiving royalty checks for its contributions in formulating the Metroidvania mold either, so I’ll use Super Metroid’s eminent influence on the subgenre as evidence that the NES was simply too primitive to cultivate that extra dimension of design depth. Because Infernax is merely masquerading as an unsophisticated NES game like a child of an upper-middle-class wealth bracket wearing clothes they purchased at a thrift store, it can achieve that nuanced design philosophy that was inconceivable on Nintendo’s first home console. Progression is no longer a cryptic, confusing ordeal, as each upgrade Alcedor receives on his journey should spell out exactly where it is utilized in advancing through Upel. Every night is still a horrible night to have a curse in Upel, as it was in Dracula’s district, and yes, there is a day-and-night cycle sequence that abruptly emerges on screen and stops all action dead in its tracks. However, the creatures that appear before dusk signal the day’s end aren’t as sluggish and submissive compared to the Scooby-Doo ghouls that roamed the grounds during daytime in Simon’s Quest, so the transition isn’t nearly as jarring. Oh, and any service provided in the towns will still be available after the sun has set–thank fucking Christ. Overall, there isn’t anything extraordinary about Infernax’s map or its methodology in progressing through it. Still, it’s awfully neat seeing something with Simon’s Quest’s particular graphics, setpieces, and geographical layout exhibit a substantial level of competence, like a clunky old toy being remodeled with new parts. Infernax isn’t a perfect overhaul, however, as there is a progression point involving summoning lightning that is equally as oblique as kneeling in a specific spot for a tornado to whisk the player away. If this is intended as an homage, shouldn’t the developers realize that you can’t pay tribute to something that everyone collectively dislikes?

We’ve detailed plenty of characteristics that Infernax shares with Simon’s Quest, so let’s now turn our attention towards what it shares with its other parent, Zelda II. Particularly, it’s consistently brutal and unforgiving difficulty curve that, believe it or not, arguably even exceeds that of its other primary inspiration. Similar to that of both Simon’s Quest and Zelda II, Infernax’s main quest trajectory is divided into five dungeon milestones that are located all across the map and are intended to be completed in a specific order. Once Alcedor has triumphed over the challenges within these five labyrinths, the pentagram-shaped seal locking the entrance to the final palace will be broken, and Alcedor can duel the source of the scourge that plagues his homeland. Unfortunately for the player, Alcedor’s path to victory is akin to a kilometer-long coal walk with shards of glass the size of tree bark strips. A single death in Infernax is all it takes for the player to witness the “game over” screen with Alcedor well into the rigor mortis process, and reviving our protagonist will revert the player’s progress back to the last save shrine they prayed at. Because the error margin for death in Infernax is incredibly strict and absolute, the player is constantly on pins and needles attempting to prevent a frustrating cyclical loop of lost progress. Field traversal tends to demonstrate a moderate level of adversity, or at least the enemy activity seems consistently manageable because checkpoint shrines are scattered across the map in reasonable placements.

The dungeons, however, are the epitome of an endurance test where every nick of damage received should be treated with stark gravitas. Because light doesn’t permeate through the dank catacombs of these arcane establishments, the player’s prayers to save their progress while encountering crushing contraptions, perilous platform placements, and dozens of dangerously savage enemies at a shrine will be unanswered. Admittedly, it’s fortunate that the player isn’t forced to hike back to their demise point from Alcedor’s arrival point like Link from the mausoleum in Zelda II because a shrine will at least be located directly outside of the dungeon. Plus, the strain of spelunking is significantly reduced when the player can afford upgrades and potions to stave off death’s harshly punitive hands. Before Alcedor can feasibly fund his increased likelihood of success, however, the first few dungeons will prove to be as maddeningly difficult as Zelda II’s notorious Death Mountain section that has been slaughtering hundreds of thousands of gamers' souls since 1987. The strategy that I employed was dividing each dungeon’s two primary destinations-the upgrade and the boss battle-and returning to the entrance so my arduous trek to procure the upgrade wouldn’t become all for naught. Still, approaching every dungeon in this manner does somewhat compromise the climactic arc generally felt while conquering this self-contained challenge area. If all else fails, the game suggests to players who are struggling to regress to a “casual mode,” where extra lives can be stocked aplenty, and shrines emerge in the dungeons that are probably powered by magic (or maybe there are undisclosed electrical outlets). Do not be deterred by the condescending attitude the game may express or be repelled by the thought of tarnishing your credibility as a gamer, for I would argue that “casual mode” is the ideal way to experience Infernax. Most Zelda II detractors commonly bemoan that the overly punishing difficulty stipulations are what stain its enjoyment factor, so injecting these quality-of-life enhancements into the fabric of an already frustrating game should quiet those prevalent vocal criticisms. Besides, it’s not as if the gameplay fundamentals decrease in difficulty on casual mode either. Infernax becomes breezier with every potion purchased and upgrade area allotted, but its final boss proves to be hilariously easy compared to the earlier challenges that precede it. What a horrible night to have a glaring oversight in your assbackwards difficulty curve.

Infernax’s final boss may not prove to be the pinnacle of the game’s challenges as it's propped up to be, but the finale should still be stimulating because of the smattering of different endings that could occur. Specifically, two endings designated as “good and evil,” plus lighter versions of both of them that fall on the less defined areas of the moral spectrum. In the absolute good ending, Alcedor succeeds in forever ridding Upel of the demon scourge and ushers in an eternal era of peace for the kingdom, while the more sinister side of Upel’s future sees Alcedor using the Necronomicon source as leverage to bring forth a “reign of unholy terror” as its tyrannical leader. The game also adds some incentive to delivering doom onto the world with Alcedor at the helm because evil Alcedor swaps his plain ol’ nice guy mace with a giant sword, whose radiant orange glow probably becomes brighter the more it pierces the blood of its victims. Ultimately, the player will probably end up with an inferior ending where Alcedor dies a hero after the final battle or where he becomes afflicted with the infectious demon plague because Infernax’s choice mechanic is rather vague about which decisions are meritorious or scandalous. For example, I assumed that I had nobly euthanized the villager at the game’s beginning because he was a zombified husk of his former self with no humanhood to speak of. However, the man’s wife chastising me for my choice that continues when she locks me out of her home in Arkos signaled to me that I made a grave mistake. That is, until I learned that sparing the man results in him transforming into a hideous, beastly boss that you have to kill anyway, which is probably a nightmare of a brick-wall battle if we recall the game’s reversed difficulty curve. I still feel rightly vindicated for my original decision. The same logic of showing compassion to those afflicted with the demonic curse did not apply when I chose to reason with a caged beast instead of torching it, for it took my act of diplomacy as an opportunity to slit the throat of a human bystander. I genuinely wasn’t feigning ignorance when a priest reprimanded me for “stealing” some coinage from a church, for it was sitting pretty on a pedestal as if it was a reward for my discovery of the institution. Forgive me, Father; I’ve been playing too much Zelda, and Link is apparently a bad influence. Maybe I’m just a gigantic clod, but Infernax’s choice mechanic seems to operate on a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” scale. It seems inappropriate to treat the outcome of every decision they make with glibness when their choices have a direct effect on the narrative’s conclusion. Common sense is factored into a good handful of the choices, but be prepared to also make a massive faux pas and then defend yourself hysterically while the Curb Your Enthusiasm theme starts playing to accompany the scene.

So what was Berzerk Studio’s objective that drove the development of Infernax? Initially, I thought it was to enhance some of the NES era’s most notable blunders, but it almost seems to me that we’ve found a group of people who genuinely respect and adore both Zelda II and Simon’s Quest with no trace of irony to be found. They didn’t unite under the goal of making the average gamer reconsider the flawed, undercooked properties of either game, but to pay tribute to them exactly in the same way that Shovel Knight famously did for the bona fide NES classics. Well, I suppose it’s bold of them to express their love for two things that are commonly reviled. Still, what makes them think that unsavory elements of either title, such as the gruelingly punishing difficulty curve and hints of cryptic nonsense, would now be appreciated decades onward if they were just repeated? Blood and boobies shouldn’t be the prime selling points, but perhaps those hints of bawdy irreverence spell out a sort of parody Infernax might be conveying in its overall homage. You had one job, Infernax, and instead of doing that job, you fucked around and got sloppy.

Halo: Combat Evolved Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 1/18/2026)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Halo: Combat Evolved

Developer: Bungie

Published: Microsoft

Genre(s): First-Person Shooter

Platforms: Xbox, PC

Release Date: November 15, 2001

Even though Microsoft boldly debuted the original Xbox during an impassioned fight for 3D console supremacy between Sony and Nintendo, and as a Western company at that, they were hardly considered underdogs at any point during the sixth console generation. Their brawny black box, which radiated neon green brighter than DC’s ring-bearing superhero, bestowed higher overall hardware performance and renounced memory cards in favor of a convenient built-in hard drive. Still, Xbox’s killer- no, assassin app that propelled Microsoft into gaming stardom and solidified yet another lucrative techworld asset for the company was a little Bungie IP you may or may not have heard of called Halo. Having Halo represent the Xbox brand from day one as a launch title single-handedly consigned Miyamoto’s machines from the established alpha dog contenders in the console wars to the alternative, green party candidate catered towards children. Damn. More than just adding another few zeros in Bill Gates’ bank account back at the turn of the century, the lasting legacy of Halo cannot be understated in the grander scheme of the gaming medium. For the first-person-shooter genre, especially, its history can be starkly divided into two distinct eras: before Halo and after Halo (BH and AH, respectively). It revolutionized multiplayer gaming that could be achieved beyond the standard norms of clogging couch space; it gave console FPS games more credibility than GoldenEye could ever dream of; and it upended the likes of Doom and Quake by changing the mechanical foundation of the FPS genre forevermore. However, despite the objective fact that it's a monumental pillar for the medium, my subjective disposition on Halo has always leaned towards apathy instead of ecstasy–like the miraculous outlier who tried heroin just to have the powerful opioid tickle my nose and nothing more. Years after the Halo hype bubble has burst, and it's now settled into its post-prime legacy status, I’ve come to admire plenty of its contributions to the FPS genre. Still, am I now adopting the opinion that Halo really is one of the finest games that the medium offers? Sorry, but my answer is still a confident NO.

