Mega Man 7 Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 1/9/2025)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Mega Man 7

Developer: Capcom

Publisher: Capcom

Genre(s): 2D Platformer

Platforms: SNES

Release Date: May 24, 1995

Haha...what?!

Does Capcom mean to tell us with Mega Man 7 that Mega Man X WASN’T intended to be the changing of the guard into the next generation? Are they really pushing their shitty 1995 Buick Roadmaster up a hilly country road when it’s out of gas after they’ve purchased a strapping new automobile that’s completely fueled up? Is it sentimentalism that keeps Capcom from pulling the plug on the original Mega Man series, a sextet of NES titles that were beaten into a vegetative state of creative burnout due to oversaturation? Did they really think that shifting the series to a console that doubled the visual capacity with a seventh entry would make a difference? Whatever the impetus was, digging up the classic Mega Man series that was presumably dead when Mega Man X hit the scene has me befuddled to Hell and back. Coexisting alongside its evolved descendant like how monkeys still roam the Earth after we humans still reign supreme is a nice gesture, but what exactly can the classic series do to prove that the X series hasn’t condemned it to obsolescence? It doesn’t help that Mega Man 7 is not a particularly well-regarded entry to the classic series, so the case for its continued lifespan isn’t holding up all that well. However, even though it doesn’t hold a candle to the highest points of the X series, I’ve found that Mega Man 7’s ill-repute among its classic series peers can be heavily disputed.

Simply because Mega Man 7 shares a kinship with the primitive classic series doesn’t mean it’s restricted to sharing their 8-bit modesty. Due to existing on the same 16-bit system, Mega Man 7 borrows an abundance of presentational flair from Mega Man X. This is immediately apparent when the game begins with a cutscene sequence that sees Mega Man having a conversation with Roll and a new character named Auto, complete with scrolling text on screen contained in speech bubbles. Once the conversation stops, Mega Man is thrusted into the chaos on the futuristic city streets in a prologue level, an introductory standard stripped from the X sub-series. While the cinematic touches and expositional sequence put it on a relatively equal standing in narrative richness to any of the X games, Mega Man 7 does not choose to channel the sharper, slightly more mature aesthetic of the classic series’ offspring. Mega Man 7 still exists in the same timeline as the unrefined NES games with the same diminutive robot boy seen a century before Dr. Light advanced his darling automaton with that extra X chromosome, so the aesthetic needed to reflect the jejune status of our hero that we likely forgot since the first X game was released. The result of this consideration is a bright and colorful aesthetic akin to the lightheartedness of a Saturday morning cartoon, with the 16-bit graphics of the NES animating the pixel art to a discernible degree. As for Mega Man’s design, the developers found it essential for him to share that look of passionate, heroic determination as his X alter ego. In execution, the boyish baby fat of Mega Man’s face makes his serious visage resemble that of an annoyed Butters from South Park. It makes me want to give Mega Man a noogie, not treat him seriously as the savior of the cyber age.

Other than the animated visual overhaul and the marginal strides to elevate the narrative to be on par with the X games, Mega Man 7 is predictably the same old song and dance as any other Mega Man game. Eight robot masters must be vanquished and their powers will be downloaded into Mega Man’s all-purpose arm cannon, and checking them all off on the blue bomber’s hit list will unlock Wily’s fortress where Mega Man will confront the mustachioed menace. However, one change to the series’ formulaic arc found here is that only half of the robot master roster is available at the start. The opening cutscene explains what seems like an arbitrary, insignificant monkey wrench into a Mega Man tradition, in that only four robot masters beckoned to Dr. Wily’s command to tear up the city brick by brick if he did not make his presence known for six months (on account of being incarcerated). On one hand, only offering half of the lineup initially severely limits the possibilities of the progression trajectory. On the other hand, I suppose that the suppressed selection connotes that finding one of these robot masters’ weaknesses is a one-and-three chance instead of the usual one-and-seven, so the suggested progression course is quicker and easier to start.

Once the player finds the intended trajectory, they’ll find that Mega Man 7’s levels are perfectly cromulent and outstandingly diverse as always. The rubber of Turbo Man’s spare tires will bounce Mega Man into the hazardous spike pits if he collides with their conveyor system, while the refuse of Junk Man’s stage is being collected as a shelter for groups of repugnant little robot cockroaches. Freeze Man is the exhausted, yet effective snow stage, while the Jurassic Park jungle with robotic dinosaurs that Slash Man operates prolongs a pattern of humid environments usually prevalent across every X entry. The buoyancy of the liquid physics in Burst Man’s stage and how to calculate Mega Man’s jump force in relation to how far he will sink is a genuinely clever innovation on the standard water level. The standout level in Mega Man 7 for my money is Shade Man’s, for the bat and zombie-infested Halloween town is the series’ first stab at a horror-themed area. Sue me, I’m a sucker for spookiness. As for their weapons, each of them falls nicely in the middle of the spectrum between the orgasmic bodaciousness of the Metal Blade and the pitiful, horribly conceived Top Spin. Burst Man is an advancement on Bubble Man’s conceptual identity, as his liquid globules are dense enough to ensnare enemies and lift them to the great unknown or trap them to the ceiling. Cloud Man is evidently of the cumulonimbus variation, for Mega Man can condense the power of his lightning into an energy blast the size of the charge shot. Spring Man’s coils can be charged to unleash two simultaneously, and I guess Shade Man’s sonar blast is shrill enough to warp a robot’s circuitry. Slash Man’s weapon is especially notable not only because it compensates for Mega Man’s lack of close-ranged offense, but because it looks like Mega Man is bitch slapping his enemies. Pay your respects, Dr. Wily.

Some of the common negative discourse surrounding Mega Man 7 is that the game is far too facile to uphold the blistering Mega Man standard of difficulty. I criticized Mega Man 5 for loosening the classic difficulty grip on the player, but Mega Man 7 is comparatively a brisk walk in the park. Enemy placements are reasonable, level hazards are manageable, and the stage gimmicks such as the reappearing block platforms aren’t nearly as demanding as they used to be. Truthfully, the quality-of-life enhancements are quite refreshing. The level of accessibility on display feels far more organic than when Mega Man 5 attempted to ease the pain of steep difficulty because of the refinement that comes with the advanced hardware of the SNES. The inherent upgrade in graphics and mechanics aids Mega Man 7 while Mega Man 5 felt like a deliberate digression, especially since it was released after Mega Man 4 which was the quality peak of the NES titles. It’s not to say that the fifth entry in the classic Mega Man series failed miserably on all fronts in smoothing out Mega Man’s difficulty curve, for Mega Man 7 decides to reinstate some of that game’s ideas on hardware that complimented them. Firstly, in the first four robot master stages, letters that spell RUSH are scattered somewhere in the obscured corners of the area. Mega Man veterans should recognize that these four letters form the name of Mega Man’s trusty, robotic red pooch. Mega Man will still summon Rush on occasion to trampoline him on out-of-reach platforms with his trusty coil apparatus, but all of Rush's other applications have to be found on the field like collectibles. The process of uncovering these auxiliary utilities requires the same meticulous exploration as finding any health upgrade or special abilities in an X title, and it encourages a more intimate engagement with the level along with a replayability incentive. The selection of optional gadgets obtained through exploration is also marvelously vast. For one, if the player collects all of the letters, it will unlock a combined version of both the jet and power suits seen in the previous Mega Man game, which is definitely handy during a few platforming sections in Dr Wily’s castle. Depending on how you eradicate a spherical miniboss in Shade Man’s stage that is shaped like a pumpkin, the routes its explosion unveils will lead to two separate gadgets, which will of course encourage the player to revisit the stage to unlock the one they missed on the first go-around. Finding Protoman and defeating him in a friendly duel will even warrant him anteing up his shield, blocking all pesky projectiles from grazing Mega Man. It’s such a nice gesture on his behalf that I feel obliged to send him a fruit basket as a token of my gratitude.

Protoman is so charitable to Mega Man now, figuratively giving him the shirt off his back in the shape of his shield, that one could forget that he was once his rival who formerly antagonized him at inconvenient moments. The developers figured that a new character should fill the rival role’s vacancy in the form of Bass, another humanoid robot who dons black armor instead of blue. He, along with his own canine companion, Treble, (get the reference?) makes his acquaintance with Mega Man during the prologue and states that his order of business is to stop Dr. Wily, and his assessment of Mega Man’s ability to conquer the mad scientist depends on whether or not the player can defeat him at this moment. His motives are vague, but Mega Man recognizes that Bass is fighting for the same cause and treats this mysterious stranger as a worthy ally. However, Mega Man’s naive trust in the good in his fellow robot comes to bite him in the ass when he allows Bass to recuperate from his wounds in Dr. Light’s lab. Bass ransacks the place and steals potent upgrades designed for Mega Man and Rush, and Mega Man storms Dr Wily’s castle to retrieve them. Maybe it’s just because I’m cynical to the core, but I’m not sure how effective Bass is as an antagonist. They prop him up as the classic series’ iteration of Zero, but the red rogue already had a relationship with X before the events of the game’s prologue. Establishing trust immediately without earning it is the first rule in the book of duplicity, and I wish I could express this knowledge to Mega Man before he made a fool of himself letting this jerkoff walk all over him.