To issue a disclaimer, be prepared for me to compare Halo to Star Wars more than a handful of times throughout this review. The first box to mark off on the comparison checklist is the space opera construct that serves as Halo’s thematic foundation. The future century in which Halo is set may exceed far past the mortal threshold of anyone who existed when the game was released, but its story ostensibly doesn’t take place in a galaxy far, far away. Earth is still the central hub of human activity in Halo’s ultra-advanced universe, but the governing forces have expanded the presence of the planet’s dominant species to regions beyond the comforting envelopment of our atmosphere. With Earth’s imperialism efforts in the final frontier, they seem to have angered an alien race known as the Covenant, whose contentions with mankind have escalated to the extent of an all-out war that could exterminate the human race as a potential forfeiture. A watershed moment occurs in this struggle against the Covenant when the crew members of the “Pillar of Autumn” space marine task force discover a peculiar, mechanical ring arching over a sizable swathe of space that they dub as the titular “Halo.” Believing it to be a cataclysmic superweapon, the greater military unit of Earth initiates a mission to procure control over “Halo” before the Covenant receive a chance to use it and erase all traces of human existence from the universal equation. I swear, I’m not drawing parallels to Star Wars simply because there is a war being waged over the starry stretches of the greater cosmos. What George Lucas’ brainchild effectively achieves is a rich sense of lore building, intriguing the player to seek out deeper, expanded answers pertaining to the ambiguous or contextually obscured elements of the plot. Halo arouses the same sense of curiosity by catapulting the player into a plot of dire conditions, but one where certain details, such as where the conflict between the Covenant stems from or how “Halo” appeared at all as a ginormous, deadly eyesore, are not immediately evident from what is displayed. It may require additional, outside research in order to fully grasp the full extent of the story’s scope, but ideally, seeking out more information is the greatest indication of the player’s engagement with the material.

Unfortunately for us humans, the Covenant army outnumbers the ranks of Earthling military forces by approximately one-hundred aliens per proud human soldier. Fear not, fellow meatbags, for the UNSC possesses a trump card assured to balance the askew scales of battle in Earth’s favor. Unsealing a hypersleep chamber, whose acrylic glass cover should read “break in case of emergency,” lies a man already donning his strikingly green suit of space armor whom the UNSC crewmen refer to as Master Chief–a protagonist who sincerely needs no introduction. As far as video game mascots are concerned, there isn’t a video game character that represents their company’s console-exclusive brand as effectively as Master Chief, except for Mario and also Sonic when Sega was still a contender in the console wars. If sales statistics prove anything, Master Chief is arguably the most threatening rival that the mushroom-chomping plumber has ever had. If anything, Master Chief’s meteoric rise to the apex echelons of gaming glory proves that combating Mario is most effective when the rival in question isn’t attempting to bank off of his accessibility and/or family-friendly appeal. Besides the “M” rated connotations that come with a bloody war and the generally risque gun-oriented violence associated with the FPS genre, Master Chief’s decorum as a console representative is much more dignified. If Mario is comparable to Charlie Chaplin’s winsome tramp character meant to elicit lighthearted smiles and laughter, then Master Chief is conversely an ubermasculine action hero meant to be the poster-plastered man crush of millions. Then again, Master Chief isn’t the tornado of testosterone sucking on cigars and adding every woman in sight to his already abundant harem by throwing greenbacks in their faces like Duke Nukem. The prevailing sentiment behind Master Chief’s appeal is certainly similar to the general coolness factor associated with other FPS protagonists, but the air of maturity he exudes aligns him more with a “respectable cool,” like a laidback, yet passionately involved older authority figure, such as a teacher or coach. Well, Master Chief’s stoic, yet confident supersoldier demeanor seems to resonate strongly with Halo’s greater fanbase, who tend to idolize him to the same extent as football fans fawning over Tom Brady. As a civilian outside of the warzone, he’d probably prove to be an extraordinarily agreeable human being like the larger-than-life Patriots quarterback is reputed to be. He’d probably be gentlemanly, uplifting, proactively positive, and remember the birthdays of acquaintances he’s only spoken to a handful of times. But what’s one thing I know for certain about Bungie’s exalted savior of a futuristic Earth society without any speculation on his personality? He’s a fucking borefest. Sorry, “John-117,” but I prefer the FPS protagonists with a bit more hair on their chest, if you catch my drift. My tastes verge towards those of the “bad boys” that misogynistic teenagers use as scapegoats to explain why they can’t get a girlfriend. I can clearly see why the concealed Spartan has so many devotees, but I have the feeling that a large chunk of these people also claim Captain America as their favorite Avengers member or Leonardo as their choice of ninja turtle. Those types of characters are simply a bit too straight-edge and vanilla for my eccentric, edgy ass.

On top of carrying himself with higher sophistication than his FPS forefathers, Master Chief also approaches the gun-toting combat of an FPS game with greater discretion. The general gameplay pace of the classic FPS titles tended to be absolutely electric, barging into enemy territory guns blazing as lords of the harvest. These games even encouraged aggressively bulldozing through each level by detailing an ideal time score that subtly assessed the player’s performance. Halo, however, encourages caution and pragmatism while under enemy fire, ducking and covering behind whatever source of shelter is provided and acutely determining when to uncover oneself to dispatch enemies from a distance. Motivating the player to adopt the guarded tactic is the addition of an energy shield, a layer of defensive armor that protects the Chief’s health until it depletes and leaves the eight vitality units vulnerable. Fortunately, this nifty defense mechanism can regenerate to its maximum if the player refrains from allowing any firepower or blunt damage from denting Master Chief’s armor any further, which can only be achieved through blanketing Master Chief behind some sort of barrier. Yes, one of Halo’s most influential contributions to gaming was popularizing the regenerating health mechanic, which eventually became so ubiquitous that it transcended its utilization in the FPS genre to every game and their mother implementing it for a significant period of time. I’ve been known to be vocally critical of this trendy health bar alternative, but mostly when there are flagrant discrepancies with the character showcasing this mechanic, like in the case of Nathan Drake or John Marston. When the playable protagonist is a soldier existing in a highly advanced, cybernetic era of civilization, the existence of an armor shield that regenerates is perfectly plausible. As a result of deviating from the typical percentage scale that depletes from 100 with that sensible element of context, Halo’s combat is rather multidimensional, even if it doesn’t evoke that thrilling FPS power fantasy of mowing down demons or aliens like a lawnmower to ingrown weeds.

Just because Halo is a warier FPS game that takes the stakes of combat more seriously doesn’t mean that there aren't any sources of levity to be found. Halo enjoys pretending as if the squadrons of lesser UNSC soldiers are actually vicious killing machines that Master Chief desperately needs as a means of support. Or, at least in the select few environments that aren’t inhospitably infested with enemy activity, which just further highlights their worthlessness. Still, as impotent as these nameless army privates are in battle, their presence does sprinkle a bit of liveliness into the fray of fire. Because Master Chief is strictly a “speak when spoken to” kind of guy, the troopers will add their input to the thunderous soundscape of war by shouting various one-liners ranging from battle commands to jovial quips at the enemy’s expense when they’re victorious.