However, I wish that the souped-up fusion fight with Bass and Treble was the penultimate fight of Mega Man 7, and it’s not because Dr. Wily’s fight is predictable and boring as always. Dr. Wily is evidently cross at the fact that the X series ousted him from the limelight as the series’ abiding main villain, and a scorned Wily makes for an especially spiteful encounter at the game’s climax. The first stage where Wily is hopping around in a hefty mechanical skull on stilts has a perfectly learnable attack pattern. However, the subsequent section where he’s riding around in a floating capsule fires artillery that seemingly could only be dodged with the slowed-down special effects seen in The Matrix. Wily fires four energy balls with three different kinds of elemental properties, and the suggested tactic during this boss, no joke, is to collide with the electrical ones because they deal less damage to Mega Man. Sure, one can hone their dodging prowess and evade the balls with grace and proficiency with practice, but who has time for that? To make matters worse, the capsule’s weaknesses only shave slivers off of its stocky health bar, so the player is forced to tank an inordinate amount of damage in order to survive this grueling test of endurance. Mega Man 7’s Dr. Wily is not only the definitively hardest iteration of the mad doctor, but he has joined the ranks of bosses that have angered my dentist in how they make me grit my teeth down to the pulp in frustration. It sufficiently made us all respect Wily’s authority once again, that’s for damn sure. It even aggravates Mega Man so much that he decides to forgo his laurels as he shockingly plans to execute Wily once and for all, but this decision is ultimately thwarted. Kill him, Mega Man! Paint the walls of his fortress with his blood!

While it may seem like Wily has bested us all with his zooming energy balls that have the indecipherable pattern of a swarm of flies, there is a hidden method to utilize against Wily’s unforgiving onslaught. Unless the player has the manual on hand, which I don’t, they won’t know that pressing select in the main menu will access Auto’s garage, a one-stop shop for any conceivable item in the Mega Man series. Here, Mega Man can stock up on energy and weapon tanks, and guzzling them like beer at a frat party is the only way the player will withstand Wily. Unfortunately, Mega Man can only have four of each item at a time, and insisting on buying more than the maximum allowed will cause him to be chastised by Auto for “being greedy.” Do you know what I’m up against, you fat green dope? Miserly business practices aside, the shop is a genius point of innovation. The bolt currency is plentiful and the energy tanks on the field are too sparse to rely on, so the player is more than compelled to visit this service to stand a fighting chance. Maybe check to see if the open sign is on so the player will be aware of its existence, Auto?

After several years of trusting that Mega Man 7 “sucks big dinosaur balls,” I’ve come to find that this crude assessment of the game’s quality is totally undeserved. It’s a refined Mega Man experience in all contexts. Thanks to the advancements found on the SNES, the mainline Mega Man series can flourish with colorful pixel art, greater accessibility, and more nuanced level designs that reward the player handsomely by exploring them. By borrowing assets from the X series, Mega Man 7 still doesn’t stack up to the advancements of that series because it's inherently shackled to the exhausted properties of the mainline series. Still, anyone arguing that any Mega Man game from the NES is better than this one is smoking the nostalgia pipe. Hell, I think Mega Man 7 is better than the third X game released the same year. NES enthusiasts are adamant, man.

Super Mario Land Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 1/2/2025)

[Image from igdb.com]

Super Mario Land

Developer: Nintendo

Publisher: Nintendo

Genre(s): 2D Platformer

Platforms: Gameboy

Release Date: April 21, 1989

“Mario on the go” was likely a captivating prospect for any wide-eyed gamer in the late 1980s. We take the novelty of mobile gaming for granted these days because of the technology’s mass ubiquity. However, back when playing video games from the comfort and convenience of your living room was still a radical notion we were still trying to mentally process, expanding the player’s gaming autonomy to a portable unit fitting in the palms of their hands was the next logical stride in gaming technology. Mario was the frontrunner in representing the revolutionary NES when it debuted, so Nintendo figured it was obvious to also ignite the reign of the original Game Boy with their trademark tubby plumber in Super Mario Land. Through an objective lens, I’m certain the novelty of it had tons of gamers forming congested lines outside of their local retailers, salivating at the possibility of sinking into hours of gaming during long car rides, Sunday morning church services, and using it as a tool to avoid talking to creepy Uncle Clancy when dragged to a family reunion. While I’m sure the prime age demographic at the time has sweet, nostalgic memories of the grey, stocky rectangle, my younger, non-rose-tinted perspective along with decades of hindsight behind us leads me to claim that mobile gaming has only caught up with the standard of console gaming pretty recently. For several generations, mobile gaming was a graphical and mechanical compromise to efficiently render the transportable equation of the system. The contrast between the capabilities of console gaming and its nomadic equivalent was especially apparent when the mobile game came from a franchise with a console representative, acting as the “inferior version” of its homebound peer. With only the first Super Mario Bros. to compare (because the American SMB 2 is a different breed altogether and SMB 3 was only out in Japan at the time), I can claim with confidence that this relationship is not a relevant factor.

The one inherent downgraded aspect of Super Mario Land is the visuals. The original Game Boy subtracted three-fourths of the NES’ 8-bits to a meager two, which resulted in tarring the primitive pixels in a murky haze of black and white like the earliest of films. Given that every game released on the Game Boy couldn’t ascend over the minimal presentation, factoring it into the quality of Super Mario Land is a moot point. What concerns me is how Mario’s simplistic running and jumping-intensive gameplay translates from Super Mario Bros., and it’s practically identical. However, I still wouldn’t call the successful translation commendable as it carries the same issues that were present in Mario’s older console debut. Mario’s acrobatics are heavily subdued by the rigid controls. Oftentimes, the only way to accurately land Mario on a platform is to mash the directional pad (even though I’m admittedly not playing this game on an original Game Boy) like flattening hard Play-Doh and even then, the result of what was intended isn’t guaranteed to be in your favor. While this is obviously an objective flaw, it’s a “sins of the father” scenario and my stance in evaluating Super Mario Land is how it stacks up with its console cousin. With this in mind, there is no significant decline. Still, the developers desperately need to apply oil to the control scheme for future entries.

While this review includes constant comparisons to Super Mario Bros., Super Mario Land is directed like a spinoff of the core Super Mario titles on the NES. In the nature of a spinoff, Super Mario Land features plenty of stark deviations from the regular course of Super Mario Bros. properties. For one, the setting isn’t the standard stomping grounds of the Mushroom Kingdom. Super Mario Land transports our hero to the kingdom of Sarasaland, a desert realm with pronounced Egyptian iconography. The torrid, sandy environment allows for an entirely different ecosystem of enemies than that of the green, hilly Mushroom Kingdom–including fire-spitting rattlesnakes and sentient miniature versions of The Great Sphinx. The hostile Easter Island heads may throw off the enemy theme’s cohesion, but when is the mainline Mario series ever going to insert something this kooky into the mix of standard enemies? Sarasaland also sees plenty of Mario enemy standbys roaming around like the goombas, koopas, and bullet bills to retain the series’ identity, but the foreign location still alters some attributes of the familiar foes. When a Koopa Troopa exploded after Mario had stomped on it, it certainly caught me off guard. The princess whom Mario excavates a dozen incorrect castles trying to save isn’t the blonde bimbo with the pink dress. Instead, it’s her spunkier brunette counterpart Daisy situated in the damsel in distress position before she solidified a position in the series as Peach’s permanent sporting event partner. On another note, it is so fitting for Luigi that his (non-canonical) girlfriend is simply Mario’s sloppy seconds. Rescuing Sarasaland’s royal highness will have Mario climbing between the dunes on the surface and the ancient crypts underneath, exhibiting the same dichotomy as the overworld and the sewers in his home city. Between platforming through dirt and sand, Super Mario Land incorporates something wild that the series hasn’t dabbled with since. Mario will either fly a biplane or steer a submarine and use their respective projectiles in an auto-scrolling space shooter segment a la Gradius. Not only is the gameplay shift a nice change of pace, but the image of tiny little Mario piloting these military vehicles is adorable. With all of the diversity that Super Mario Land displays, it’s a wonder why Nintendo felt the need to plagiarize another game’s properties to make the American Super Mario Bros. 2 different from the first one.

The biggest surprise I never expected from Super Mario Land is how accommodating the game is, a gameplay attribute that it certainly did not pick up from any Mario game on the NES. Considering that Super Mario Land acts as a primitive version of a game already synonymous with the growing pains of gaming’s history, I fully expected the developers to bombard the player with a merciless streak of challenging obstacles and harsh penalties. To my surprise, Super Mario Land was as sweet and smooth as a strawberry daiquiri. Platforming has its deadly hazards, but is always clear and fair to the player. Enemies are placed modestly around and are manageable to either confront or evade. Even with reasonable obstacles to handle, the game obliges the player with plenty of aid to keep them on their feet. Climbing the top section of the tower at the end of each level is guaranteed to net the player some reward, even if they can’t time the flashing ladder to the position of their liking. Stacking up a whole inventory of lives is one thing, but something accommodating that floored me with its inclusion is a continue system. If the player earns enough points on the field, the game will recognize their achievement and compensate them by respawning Mario at the beginning of the world. I never had to expend my points because the influx of lives kept me afloat, but I’m delighted that this safety net exists on principle. One would think that the game would be especially arduous due to its short length, but the developers decided to treat the experience like a rollercoaster: a brief, yet joyous ride that will ideally warrant another trip around.