Still, during missions where the flying, futuristic chopper is too chickenshit to deploy a garrison of troops, the Covenant enemies will provide enough personality to Halo’s gameplay, surprisingly enough. From what I can tell, the coalition of fundamentalist extraterrestrial forces consists of four predominant races, or at least in their military ranks. The lowest-ranked grunts in this evil alien army are, well, the “grunts,” foot soldiers with the bumpy skin complexion of a toad who are shrimpy and spineless in every facet of their being, from their size to their squeaky voices to their cowardly yelps and cries for help when the Chief aims his gun at them. They’re often compared to the goombas from Super Mario Bros. for their overall diminutiveness, but do not let this comparison color your perception of these slippery little suckers. Whereas a goomba is physically incapable of lobbing a grenade in your general direction, a grunt will litter the area with explosives that will kill Master Chief regardless of whether his energy shield is full. Next up on the Covenant totem pole are the jackals, who often make the fatal mistake of exposing themselves through their more pronounced, external energy shields by rolling around. The Elites are taller in terms of physical stature, but I believe that their formidability mostly stems from having to deplete the same electronic exoskeleton that the Chief wears in order to puncture their reptilian bodies. Lastly, the hunters are the juggernaut class of Covenant droogs who weaponize their enormous mass in close quarters to tackle Master Chief to the ground or charge up catastrophic blasts of weaponized energy from afar. Trust me, you’ll want to sufficiently strategize your approach to dealing with these beefcakes. A meager four major races in Halo’s enemy roster may not be as varied as the demon legions from Doom, but the Covenant compensates for their repetitive encounters with greater exuberance. Grunts will frantically scurry away like rats when the going gets tough, while Elites will maliciously cackle if they manage to smite the UNSC Spartan on the field. Besides all of these various quirks, the enemy AI in Halo is impressively alert and responsive to the player’s opposition, swiftly dodging grenades thrown in their direction and shimmying around during battle to make targeting them a hassle for the Chief. The animated liveliness of the Covenant makes the enemies featured in the FPS games of the previous century look extremely primitive in more than just their jagged polygons or pixels, as if they’re just stilted cardboard cutouts one would find at a shooting gallery. Unfortunately, The Flood, another enemy faction that appears at the final third of the campaign, does not exhibit the same level of liveliness. Then again, an infectious scourge that zombifies both enemies and allies alike by coating their bodies in a vegetational breading probably shouldn’t show the same signs of vigor by definition. The Flood are an inferior version of a common enemy type from Half-Life, and they plague the later portion of the game too much for my liking for the sake of pronouncing their plot significance.

Perhaps a fraction of The Covenant’s high charisma as video game villains can be attributed to their weaponry, an eclectic assortment of assault tools that the player can intimately become acquainted with. Gamers wonder what it would be like to utilize the enemy’s weapons more than people ponder how they’d operate the opposite gender’s genitalia for a day, so Halo promptly quells those feelings of curiosity/dysphoria. But first, one must become familiar with the UNSC weapons to understand the direct contrast highlighted between the two warring sides. Overall, Master Chief’s initially assigned arsenal could be described as fulfilling the bare essentials of FPS combat to an absolute fault. The Chief’s primary weapon is an assault rifle with an abundant stock of ammunition, whose number is displayed prominently in a visor to remind them how many bullets they’re expending. A shotgun will be available far later in the campaign to char searing holes into the Covenant, as well as the rocket launcher for when the alien bastards decide it's time to take the tank out for a stroll. In the meantime, a sniper rifle with two ranges of scopes will be provided to dispatch Covenant forces from a convenient distance. I’d comment that Master Chief looks like a complete dork holding the UNSC pistol with two hands, but seeing the shockingly deadly results of firing off its rounds, the kickback might be comparable to restraining a galloping horse. Besides the uncharacteristically powerful offensive properties of their handgun model, the UNSC’s array of weaponry is remarkably basic, almost as if they should have labels on their bland, grey exteriors that spell out SHOTGUN and SNIPER RIFLE like the blank food brands seen in Repo Man.

Conversely, the Covenant’s arsenal is not only far more colorful, but might require further explanation to understand their designs and how to use them. Their plasma pistol may not dole out devastating damage like the one granted to the Chief automatically, but one concentrated blast of matter’s enigmatic fourth state from this handheld weapon will melt away the Jackal’s shields out of existence. The plasma rifle is nifty in the fact that it doesn’t require traditional reloading and instead will overheat if too many shots are fired in quick succession. The “needler” seems like it compensates for its weaker blasts with homing properties on the surface, but the reality is that the cumulative acupuncture ammunition has explosive properties that will reduce the externally overprotected Elites to a state of total nakedness, if not death. The Covenant’s initiative to glue their offensive assets onto their enemies also extends to their grenades. If Master Chief successfully plants this luminescent bomb onto a Covenant soldier, they better hope that whatever God they’re fighting this holy war for is lenient enough to accept that their last rites are only three seconds long before they explode in a blue inferno. It certainly exhibits a more vibrant display of destruction than the UNSC’s bog-standard pinned grenade that tends to roll away from the target. Even the feuding faction's battle vehicles pronounce this unequal dichotomy in their infantry even further. Whereas the UNSC’s Warthog lethargically handles like riding around on a morbidly obese pack mule, the Covenant’s “ghost” is a sleek, speedy vehicle equipped with rapid-fire plasma blasters that never exhaust. Whose bright idea was it to place a Warthog’s only means of offense on its cargo bed, thus requiring another soldier to be riding on it at all times lest the driver be a sitting duck? In addition to their objective superiority compared to their UNSC equivalents, the Covenant are the faction that solely possess field turrets and vehicles with airborne capabilities called “banshees,” commanding the skies and striking fear in the hearts of the humans from their lofty vantage points. Wow, mankind would really be doomed without Master Chief, huh?

One would think that curiosity and the clear combat advantages would naturally compel the player to experiment with the Covenant’s artillery, but the way in which the game subtly constrains the player into shuffling their arsenal is one of my greatest grievances with Halo’s FPS gameplay. Equally as revolutionary a contribution to the FPS gameplay fabric as the regenerating health mechanic is confining the player to the use of only two weapons, specifically firearms, at a time. Fun, right? If you couldn’t tell from my sarcastic comment, I’m not particularly fond of Halo minimizing the player’s inventory, nor was I enthralled by its overwhelming prevalence across many FPS IPs that followed in its footsteps. Way back when, I found this reduction effort to stifle the fun factor of wielding a bodacious bounty of weapons that the older FPS titles certainly fostered. Now, as an adult with more acute reasoning skills, I can articulate a more substantial reason why Halo’s deliberate limitations rub me the wrong way.

Diplomatically highlighting some positives to this system first, restricting the player to two weapons does decongest the scrambled mess of juggling over a dozen weapons simultaneously. A handful of the Doom Guy’s or Duke Nukem’s demises in their respective games can admittedly be attributed to frantically swapping through their cramped arsenal, like rummaging through one’s backpack to find a report paper that is due in less than a minute. The conceit behind Halo’s reintegration of an FPS inventory is intended to separate the individual types of offense found in a typical FPS game and delegate them to their own buttons on a controller. This way, the player can execute a smattering of offensive maneuvers like chucking grenades or smacking an enemy with a melee strike simultaneously to compensate for any windows of vulnerability created by the conditions of combat, like running out of ammo for one weapon. Simply swapping to the alternate firearm with a quick button press technically solves this potential problem in haste, but exhausting a weapon entirely is rarely what warrants this swift alteration. More often than not, the player will be forced to change their weapon in a flash because it needs to be reloaded, which is a condition factored into the majority of the game’s weapons. Ironically, a game whose conceptual identity is steeped in an unfathomably advanced future is one that accentuates replacing the ammo for a weapon for the sake of realism. It doesn’t help matters that Master Chief treats the process so daintily that it's as if Christmas is occurring around him and not the dangerous, chaotic atmosphere of battle. Also, the player will be forced to reload often because the Covenant tends to be quite durable. An entire magazine of assault rifle bullets will only be enough to chew through an Elite’s exterior shield, an enemy class as common as the low-ranking grunts, mind you. The player can either use their other weapon assigned to the same button or toss their grenades in the meantime, but it's not as if the ammo of the previous weapon will have been magically replenished just by putting it back in its holster–and neither will the weapon that replaced it once it must be reloaded as well. I don’t think I have to add that auxiliary explosives can’t be used infinitely to supplement an indisposed weapon either. There are guaranteed to be several moments of panicked vulnerability when the game adds so many regulations that interrupt the flow of combat. Chalk up my criticism to a “skill issue” all you want, but I maintain my stance that these constant hindrances to the flow of combat are awkward mojo killers. The game is already slowing the freneticism of the FPS genre, so coupled with continually interrupting said slower combat with unnecessary, realistic snags, Halo often grated on my patience. Encouraging defensive tactics is one thing, but leaving the player in a bind of exposure every few seconds and forcing them to crawl away from combat as a result is incredibly tedious.

If criticizing the combat is bound to rile up some Halo zealots, I’m glad then that the majority of the fanbase will agree with me on the fact that Halo completely botches the level design department. Firstly, this doesn’t diminish the element of sheer spectacle that Halo exhibits in its levels, like an extravagant Chinese fireworks display. I stated before that the Xbox was the most technologically powerful system of the sixth console generation, and right out of the gate, Halo is the game to undoubtedly showcase that statement. How any gamer in 2001, willing to defect to Microsoft’s new machine or not, couldn't feel the sensation to shed that single tear at the breadth of Halo’s levels and the immaculate graphics rendering them is beyond comprehension. Witnessing the hilly plateaus of the Ring World, the expanse of the ocean from the sandy beach, or the layers of snow smothering the frigid tundra gives the impression that these geographical areas are truly massive and that they are not bounded by the artificial barriers that beset the immersion of less advanced video games. Again, another mark of the FPS genre’s evolution that places games like Doom and Quake into a quaint, prehistoric position.