Despite the reputation handheld games have garnered, Super Mario Land is definitely not a digression from Super Mario Bros.. Looking past the monochromatic restrictions of the visuals, every other aspect of the game showcases an evolution for the series. It wisely deviates from the arcade difficulty penalties that plagued the Super Mario games on the NES, and there’s far more fresh gameplay and foreground features than what is usually found in modern Mario titles. The game is afflicted by horribly stiff controls like its older Mario brethren, which is still inexcusable. All the same, is it a bold statement to say that Super Mario Land is BETTER than the high-end console counterpart? No, because it should be readily apparent to everyone.

Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 12/25/2024)

[Image from hubworldhq.com]

Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow

Developer: Konami

Publisher: Konami

Genre(s): Metroidvania

Platforms: DS

Release Date: August 25, 2005

Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow was so bloody good that Konami had to make like Steely Dan and “do it again.” After an unfortunate streak of lukewarm entries to the long-running series that adopted the Metroidvania makeup of series staple Symphony of the Night to varying degrees of inferiority, finally hitting that high note again with another game of the same ilk was a relieving accomplishment for the struggling developers. Evidently, Aria of Sorrow’s esteem became a lighting-in-a-bottle scenario, hence why the subsequent entry in the series is a direct sequel that preserves the previous game’s characters, narrative arc, and practically the same title. After all, if you reeled up a whopper of a fish after trudging through several grueling hours of catching guppies and minnows, why would you wish to chuck it back considering the logically low likelihood of capturing another one? Direct sequels in any entertainment medium are so commonplace that not extending the attributes of one’s intellectual property is market suicide. In the case of Castlevania, however, choosing to continue Aria of Sorrow with a direct sequel is quite peculiar. Konami has repelled the idea of a Castlevania game promptly transferring the story and characters of the previous entry over since the second-ever game in the series, Simon’s Quest, made a mockery of the first game’s glorious side-scrolling action by slowing things to a sludgy crawl. Since then, however, the patterns of what properties generally carry over in a direct sequel have been better defined over time. With hindsight and maturation of the medium, perhaps Aria’s successor won’t proverbially borrow its expensive Porsche and obliterate it in a fiery crash not knowing how to steer it. Most fans will be relieved to hear that Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow is Aria of Sorrow 2.0 in every context of a typical direct sequel, complete with all of the flourishes of familiarity that made Aria of Sorrow an exemplary Castlevania title…for better or for worse.

So how is our favorite effete, bleach-haired Latino one year after his episode of internal strife? He’s quite peachy, actually. He’s successfully suppressed his vampiric urges that come with being the reincarnation of the fiendish Count Dracula, living a tranquil existence in Japan with his best friend Mina. In a sudden flash as if merely mentioning his demonic destiny has jinxed him, yet another pretender to the throne has come to kill Soma and absorb the potency of his birthright. Like people from New Jersey who tend to exude the stereotypical personality traits of the state’s citizens when other people from Jersey are in their vicinity, unleashing conflict back into Soma’s life by sicing hostile enemies on him has reawakened his soul-sucking powers, much to Mina’s chagrin. To continue making Mina (and Arikado) fret, Soma is rightfully peeved at this modest assassination attempt and confronts the cult connected to it located in a fortress that resembles Dracula’s castle. One might negatively comment on the lightning-quick pacing that immediately catapults the characters into the thick of things, but skipping any introductory pleasantries is the suitable choice for the story. Because we’ve already been acquainted with many of the characters through Aria of Sorrow, we can move past the formalities. All that was necessary was to methodically lead Soma to this game’s intricately designed estate by interrupting his frivolous afternoon with Mina. Were there really any players clamoring for Dawn of Sorrow to start us off with Soma and Mina shopping or having a spot of tea in a cafe?