Why, then, if Halo can competently create worlds of such vast, spellbinding magnitude, does it feel content dumbing itself down to the congested, labyrinthine interiors found across the levels of its FPS forefathers? Whether they comprise the second half of a sprawling outside area or encompass a level’s entirety, Master Chief underwhelmingly spends an inordinate amount of his time indoors like a kid on summer vacation. Unlike the breathtaking expanse of Halo’s organic outside surroundings, the interiors of the various space-age architectures are unremarkably dim and sterile, with few examples of sublime spaciousness showcased on occasion. Most egregiously, the branching hallways and narrow corridors of these interior areas are indistinguishable from one another, trapping the player in a maze where the monochromatic aesthetic is bound to greatly obfuscate one’s general perception of placement. In my case, this sensation was accompanied by onset nausea, as seeing the exact same set pieces in these foregrounds repeatedly evoked the discomforting haze of a fever dream. Most players will point at “The Library” as being the worst offender of Halo’s monotonous level design, a commodious, shadowed series of arcane archives that the player ascends through elevator by elevator with absolutely no variation in design between them, like the floors of a stairwell. While this level is deservedly maligned for being an excruciatingly lengthy slog, the magenta-colored, cybernetic corridors of the Covenant ship and the control rooms situated in the subarctic mountains were the ones that made me the most irritated and bilious. Cortana, the UNSC’s holographic AI unit assisting Master Chief on his mission like a less nagging Navi with more sex appeal to cater towards Halo’s more “mature” audience, frequently pinpoints the location of the ongoing objective only during sections taking place outdoors. If I had to hazard a guess, her conspicuous assistant marker is provided while exposed to the sun due to developer concerns that players would end up hopelessly adrift in an area without enclosed parameters. How ironic is it then that this progression aid would’ve been far more practical in places that evoked the design practices in FPS games of yore, where such a perk wasn’t necessary because there was still plenty of visual discernibility despite the more primitive graphical framework.

Amplifying my migraine caused by traversing through all of this tiring indoor terrain is the campaign’s inclination to revisit previous areas after a turning point in Halo’s narrative. After retrieving Halo’s activation index, Cortana (and Master Chief, I guess; it’s hard to truly tell) is horrified to learn that Halo’s purpose as a superweapon is to obliterate all organic life in the universe to starve the scourge of Flood from any and all host bodies. To unfuck the damage they’ve potentially done through their ignorant snooping, Master Chief must undergo a retread that includes the two aforementioned areas that made vomit bubble up in my guts. Admittedly, the second runs through these appallingly designed levels do inject some marginally refreshing distinguishability by shuffling the mission objectives in the midst of killing more Covenant soldiers. Hotwiring a Covenant banshee and piloting it to reach three activation stations in “Two Betrayals” displays a great utilization of the game’s best vehicle, and rescuing Keyes again in the Covenant ship just to find that he’s been horrifically mutated into an indescribable Flood abomination is rather disturbing. I wish coming back to square one of the Pillar of Autumn only involved shooting grunts and elites in UNSC locker rooms and cafeterias because the climactic scope of the narrative has augmented the level with an atrocious final escape sequence where Master Chief must drive a Warthog through a linear, albeit littered with obstacles and enemies, track, lest he be extinguished by the catastrophic blast of the Halo’s explosion radius. I’d almost inclined to give kudos to Halo’s final objective for being a Metroid homage that fosters a challenge that is genuinely brimming with tension, but that’s like commending a prison guard for strapping a ball and chain around my ankle and making it harder to walk to the bathroom. If these glorified dune buggies are what our futuristic Earth society’s taxes are financing, I’m going to write a note to any descendants I might have, beseeching them to dump one of these clunkers in the Boston Harbor as a sign of civil protest. Putting a period on the story by ridding the galaxy of its ominous bio-obliterator definitely spells out Star Wars once again, but there aren’t any prideful ceremonies occurring as a result of Master Chief’s accomplishments. The Spartan is a bit bummed out by the fact that he’s (and technically Cortana) the only remaining soldier who survived the Halo escapade, shrouding the game’s final resolution in a grief-induced melancholy. You mean you’re shocked that the nameless, carbon-copied UNSC soldiers that I saw die in droves on the battlefield didn’t live to tell the tale of their heroic exploits? The demise of Captain Keyes was effective in its gruesomeness, but at the end of the day, all he did was issue some orders per his job position and nothing more. I understand that the scenario is rather tragic from the astounding scope of the loss, but I can’t fully empathize with the Chief’s sullenness due to how unexceptional the people he’s mourning were. C’mon Chiefy, you just saved all organic life from being wiped away from the universe! Lighten the fuck up!

If any of my friends from middle/high school who were fans of Halo happen to be reading this, I apologize if I ever offended you by referring to your beloved FPS series as “Gaylo” (it was the late 2000s and I was 12-13. It would’ve been surprising if I had spoken of it in any other way). Now, as an adult who is moderately more enlightened and mature, I will now dub Halo and all of its FPS disciples as “blockbuster shooters(™).” Naturally, this term I’ve conceived correlates with the designation of high-budget films typically released during the summer season, as Halo shares many commonalities with their tonal directions and historical parallels. It’s a bit of a stretch to compare Doom and the other FPS games of the 1990s to films like The Godfather and The French Connection, but for all intents and purposes, let’s make connections between early titles in the genre and the New Hollywood movement that the blockbuster sprouted from. What was the cutting edge of both respective mediums that pushed the envelope for provocative grit on a mainstream scale had then transformed into shoveling sanitized spectacle into the eyes and earholes of the widest common denominator to garner the widest profit margin possible. George Lucas’ brainchild changed the film landscape forevermore with its stunning depictions of the cosmos and tantalized audiences with its war conflict between its many moons. Cross out the subject of the previous sentence with Halo for gaming, and it's equally applicable. Sure, Halo did contribute plenty of positive evolutions to the FPS genre with its broadened interactive diameter, outstanding visuals, and its forgiving checkpoints that I forgot to squeeze into a paragraph. However, what I still find unappealing about Bungie’s IP is its shallow characterization beneath its spectacle and its insistence that the player treat every facet of it with the utmost earnestness. Everything from its gameplay, story, and characters is so goddamned dignified that I questioned whether or not I was supposed to feel any sort of joy from the experience. It’s no wonder Halo became a revolutionary trendsetter in the gaming medium, but it’s a bit too overpolished and cold for my tastes.

Star Fox Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 1/2/2026)

[Image from igdb.com]

Star Fox

Developer: Nintendo, Argonaut Games

Publisher: Nintendo

Genre(s): Rail Shooter

Platforms: SNES

Release Date: February 21, 1993

Star Fox exhibits a very on-brand formula for Nintendo. This Nintendo homefield debutant that emerged smack dab in the middle of their 16-bit console’s lifespan was not the first space shooter by any stretch of the imagination, nor did it pioneer the rail shooting orientation where player autonomy is restricted by a regimented, conveyor belt course. Yet, it remains one of the more famous and celebrated examples of this type of game, where even younger gamers born in the 21st century clamor for new releases from this franchise in its current state of perpetual absence. Isn’t Star Fox’s persistent popularity just a case of Nintendo privilege, one might ask? Isn’t a dormant franchise always going to maintain a smidge of relevancy when it's an intellectual property of gaming’s most famous and successful company and when said company commonly tends to curate their forsaken properties in a fighting series per generation? Maybe, but I think Star Fox’s steadfast situation in the gaming world’s collective consciousness can be attributed to more than its parent company pimping it out once every console generation in microdoses. Star Fox remains synonymous with the space shooter genre because the franchise depicts a very whimsical and lighthearted interpretation of it, a tried-and-true practice for Nintendo that gives their properties a ton of personality and accessible charm. Still, when I discuss the everlasting merits of Star Fox, I’m mostly referring to one game and one game alone in the franchise that is hoisting its legacy over its head like the burden of Atlas. Star Fox, the first title in the series, is not that titan straining itself to keep the series from exiting the minds of gamers forevermore. It’s one of the entries weighted on the shoulders of its single exemplary successor, for it’s yet another case of the SNES irritatingly biting off more than it could chew.

Immediately, the first Star Fox exhibits exactly what I believe to be the essence of its appeal. Futuristic space combat is already enthralling in both its spectacle and turbulence, but what if the combatants in this conflict were adorable, fuzzy animals plucked from the organic corners of the Earth? Adding a cutesy element to the context of space combat doesn’t really increase the high-octane energy of such an environment, but its ability to draw in a wider audience goes without saying. Personally, I enjoy seeing the anthropomorphized characters piloting spacecrafts for the same reason people get a kick out of seeing their pets perform tricks in elaborate pageants, minus all of the exploitative elements at play. It’s amusing to see a “lesser life form” flaunt their capabilities. Stretch that to an endeavor that surpasses YOUR OWN capabilities as a human being and the entertainment factor of such a scene is off the goddamn charts. Who’s on top of the food chain now, bitch?

Aiding the appeal of animal characters at the helm of this space opera is the fact that for a bunch of non-human creatures, they’re surprisingly far less cartoonish than some of Nintendo’s other properties whose sequels seem to be more commonly greenlit. Or, at least the extent of their personalities has flourished and proved themselves to be complex compared to Mario and the myriad of mutes in Nintendo’s catalog in, once again, that exemplary Star Fox sequel. For now, at least this entry establishes the coalition of creatures so we can discuss the group dynamic at its absolute bare-bones essentials. The eponymous “Star Fox” refers to the name of the ragtag team of space-age pilots, but Fox McCloud obviously gets top billing as the gang’s leader and as the sole playable protagonist. Supporting this valiant orange canine is his fellow mammal, albeit on the opposite end of the predator and prey spectrum, Peppy Hare, the elder of the group. The blue falcon Falco Lombardi incorporates some avian presence in the collective, while the short and green Slippy Toad signifies that amphibians have crossed over into the unknown reaches of space. Is this considered a racially diverse team in the animal kingdom? Anyways, in addition to the heterogeneous biological mix in terms of their physical qualities, their personal characteristics are equally as eclectic. Of course, assessing them in this way requires cheating with hindsight, as it’s that golden sequel again that would blossom the full extent of their personalities with more advanced gaming hardware that could foster voice acting. For the time being, Fox and his friends only communicate through text boxes with warbled, unintelligible vocalizations accompanying them for a pinch of distinction.