The most indirect aspect of Dawn of Sorrow is that Konami forced fans to purchase an entirely separate console from the one that housed Aria of Sorrow. Dawn of Sorrow was a game on the Nintendo DS during its first full year as Nintendo’s handheld representative, succeeding the final console brandishing the Game Boy moniker of which the previous three Metroidvania Castlevanias were released. The aspect of the DS’ legacy that most gamers will immediately recognize is the dual-screen gimmick, and Dawn of Sorrow certainly takes advantage of its idiosyncratic functions as a quality-of-life feature. Now, the player can see Soma in action on one screen and quickly glance at the map and character status menu from their peripheral. Displaying both the gameplay screen and the paused reference one simultaneously allows the fluidity of gameplay to be uninterrupted, even if squeezing the entire space of the map into a screen cut in half will make the player squint so hard that they’ll pop a blood vessel. Another deserving credit to the DS that is less obvious is that it was the first Nintendo handheld system that could competently render 3D graphics, albeit with polygons that will remind players of the blocky and anatomically bloated visuals of the N64 and debut Playstation era. Still, if we use Symphony of the Night as an example, games that adhered to the pixelated recent past released on these 3D trendsetters were beaming with glossier sprites and setpieces beyond what the staunch 2D systems could ever dream of depicting. Finally, Dawn of the Sorrow is the successor to Symphony of the Night on par with that game’s striking visual splendor. Considering that the developers were forced to creatively compensate to divisive degrees due to the GBA’s comparatively lackluster hardware, the advancement in handheld hardware the DS provided was probably a huge relief. Some sprites are even copied and pasted from Symphony, which is something I noticed when I encountered a howling wolf enemy. However, one creative liberty that Dawn of Sorrow takes with its visuals is adopting an anime aesthetic for the cutscenes and character’s faces alongside text boxes. It’s pleasing enough, but the anime art style is a bit too commonplace across the video game medium whereas the spellbinding, gothic watercolors of Ayami Kojima’s work were distinctly Castlevania.

Given that the remnants of Dracula are being suppressed in Soma’s body like vomit, the magnificent estate that usually accompanies his reemergence is also subdued by proxy. Fear not, for this continuity convention does not inhibit this uncanny setting from exhibiting the same breadth and Metroidvania allure as a bonafide castle. For starters, the winter wonderland directly outside the premises is especially fetching with the moody blue color palette complimenting the white snow that is beautifully blanketing the ground. One might also notice the subtle hint of 3D architectural models with the Bavarian buildings in the background. Other than the seasonal shift surrounding the entrance, this incarnation of a labyrinthian Castlevania setting features the typical districts that usually comprise The Count’s castle. “Subterranean Hell” is the watery cavern section located in the southern region where Mermen leap from the surface, the “Wizardry Lab” is the place allocated for morbid scientific experiments, and there is naturally a clocktower where Medusa Heads will bat Soma around like a floating stampede of zebras. One particularly notable district in the eastern section is the “Condemned Tower,” a lofty vertical stretch that spans the longitudinal length of the entire estate with the “Mine of Judgment” below it attached to the equation. The map is standard fare for the series, and maybe the narrative stipulation of it serving as a loyal reproduction of The Count’s Castle excuses its lack of inspiration. All that matters in a Castlevania setting is if the castle fosters the utility-gated Metroidvania progression smoothly and coherently, and there aren’t any major objections to this rule present in Dawn of Sorrow. The various warp gates between every district are also as convenient as ever, namely, to teleport to the “Lost Village” entrance and purchase potions and mana restoration items from Soma's bald acquaintance Hammer.

Speaking of sticking to series traditions, Soma’s special ability to absorb his enemies’ souls that defined the mechanical brilliance of Aria of Sorrow naturally returns. Get ready to become a compulsive trainwreck once again, for collecting the orb-shaped essences of the enemies and using them as Soma’s auxiliary weapons and skills at the low likelihood of obtaining them when slain is only one degree lower than Pokemon on the scale of gaming stimuli. However, the dopamine rush of collecting may prove to be less strong for returning players, for the bestiary of monsters roaming around the castle has barely been altered from the previous game. I’m unsure as to whether or not there are any quality-of-life enhancements for any particular enemy soul that was transported from Aria. The soul set actually organizes the souls by their categorization instead of dumping them all into one scroll, but I’m referring to the enhancements of the souls themselves. I cannot comment whether the sonic boom shriek of the Mandragora seedling decimated enemies to this extent in Aria, nor do I know if the chauffeuring of Soma by the Bone Ark palanquin was so superb that he should feel obligated to leave a tip for their services. Still, these are some of the exemplary souls that stood out to me and found a solid footing in my revolving arsenal. However, what I am confident is a fresh utilization of the souls that debuts in Dawn of Sorrow is the process of soul transfusion. Across the hall from Hammer in the “Lost Village,” an intentional angle of which I’m sure he spends an inordinate amount of time gawking at her from afar like a peeping tom, is Yoko Belnades who conducts this new mechanic. Bringing her the excess souls that are congesting Soma’s inventory will allow Yoko to craft them into various weapons, provided that Soma also has a similar tool to work off of. Instead of having to find the upgraded versions of the swords, axes, etc. on the field later in the game when their stronger offensive powers are needed, the player can simply find a combination leading to the more formidable weapon’s creation by coinciding a number of souls to their weaker equivalent and teleporting to Yoko’s shop. The player can also dispose of unwanted souls that tend to pile up with the constant cutting down of common enemies, but tossing them seems wasteful. With this blacksmithing perk provided by Yoko, the challenges of the later portion of the game can be handled by matching the necessary firepower. Exploration is a tenet of the Metroidvania genre that always titillates me, but I can’t say that scouring every corner of the map for a particular weapon is a sizable portion of that joy. My monetary tip given to the Bone Ark guys extends to Yoko for this convenience.