All I can tell from the interactions with teammates is that Falco is rather ungrateful whenever Fox erases any tailgating bogies lining up to strike him down, which leads into a rather divisive factor pertaining to the NPC members of Star Fox. At least once per level, a member or two of the opposing fleet will decide to hone their targets on one of Fox’s friends, prompting them to cry out for Fox to come to their defense. Saving either Falco, Peppy, or Slippy’s bacon on a regular basis is deemed to be a rather annoying affair by a large percentage of players. It not only distracts the player from their main trajectory, but displays a disillusioning dynamic that Fox is the only competent member of his team and the rest of them are nothing but dead weight liabilities. While I can’t deny the empirical evidence of their complaints and started to become a little peeved myself whenever one of Fox’s “teammates” begged me for assistance, an equal standing of proficiency in space combat is not why the other pilots are integral to Star Fox’s essence. The inherent strength of having a team of pilots accompany you in your arduous space journey is that it elevates the stakes of the situation. Fox soloing the mission, whether or not the argument that he’s solely keeping everything afloat already is applicable, would diminish the scope of the setting. Fox setting off on the uncharted depths of the final frontier as a lone wolf (or fox, I suppose) and conquering all of the challenges presented in this enigmatic environment would portray him as a more godlike fox figure than Inari. Supplementing Fox with teammates suggests that the mission is too grandiose to tackle alone, even if the reality is that they’re more trouble than they’re worth. By the same token, having to deviate from the focal point of progression to save the skins of these less-gifted space pilots is intended to raise the anxiety that should ideally come with an intrepid space expedition. If you ignore their pleas, they will be permanently out of commission for the remaining duration of the campaign, and trust me when I say that the game becomes far more sterile without them.

Voice acting between all of the members of Star Fox was evidently beyond the technical capacities of the SNES, but then again, so was every other factor of its presentation. In order to frame Star Fox relatively in the third dimension so it wouldn’t become yet another Gradius-type 2D scrolling space shooter, the developers implemented an “FX Chip” into every cartridge of Star Fox. With this nifty injection, the game could render a 3D spatial plane, or at least what was feasibly executable on a system that wasn’t built for such visual splendor. The supposedly cutting-edge technology of “Mode 7” graphics still wasn’t advanced enough for Star Fox, for it’s difficult to rotate a background to give the illusion of 3D movement in one’s environment when your backdrop is the blank, starry infinity of the cosmos. Even when piloting amidst the atmosphere of a planet like Corneria or Fortuna, flying around does not manipulate the perspective of the background as it would if one were travelling on land. As a result of the developers refusing to compromise, every level displays what can only be described as the absolute naked essentials of 3D shapes and objects. The lack of any realistic constructional rationale is extremely conspicuous in any of the planet levels, except maybe the thick ice cap on Fortuna under the reasoning that the setting could just be on one arctic end of the planet’s longitudinal apex. As for the darker, emptier space settings, they actually thrive by being rendered by the SNES sweating past its technological threshold. Or, maybe I’m just expressing my fondness for whenever space looks like shit. It’s not that I feel vindicated in knocking the supposed summit of settings down a peg, but there’s a certain charm in seeing minimalistic interpretations of space and how it dilutes the anxious majesty of it all. While I’ve found some subjective enjoyment out of the subpar visuals, I doubt that anyone would excuse the single-digit framerate that is drowning the gameplay like it's trapped in quicksand. The developers really didn’t find any issue with this encompassing hiccup?

There are a grand total of sixteen levels across the entirety of Star Fox’s campaign. However, the developers figured that placing each level on a lengthy, linear trajectory would be too lofty, especially since the game felt it necessary to implement the arcade penalty of ending the player’s game entirely if they exhaust all of their continues. As a preventative means to not overcongest the player’s experience with an endurance test, Star Fox has divided all of their levels into three distinct paths. The resolute route that the player chooses from the start also coincides with the difficulty, so be certain not to nudge the D-Pad on this menu if you aren’t feeling confident enough to embark on the steeper challenges that might beset our plucky orange space traveller. If the player can endure Star Fox’s jarring presentational qualities, I don’t know why they wouldn’t be at least a little curious to see what lies beyond the standard path of blasting through floating space boulders after Corneria and nothing more. Locking swathes of content behind what is essentially an entirely separate playthrough is a clever way to encourage replayability, and having the trajectory run concurrently with a specific difficulty will leave the player with the feeling of satisfaction that they’ve overcome something that was once perceived as out of their batting average, or so to speak.

But no matter if the player is a Star Fox amateur or if they have ventured across every conceivable place in the Lylat star system, the final destination for every route will be Venom, the planet depicted prominently in the top right corner of the map screen. While the atmosphere permeating throughout this lengthy level is certainly tempestuous and requires a hefty amount of proficiency from the player with every possible element of gameplay, it serves as an elongated climax to prepare the player for the game’s final boss and the franchise’s core antagonist: Andross. Admittedly, in his first iteration, the intimidation factor of what is intended to be a noxious tyrant in the greater Star Fox galaxy is almost completely marred by the fact that he resembles an arts and crafts mask made by an elementary schooler that can’t even hold onto one’s face. He’s arguably the biggest victim of the game’s minimalistic graphical quirks, and if I were him, I’d sue the shit out of Nintendo for portraying him with this likeness. Still, even though Andross looks like he’s going to decree that the penis is evil (google the 1974 film Zardoz), I’d argue that his total lack of distinguishing features is not a detriment to his role as the penultimate scourge of evil. Retreating to how the game benefits from an animal cast, there is a certain warmth that emanates from their cuddly designs that a human cast couldn’t achieve. Meanwhile, Andross’s white, geometrical shape embodies the sheer coldness of the cosmos that can only be found in the deepest recesses of it. It’s two wild contrasts converging on not only the spectrums of good and evil, but organic life versus the frigid detachment of an uncaring universe.

Take the electric space battles from Star Wars and add a layer of fur or feathers onto the bodies of the rebel squadron and voila: Nintendo has yet another series that will be fondly remembered as another appealing addition to their celebrated catalog, despite its inclination to remain absent for long periods of time. However, in the case of Star Fox’s first outing on the SNES, there is an overly ambitious third ingredient that does not gel with the overall concoction. Maybe I have no frame of reference considering that I grew up with 3D gaming as the norm, but were gamers in 1993 really frothing at the mouth for the extra polygonal dimension so vigorously that the industry tried expediting their wishes with incapable hardware? I guess its existence proves that Star Fox was at least a feasible endeavor, but the sparse elements in the foreground matched with the abhorrently lethargic framerate proves that putting a game like Star Fox on the SNES is like giving a child cocaine: its inability to handle such a powerful stimulant will cause catastrophic results. Don’t worry, all of Star Fox’s innovative ideas will be transferred to a more resilient, accommodating system very soon.

Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 12/26/2025)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice

Developer: FromSoft

Publisher: Activision, CubeGame, FromSoft

Genre(s): Soulslike, Action-Adventure

Platforms: PC, PS4, Xbox One

Release Date: March 22, 2019

For the past seven years, I have been scared shitless of Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice. First and foremost, its developer, FromSoft, has the trademark of being the purveyor of grievous pain and frustration since the seventh gaming generation. I realize that I’ve made them sound like a sinister legion of doom, cackling evilly as they hatch their insidious plans to bring forth suffering and woe onto impressionable, innocent gamers. However, for those who are seasoned enthusiasts of the Japanese game developer, they can attest that their brand of sadism is actually quite invigorating in a gaming landscape where any sort of player adversity is expunged and overcorrected like an obsessively protective mother padding their children before they enter the playground. It turns out that gamers would rather feel the searing sting of failure than nothing at all, and the feeling of gratification once the initial pain is transmuted into pride upon one’s eventual success is a speciality that FromSoft honed to perfection. Still, by the late 2010s, the “prepare to die” branding that marked the Souls’ series at its most freshly foreboding earlier that decade had been diminished by the ever-present familiarity of its idiosyncrasies thanks to its sequels and influx of “soulslike” imitators. FromSoft evidently perceived the newfound ubiquitous joy that their meaty mechanics were now eliciting as an affront to their credibility as the arbiters of interactive agony. They told someone to “hold their beer” and went to work crafting Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice, a title whose unique reinterpretation of the “soulslike” formula is intended to alienate series veterans and refuel FromSoft’s supply of juicy gamer tears as a result. Given that Sekiro would go on to garner a reputation as “the hardest video game of all time” by the masses, I think FromSoft probably needed to relocate their supply of gamer saline they were storing by the rain barrel full with Dark Souls to a spacious warehouse on a remote island fitting for Alcatrazz. After finally finding the courage to face FromSoft’s brand new beast, I find that there’s plenty of hyperbole behind its formidable status. But did Sekiro still subject me to a torrent of torment that superseded Dark Souls in its own special way nevertheless? Does a bear still defecate in the forest?