Having a superior weapon through the soul-crafting process doesn’t automatically render Dawn of Sorrow as breezy as a Sunday stroll through the countryside. Overall, I’d state that Dawn of Sorrow’s bosses are a more tenacious bunch than the crop of formidable baddies that Aria showcased. The trickster Zephyr will momentarily freeze Soma in time, which will give him ample opportunity to slash at the protagonist with his oversized Freddy Kreuger fingers. Abaddon, a demon from biblical folklore, masterfully conducts a plague of locusts with a baton to swarm Soma in flocks that need a significant amount of practice to avoid. Aria of Sorrow breached the bounds of its relatively smooth difficulty curve once Soma danced with Death, and the Dawn of Sorrow version of the long-standing Castlevania boss is equally as punishing with his swift scythe swipes and summoning magic beast skulls to bite off chunks of Soma like a crocodile. In addition to their aggressiveness, the graphical superiority of the DS has made some of these bosses truly grotesque and nightmare-inducing. I now understand why Balore chose to shroud most of his face in the shadows in Aria because now, we see that the brute is horrifically deformed. I can’t even do Gergoth justice in describing his physical form, for the monster is composed of nothing but pulpy, pixelated viscera of an indiscernible, freaky-deeky degree. His fight involves an exhilarating segment where his monstrous mass caves in the top floor of the Condemned Tower, crashing through each floor below until both he and Soma have to continue the fight on the ground. Still, my favorite boss trick is from the creepy Puppet Master, who will transport Soma to the painful impalement of an iron maiden if the player doesn’t catch the gangly arm holding the voodoo effigy before it enters the torture device. On the other end of the spectrum, the boss with the least appealing battle conditions is Rahab, who will only emerge from the water to take a breath in a flash while Soma is floundering at the pool’s surface. The game should’ve given Soma the soul that allows him to walk through water before this fight, not as a reward for completing it. Still, I can’t let this irksome fish soil what is a solid lineup of fantastically putrid and engaging Dracula underlings.
Well, I guess I should disclaim that each boss in Dawn of Sorrow is an invigorating challenge on paper. Each boss actually becomes incredibly irritating, but it’s obviously not due to a prevalently shoddy quality across the bosses. Each passageway to a boss’s arena is locked by a magic seal that Soma must find on the field like a rare item. I wish their interactivity was subdued as a meager special key because their utilization extends to what is quite possibly the most ill-conceived mechanic that the series has ever produced. To finish any of the boss battles in the game, the seal emerges and forces the player to recite its pattern as the battle’s coup de grace. If the player stumbles, they’ll be penalized with replenishing a bit of the boss’ health and prolonging the fight. Even though the player can commit these DS stylus swipes to memory in a practice menu, these sporadic sequences prove to be nothing but jarring, screeching halts to the flow of combat. Did I mention that these sequences are timed, and require the stylus to draw these zigzagging lines precisely? With all of the conditions at play, the most likely occurrence is that the player will accidentally fling the stylus across the room due to the tension of the fight, the suddenness of the sequence, and the strict time constraint. Plus, the seal sequences are completely superfluous to the player’s skill at conquering the boss, so the wedge they act as to artificially inflate each fight’s difficulty is particularly insulting to the player’s abilities. If Nintendo issued a mandate for Konami to implement stylus controls to highlight the DS’s mechanical capabilities, couldn’t they at least have used it for some soul powers instead of this pace-breaking, asinine chore?

Between all of the exemplary bosses whose soul powers keep the Metroidvania progression flowing, there are still the narratively relevant antagonists in the midst. Like the secondary characters who appear around the castle like Julius and Arikado, the members of the “With Light” cult will appear around unassuming corners just as episodically. Unlike Graham who held the persona of a mysterious stranger, encountering Celia or any of her peers will put Soma on high alert to evade any bodily harm they might attempt to inflict on him. However, what mirrors Graham with these new antagonists is that they share the exact same motivations for antagonizing Soma. Celia’s cronies, the dim pyromancer Dario and the so-smug-that-he’s-incredibly- punchable Dmitrii share the commonality of Graham’s birth year of 1999, the year that Dracula was officially ousted by Julius Belmont. Like Graham, they figure that this happenstance entitles them to Dracula’s immense power and are salivating at the chance to kill Soma to obtain it. Sorry to disappoint you boys but even without using Graham as an example, this is not how the reincarnation process works. We don’t know the precise age of Soma but considering he’s depicted with youthful characteristics and that his best friend is a teenager whom he’s grown up with, he was born sometime later in the 21st century. There is no correlation between Dracula’s demise and the births occurring in the same year. Also, the slayer of Dracula does not inherit his powers by defeating him, otherwise, Julius would become the thing that he seeks to destroy. Complications of their plan aside, without the mystery behind Graham’s intentions, multiplying him with two separate characters who make their motives clear from the start doesn’t really hold my interest in the moments of encountering them. Plus, their respective boss battles aren’t exactly all that stimulating either.