Besides the aspects that differentiate Sekiro from Dark Souls in the mechanical department, there also exists a myriad of narrative elements that go against the typical FromSoft grain. Namely, the fact that Sekiro eschews the extensive undead soldier/hunter character creator that introduces the game in favor of forcing the player to pilot a character with a solidified lore background, a defined moniker, and a voice that can enunciate more than just Neanderthal-like cries and groans in reaction to physical pain. Wolf, Sekiro’s protagonist who is only referred to eponymously by legendary sword saint Lord Isshin, is a shinobi warrior whose life purpose is to serve and protect a child heir to the “Dragon’s Heritage” named Kuro. That is, until the prestigious boy is abducted by a figure named Genichiro, the adopted grandson of the aforementioned Ashina leader, Lord Isshin, who wishes to harvest the boy’s immortal blood as a means to defeat the Interior Ministry invaders and continue the reign of the Ashina Clan as its supreme chancellor once his sickly, geriatric grandfather passes. Wolf attempts to rescue his perennial client from the desperate clutches of the king-to-be, but Genichiro fatally slashes Wolf down and severs his left arm clean off his shoulder for good measure. Somehow, maintaining a relationship with Kuro has granted Wolf the same indestructible platelets, which he learns he possesses after a mysterious “sculptor” gives him refuge after the disastrous duel with Genichiro. With the guiding aid of a doctor named Emma and even old Isshin himself, who fervently believes that his grandson’s lust for clan control has unscrambled a few bolts in his brain, Wolf must ensure the safety of his defenseless protectee amidst this contentious power struggle. No, I am not just splurging paraphrased texts procured from an inordinate amount of research (okay, minimally so) as I was forced to do to even provide any iota of context behind the narratives for any of FromSoft’s previous output. Sekiro’s basic conflict premise is exposited coherently throughout the tutorial section in lieu of leaving the player in an obtuse haze of relying on dialogue from dreadfully daffy NPCs. A cogently told story in a FromSoft title? Ah, a heartily jestful exhibition, sir–you split my sides.

Many moons ago, I discussed how soulslike title Nioh fulfilled a niche slice of fan service by translating FromSoft’s typically Anglo medieval-inspired Souls formula to the eastern island nation of Japan. As much as I appreciate an unaffiliated IP tweaking the idiosyncrasies of the Souls series as a “soulslike” should ideally do, leave it to the true visionaries at FromSoft to show these imitators how to properly execute other developers’ ideas for their gameplay formula. Sure, Nioh depicted the country of Japan in its tumultuous Sengoku period adequately, with its ancient shiden-zukuri architecture and blooming cherry blossom trees sprinkling the atmosphere with a beguiling native majesty. Sekiro also features all of these specific chorographic tropes in spades, but FromSoft’s depiction of their country over five centuries ago isn’t content to just rely on the typical iconography to set the scene. I would say that Sekiro renounced Nioh’s design decision to launch the player into an area via a streamlined level select option in a menu, but FromSoft hasn’t divided the areas that rigidly since the Souls progenitor of Demon’s Souls. It was a mark of Nioh’s distinguishability, and all it accomplished was making all of the various Japanese settings shallow and ephemeral. By not changing a damn thing, Sekiro unfucks Nioh’s fatal flaw in the level design department and significantly broadens the land of the sun’s daily origin point with their patented interconnectivity. Anything to dig Nioh deeper down into the depths of irrelevance where it belongs.

While there aren’t any arbitrary loading borders between any of Sekiro’s areas, don’t expect the interconnectivity at play to dazzle you like taking the Undead Parish elevator down and discovering the back corridors of Firelink Shrine at the ride’s end. Sekiro’s level progression is mostly segmented between a series of checkpoint idols that halt at a dead end that is occupied by the area’s major boss. I’d equate the area organization and branching paths in Sekiro to how Bloodborne conducted the traversal of its map’s entirety, with perhaps fewer portals to regions unknown later in the game that throw a monkey wrench into the cohesion. What does unite each of Sekiro’s districts, in their own distinct ways as a slight contradiction to this rule, is that they are all mesmerizingly breathtaking. Gone are the muted tones and visceral scuzz intended to evoke an air of doom and gloom in Dark Souls, and/or the garish gothicness of Bloodborne, while we’re at it, as Sekiro flaunts the foliage and awe-striking organic glory of a pre-industrialized Japan to its fullest. Still, despite their picturesque radiance, Sekiro suggests an air of agitation that conveys the ever-present conflict engulfing each area like a pernicious smog.

The Ashina capital and the subsections that encompass its immediate perimeter are being salted in a perpetual flurry of snow, whose stark whiteness chalks the earth as a consistent visual motif of the foreground. Winter is arguably the harshest season to bear, so perhaps the frigidness of the three-month period complements the tone of tension, stemming from either the overarching story conflict or the severity of the game itself. The Sunken Valley that exists between the perilous pits of a winding gulch shakes up the subtlety of Ashina’s gentle snowfall with wintry winds so blustering that they’re liable to tear one’s face clean off. One would think the plateaus that house the Senpou Temple would feature the frozen precipitation due to its higher elevation, but the Tibetan-esque chain of mountainous peaks where monks piously practice their creed trades the fall of frost with an autumnal glow of golden and red that is absolute eye candy. Still, that disquieting aura felt around Ashina is retained when the beauty of Senpou’s outside is juxtaposed with the disgusting contents of the temple’s interiors. Infected channelers excrete abnormally large insects that crawl around the walls, plus monstrosities who have fused their DNA with that of an insect to ghastly results. The body horror aspect existing around the Senpou grounds is incredibly reminiscent of the cosmic failures conducted by the clinic in Bloodborne. Fountainhead Palace forgoes any trace of tension to accentuate its immaculate divinity, exhibiting the pinnacle of Japanese elegance without verging into expressionism like Okami. The area is definitely comparable to Anor Londo in both its heavenly aesthetic and position in the game, as its arrival is a reward in and of itself, and this also extends to some fairly steep challenges that exist within it as well. I’ll excuse the Abandoned Dungeon being rather drab because I see it as a brief vestibule that lies between Ashina Castle and the dank Ashina Depths below it. Still, I disagree with the popular sentiment that the latter section mentioned is an ugly smudge on Sekiro’s stunning map. Mibu Village is actually one of my favorites among all of Ashina’s various locales, for I was entranced by the eerie, moonlit glow of this would-be quaint zombified hamlet. Beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, I suppose. Even the obligatory place where poison floods the floor up to the player’s knees in Ashina Depths is rather striking, with large monk statues erected out of the filth that suggest this circular setting was once a sacred place of worship. Now, it's a fetid pit liable to give the player hepatitis A through Zed through only a few minutes of direct exposure, but I wouldn’t classify it on the same level of calamity as its comparable Souls counterparts of Blighttown or the Valley of Defilement. Overall, all of Sekiro’s areas lack the dirge and despair of the districts of Lordran, Lothric, or Boletaria because the fictionalized depiction of 16th-century Japan isn’t a terminally ill ghoul waiting to be put out of its misery. Instead of playing hospice nurse checking off the responsibilities of soothing a decrepit world before it passes on, the player in Sekiro is more comparable to a doctor diagnosing the issue and then surgically expunging the cancer before it spreads. As you can plainly see, a healthier specimen that can strive for remission proves to be far more attractive.

The player will be able to see the full extent of Sekiro’s single-tear-shedding magnificence from all sorts of cinematographic angles due to the inclusion of the grappling hook. We’ll discuss the multifaceted uses of Wolf’s prosthesis later on, but for now, let’s delve into the one utility of his new artificial arm that will quickly become second nature to the player. When prompted by the visual cue of a green orb, pressing the assigned controller button will latch Wolf onto a plethora of protruding objects and surfaces, including, but not limited to, tree branches, building corners, mammoth-sized bosses, etc. The extension rope is lengthy enough to grapple onto these desired targets from what feels like at least a kilometer away, just as long as the game doesn’t deem the angle between Wolf and the object to be incompatible and deny the connection as a result. Any Souls veteran should be seeing the rich irony in this mechanic that makes Wolf as spry and environmentally adaptable as a 3D platformer mascot (Sly Cooper comes to mind) because any instance of jumping or hurdling in a Souls title was an ordeal that required as much preparation and practice as skydiving. If zipping through the trees and the rooftops of towering Japanese architectures like a squirrel feels rather uncharacteristic for a FromSoft title, get a load of Sekiro’s other wacky gameplay mechanics. Bodies of water would prove to be hazardous environmental obstacles in Dark Souls unless the cumulative liquid was at a height that didn’t reach above the crotch, so imagine my shock when I accidentally fell in the lake surrounding Hirata Estate, and Wolf didn’t immediately drown on impact. Eventually, Wolf can even submerge himself into the drink, where the contents of the water body become another realm of extensive traversability as the taller, perchable areas above the surface. The requirement for Wolf to reemerge to the water’s surface to refill his lungs with oxygen isn’t even a relevant condition when swimming. When Wolf dies due to the deadly conditions that exist on dry land, Wolf won’t immediately revert back to the bonfire-equivalent of an idol if his health bar totally depletes. Because Sekiro sometimes grants the more significant characters of the game multiple lives that function like the popular cat myth, Wolf gets the opportunity to automatically reorient himself once upon one initial death with a halved health bar upon his resurrection. For this last feature I want to mention, I implore all Souls fans to sit down while reading because I don’t want to be responsible for any concussions that might occur upon any fainting reactions. Making its long-awaited debut in Sekiro after we believed it to be something that FromSoft dogmatically omitted is a legitimate pause menu, which fully freezes the action of the game in addition to detailing all of the player’s inventory and attributes. Insert a gif of the infamous head explosion opener from Scanners to express the extent of my stunned awe.

Normally, I’d be thankful for FromSoft inserting all of these would-be quality-of-life enhancements that would typically make Sekiro a more agreeable experience compared to Dark Souls. However, keeping its nerve-racking reputation into consideration, all of the sharp skeptics should assume that the developers wouldn’t have implemented all of these perks into their product unless they deemed it absolutely necessary to maintain player morale. To give you an indication of how brutally demanding and strenuous Sekiro’s combat is, the game is often categorized as a quasi-rhythm game by the people who’ve played it. Knowing exactly what element of Sekiro’s gameplay this comparison was derived from when someone I was casually discussing the game with in college sent a surge of dread throughout my system, like a five-year-old coming to grips with the concept of mortality when one of their relatives kicks the bucket. Parrying with a melee weapon in Dark Souls was an aspect of combat that I used about as sparingly as the holy hand grenade, so the prospect of being forced to incorporate it into every single combat scenario put me in a state of hysterical panic. Fortunately, Sekiro bestows a sense of self-awareness of how parry-intensive its gameplay is and displays a wider window of leniency with the player’s deflection timing. Askew, yet relatively responsive parries are all fine and dandy during defense, but simple alertness won’t do the player any favors when offense is factored in. Replacing the standard stamina meter found in Dark Souls is the “posture meter,” which indicates the threshold of damage blocking Wolf can withstand before he has to take a breather and leave himself vulnerable to a potentially critical strike from the enemy. Except for the dogs that die with one sword swipe, the vitality of every conceivable enemy in Sekiro is also bound by this mechanic, and the only way of penetrating most foes, especially bosses, is to clog their posture meter and deliver a “deathblow” execution upon reaching its breaking point. Besides needing to deflect their attacks flawlessly for their posture meter to even emerge on screen, enemies will often incorporate unblockable offensive maneuvers into their tactics, and the red Japanese character that fleetingly flashes on screen to signify its appearance probably means something along the lines of “oh fuck, death approaches!” It certainly doesn’t translate to either “duck” or “dodge,” for that would imply an extent of passivity on the player’s part. No, what the player is intended to do when the enemy is revving up this intimidating gambit is to splash it back in their faces with either a “mikiri counter” or whatever the cheeky little bounce move is called. Accurately executing either counter depending on the position of the “perilous move” will insert a heaping slab into their posture meter, but whether or not they’ll thrust their sword or sweep the player’s leg is rather unpredictable. In fact, nothing involved with Sekiro’s combat displays a consistent pattern recognizability to commit to muscle memory as its musical comparisons would connote. We’re not banging the bass drum along to Seven Nation Army here; we’re playing as the percussionist for Ornette Coleman. Because of the polyrhythmic unpredictability between swapping for slivers of enemy vulnerability and meeting their swift aggressions with picture-perfect timing, Sekiro’s combat is a tango that takes tons of acute, feline-like reactions and practice to even stand a chance of survival. The extent of attentiveness required is also pervasive across most, if not all enemies, with even the big black cocks annihilating Wolf if he isn’t cautious. I’m only referring to these enemies in this fashion to impress a sense of severity on everyone reading this.

Much to the chagrin of a sizable selection of Souls veterans, the player cannot simply swap Wolf’s relatively flaccid sword with a heftier one that requires both arms to carry around. A katana is my weapon of choice across any Souls game when it becomes available, but even I feel inclined to seek out Andre so he can enhance it with as much titanite as humanly possible so I can shred chunks of health off of enemies and bosses with only a handful of sword swipes. Unfortunately, the player is constricted to Sekiro’s arduous, novel gameplay conditions, but this doesn’t mean that they aren’t allowed to add some pinches of variability to said conditions. Besides buffing Wolf’s sword with the various sugars and briefly making his katana like a stainless steel beignet, or the divine confetti to exploit a weakness in apparition enemies, an auxiliary mode of offense in Sekiro that might prove more reliable is the prosthetic tools. When Wolf finds or buys a particular tool on the field, he returns to his sculptor savior in the Dilapidated Temple hub so he can reconfigure the object of interest into a secondary offensive unit using his craftsmanship expertise. The “loaded axe” proved to be helpful during the earlier sections of the game for more potent damage that my sword struggled to inflict when I wasn’t confident in my deflection abilities, and the “shinobi firecracker” is obnoxiously bright and loud enough to distract any enemy and throw them off their mojo. Note that this particular prosthetic tool is extremely effective against any animal enemy, like frightening one’s pets on the Fourth of July. The “loaded spear” and “finger whistle” tended to be quite useful when kiting enemies away from their packs, and the “loaded umbrella” is a serviceable shield for when enemies in said packs are packing heat (no pun intended). You’ll notice how I’ve described an applicable situation for all of these prosthetic tools, which connotes that all of them tend to only be useful in specific scenarios. The player can’t just stick to one of these tools like glue to supplement the lackluster damage dealt with Wolf’s katana, which negates the prospect of a “build” that Souls players tend to develop. Sekiro has a strict dress code to abide by, but at least one can change the color of the tie that accompanies the uniform.

I should note that the usage of the prosthetic tools is a finite contingency relative to how many “spirit emblems” Wolf has in his inventory. This form of ammunition that resembles paper-thin crosses can be found all across Sekiro’s map, but it's recommended for the player to buy them in bulk when visiting an idol using the Sen currency that Wolf literally vacuums out of slain enemies. To increase the amount of ammo used per life, the player must allocate their experience gained in battle towards the unlockable perks available in five different skill trees, which also include several special maneuvers the player can incorporate into the combat. Yes, the experience required to purchase these skills is lost upon dying as a punitive measure just like in Dark Souls, but Sekiro reinterprets the damning penalty for failure into something uniquely merciless. Whenever the player oversteps the allowance the game gives for sheathing Wolf’s mortal coil and is forced to return to the idol they last interacted with, their total amount of both experience and sen is subtracted exactly in half. That is, until a safety net referred to as “unseen aid” saves both units from plummeting, but this is only automatically applied on a maximum occurrence rate of 30%. I’ve never touted myself as a supreme master of Soulslike games, but I have a much better chance at recovering 100% of my experience by manually trekking back to my failure point than the low likelihood that Sekiro confines me to. To further the sternness of this method of punishment, Sekiro incorporates the narratively relevant condition of “dragonrot” into this system if the player continually gives up the ghost. Given the consistent symptoms of this illness that pandemically plagues Ashina, “dragonrot” seems to be a folksy, medically primordial term for tuberculosis. How this is factored into Wolf cyclically biting the dust to no end is that the rate of unseen aid decreases to potentially single digits if he keeps collecting strands of the disease upon dying. Somehow, the friendly NPCs such as the Sculptor and the various merchants will also contract dragonrot by proxy if left untreated. Keep a “dragon’s blood droplet” in your inventory like a diabetic stores insulin shots. I’d be more appalled by Sekiro’s methods of penalizing the player if the skills were absolutely mandatory for progression and character building like in the typical RPG. Still, just on principle alone, the demerit dealt while trying to learn Sekiro’s combat is downright diabolical–evil even. Yeah, go fuck yourself too, FromSoft.

Because the stipulations at play here are anything but fair and forgiving, it’s essential to approach every frame of Sekiro with absolute tact and patience. Expounding more on the latter requirement, Sekiro practically emphasizes stealth as a gameplay mechanic on almost equal pertinence as parrying. For all intents and purposes, pretend that the game is titled “Solid Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice” because approaching every scenario where several enemies could ambush the player with subtlety and quiet repose can mitigate the struggle of acclimating to Sekiro’s more confrontational gameplay entirely. By methodically scanning a visual layout of any scene where enemies are scattered about, the player can dispatch enemies with a single deathblow from above or below due to their guard remaining relatively lowered. Wolf must have expertise in human anatomy, for he knows where on the neck to critically insert his blade, which somehow immediately mutes the desperate gasps and gurgles an enemy would logically utter in a state of extreme, dying pain. It somehow works in the interest of keeping the other enemies in the vicinity in a nescient state, which can somehow be retained as long as Wolf crouch-walks his way through enemy lines. Scoping out the safest entrypoint will require a proficient use of the grappling hook, and finding inconspicuous vantage points to gain leverage shows a more profound utilization of agility in a FromSoft title than ordinary traversal. Sneaking up on enemies to take them down one-by-one admittedly did instill a sensation of imposter syndrome because I was taking the easy way out instead of impeccably taming the toils of combat. Then again, what are shinobi more associated with: covertness or warrior-like aggression? I rest my case.

Perhaps one of the most beneficial aspects of stealth in Sekiro is the opportunity to extinguish an entire orb of a miniboss's health with a furtive deathblow. That would typically be all that I’d comment in regard to a game’s foes of a silver-ranking but considering that Sekiro’s minbosses are harder than the majority of other games’ primetime bosses and they caused dragonrot to fill my lungs with subsequent defeats, they’re certainly notable enough for further detail. For the first third of the game, the more imposing enemies with names and stacked health bars will take the shape of Ashina army generals decorated with esteemed shogun samurai armor. Wolf will also encounter an ogre or two in the cold Ashina Outskirts, whose perilous grab maneuver will highlight some physically incongruous hitboxes. In both Sunken Valley and in the poison pool of Ashina Depths, Wolf will encounter what I can only describe as a Tusken Raider from the deserts of Tatooine, complete with blasting Wolf in the face with the firing of their muskets. The sumo-sized drunkards will infuse their fights with elemental damage, while the impish yet volatile O’rin of the Water will phase out of corporeality on a whim to nullify Wolf’s sword slashes. One standout enemy designated as a “miniboss” is the strapping “Armored Warrior” who unexplainably screams out “Rooobberrtt!!” once Wolf figures out how to defeat him despite his impenetrable iron suit. Undoubtedly, he was going to follow that up by shouting “Smith” if he didn’t break his neck beforehand. It seems unfitting to relegate these stark progression impediments to a status of lowered significance, but I’d say that rewarding the player with a prayer bead that increases attributes like vitality with a full set of four does not diminish their importance or relevance. That, and subtracting their statuses as bosses allows them to be reused without players accusing the developers of lazily padding the experience. Trust me, if the Stray Demon and Demon Firesage were classified as minibosses, no one would have batted an eye.

At the end of one route littered with minibosses obstructing the sweet respite of a new idol discovery lies Sekiro’s bona fide bosses, and the roster presented here is formidable enough to encompass the entirety of someone’s Mt. Rushmore of hardest boss battles across all of gaming. Still, like Dark Souls, the difficulty curve inconsistently ebbs and flows like the evening tide. The booming, horseback riding Ashina castle gatekeeper Gyoubu Oniwa and female shinobi Lady Butterfly are deemed fairly challenging for inexperienced players early on. Then, the player is faced with the Folding Screen Monkey quartet and the electric (literally) Divine Dragon, whose bouts incorporate gimmicks that verge on puzzles unseen since the underdeveloped days of Demon's Souls. Corrupted Monk seems to only inspire relative ire instead of outright rancor despite her physical bulkiness and three health bars to contend with, but perhaps that is due to practicing on her phantom phase at the end of Mibu Village. Truly, I can think of two (or technically three) Sekiro bosses that are certain to trigger some PTSD-induced sweating and fatigue in a vast majority of players. The first one lies at the watering hole dead end of Sunken Valley, which would be serene if not for the colossal, albino King Kong called “Guardian Ape” waiting to trounce anyone or anything that trespasses in his shallow pond. And trounce the player he will with his erratic, animalistic flailing that is more difficult to anticipate and account for than the flight trajectory of a drunken house fly! His grab tends to almost magnetize to the player, and his flatulence and stereotypical shit-flinging will poison the player to add insult to indignifying injury. Once I managed to decapitate this feral monstrosity upon what I believed to be the final blow with great skepticism, seeing the beast readjust himself and start playing Hamlet with his organic head in one hand and a disturbingly large centipede in place of his head’s old resting place made me scream “of fucking course!” with great frustration. Granted, this phase is easier to combat because he inexplicably whips a sword out of his ass, but the constant AOE blasts that deal the Sekiro-equivalent of Bloodborne's deadly frenzy affliction in “terror” are not to be taken lightly. Fun. The other especially enraging boss in Sekiro is definitely the Demon of Hatred, an atrocious beast that the Sculptor becomes after downing some swill sake at the game’s climactic point, or something. His attack patterns are easier to commit to memory than elementary-grade multiplication tables, but I will concede that the position of vanquishing a boss that evidently escaped from the Bloodborne zoo exhibit with three whopping health bars where deflecting is practically an irrelevant condition in a game practically entrapped by the mechanic is quite the Brobdingnagian task. I’d still rather fight him than the fiery Bloodborne boss that he reminds me of. Still, whether or not Sekiro’s stacked boss selection is stirring an indescribable anger within the player or just making them question their abilities for a few seconds, I think I can speak for everyone when I say that each boss is herculean in their own right to act as a substantial milestone in overcoming Sekiro’s outstanding gameplay constraints. The bonus of enhancing Wolf’s base level damage output is a fine reward for besting these baddies, but I felt like I had grown and evolved accordingly anyway without anything tangible attached.

But all of these bosses I’ve mentioned were not the biggest thorns in my subjective sides throughout my Sekiro experience. No, that honorable superlative, or dishonorable depending on how you swing it, goes to Genichiro Ashina. The overarching antagonist of Sekiro isn’t the boss that brought the most emphatic anger out of me because of his elevated relevance to the plot or his amoral capacity to harm children, but because he’s a real sumbitch in battle. His encounter at the tippy top of Ashina’s capital building is considered to be the first major “road block” where it dawns on the player that they’ll need to adapt to Sekiro’s mechanics or suffer immensely. I am of the common demographic of players who struggled with Genichiro’s vicious stabbings and long-ranged archery, and I definitely wasn’t prepared to deal with his third phase that incorporated a lightning deflection mechanic that hadn’t even been hinted at before this boss encounter. Still, I came to admire the underlying educational aspect of Genichiro despite finishing him and feeling as if luck played a significant role in my eventual success. That is, until he kidnaps Kuro again once the Ministry invaders penetrate Ashina’s walls at the game’s climactic finale and Wolf must confront him again in the flowing field where Wolf’s arm was unceremoniously severed by him in what will feel like a lifetime ago. Sure, an emaciated Genichiro will be no trouble for any player who has ideally accumulated so much sword and deflection prowess at this point where they’ll wipe the floor with this formally daunting boss in seconds. However, what the player learns upon dying to Genichiro’s last ditch effort at killing Wolf by unraveling a prime-era Lord Isshin with another mortal blade is that Genichiro is the first of FOUR phases with both him and this sudden facsimile of his grandfather’s younger self. When I’m forced to regress to fighting Genichiro again and again after grandpa spanks me over his knee, my thinning patience with this appetizer starts to affect the efficiency at which I defeat Genichiro. Dealing with Ashina’s successor during the finale evoked the embarrassment of being forced to repeat algebra after failing to grasp trigonometry, or fighting with Luigi after Mario was deemed too difficult to handle. No matter if Genichiro is known as a notorious destroyer of players’ spirits, framing him in the particular way they do here brings me great shame when he manages to still smite me.

Compounding this sense of shame is that Genichiro arguably isn’t Sekiro’s main antagonist anyway, or at least he’s not the driving antagonistic force on all narrative fronts if the outcome of the multiple endings is any indication. If the player has reached Genichiro magically channeling the body of Lord Isshin as Sekiro’s final challenge, then it means that the player has chosen the path of righteousness by refusing to submit to the “iron code” of the shinobi at the game’s most pivotal moment. The regulation in question was espoused by Wolf through the teachings of Owl, an older shinobi who took Wolf in his guardianship and assigned him the task of protecting Kuro. He’s been rumored to have perished in the Hirata Estate attack where Kuro initially went missing, but he’s revealed that to be a ruse when he hears through the grapevine that Wolf has been fighting tooth and nail to rid Kuro of his immortality at the behest of the precociously humane little heir. You see, Owl’s invested interest in Kuro is harnessing his immortal blood for himself, and for reasons that prove to be even more inarguably selfish than Genichiro’s. He’s been manipulating Wolf into keeping the kid in proximity and fabricating this hogwash shinobi code where he stands chiefly above all else to cloud Wolf’s judgment. Given that Owl’s duplicity is written clearly on the walls and that submitting to him will lock the player out of large swathes of endgame content, it’s hard to imagine why the player would prefer siding with this grey-haired jerkoff and scorn both Emma and a sickly Isshin (who both become boss battles as a result) in Sekiro’s “Shura” ending. Still, while this ending may be unsatisfying in the grand scheme of Sekiro’s bigger conflict, perhaps it remains a cathartic conclusion specifically for Wolf, unshackling all servitude towards those close to him and becoming the recalcitrant rogue that might be fitting for his ninja persona. It’s something to consider when weighing the player’s options.

Uncle, Sekiro, uncle, I say! Actually, I was going to conclude this review with something of that tone, pretending that the game was still browbeating and buttfucking me well after I had eventually bested it. However, I realized that ending my comments on Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice on a glib note felt rather disingenuous to how the game profoundly impacted me. I stood tall while the Sekiro drill sergeant screamed obscenities in my face at every waking moment, calling me a worthless maggot and several slurs you can’t say in a public setting. While it was an enervating endeavor, I still salute the onslaught of offenses from this game for offering a character-building exercise that improved my capabilities as a gamer. Triumphing over Dark Souls is thrilling enough, but my experience with Sekiro reminded me more of when I finished Zelda II, an excursion I thought to be practically impossible, instilling an indelible confidence within me once I conquered the insurmountable odds. In fact, I look forward to “Sekirolikes” catching on and ushering in an influx of games that ape its aerodynamic platforming, pulsating parry-oriented gameplay, and foster stealth as an advantageous element to combat. For now, incidentally, I’m going to take a power nap…for a week.