Celia’s invested interest in slaying Soma stems from her righteous belief that the world stands in a state of purgatorial chaos because there isn’t a penultimate exemplar of evil to balance God’s divine good. After finding that her two candidates are nothing but chumps, she cleverly tries to unleash the beast within Soma through other methods. Firstly, there is the slaughtering of a human being in cold blood, which is something that only an unholy entity would have the capacity to do. If Soma kills Dario during his second fight instead of pulling out the fire demon inside him that is reflected in a mirror and vanquishing it, the murder of this man will ignite a bloodlust in Soma and lead him to the dark side. Speaking of the dark side, the other tactic to trick Soma into embracing his (literal) inner demon is similar to how The Sith from Star Wars recruits naive Padawans. Celia leads Soma to a room in the Garden of Madness where she reveals that she’s conducted a ritualistic sacrifice using Mina as the subject. The sight of his best friend’s lifeless body dangling from an overgrown plant naturally infuriates Soma, and his intense rage is enough to let loose the tremendous evil that resides in him. If he preemptively has Mina’s charm equipped, he’ll be able to see that this is a ruse plotted by Celia and that it’s Dmitrii who has shapeshifted into Mina. Plan C from Celia isn’t an attempt to manipulate Soma, but it is the most shocking maneuver. In the catacombs of The Abyss, Soma will find that Celia has been sacrificed, and the result of this blood ritual has transformed Dmitrii into a Lovecraftian juggernaut as the game’s final boss. Discounting how the final boss elevates Dmitrii as the game's primary villain, we aren’t totally certain whether or not this was a calculated process on his part–gaining the gumption to murder his superior for his own gain. There stands the possibility that Celia executed herself as a last-ditch effort to give Dmitrii the strength needed to maximize his copycat demon soul. If Celia’s devotion to her cause results in doing something this drastic, provided this is really the true context of this event, then she’s miles more interesting and scary as a Castlevania villain than Dracula ever was.

Well, that perfectly met all of my expectations. To no one’s surprise, Aria of Sorrow’s direct sequel exhibited all of the outstanding elements of its direct predecessor that revitalized the fanbase’s enthusiasm for the Castlevania franchise. The problem is, that most if not all of the outstanding elements present in Dawn of Sorrow were merely transported from Aria, and it barely does much to discern itself, likely in the fear of diverting too harshly and failing to capture the same magic. Konami should’ve known that the same joke told twice isn’t as funny the second time and applied that rule of thumb to Dawn of Sorrow’s development. There are plenty of genuine quality-of-life enhancements present throughout, such as the utilization and organization of the souls, the exquisite boss battles and the graphical enhancements they display, and a puzzling main villain who will make me ponder on the game after I’ve finished it. Not even the magic seal mechanic is dumb enough to ruin everything else. Still, I can’t shake the feeling of deja vu that leaves me underwhelmed. Like the covetous wannabes who accost Soma for his power, Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow is kind of a copycat of something more genuine. I can’t completely write off Dawn of Sorrow because it’s still an objectively more pleasant and well-refined experience compared to Circle of the Moon and Harmony of Dissonance. Let’s just hope, oh God, the recycling process doesn’t persist in the subsequent DS Castlevania titles.

Beyond Good & Evil Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 12/22/2024)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Beyond Good & Evil

Developer: Ubisoft

Publisher: Ubisoft

Genre(s): Action-Adventure

Platforms: PS2, Xbox, GCN

Release Date: November 11, 2003

Remember when Ubisoft still had an inkling of integrity? Several gamers just guffawed with a confident, sneering "No!" to my rhetorical question, but I'm being serious. Perhaps those who would hypothetically treat my question with a sense of derision just aren't old enough to recall when Ubisoft wasn't synonymous with bloating the open-world genre and crafting some of the most trite and forgettable sandboxes in gaming. Ubisoft has lost all of its humanity to the point where they've forgotten the definition of "fun" altogether. Before the company became as depressingly sterile as EA, they used to churn out quality interactive experiences. 2003 was evidently such a strong year for the developer that one particular game fell under the radar behind the third mainline Rayman game and the acclaimed Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time. Some might express skepticism that a title from one of the biggest gaming conglomerates in the Western Hemisphere could have slipped into relative obscurity. Alas, Beyond Good and Evil is a textbook example of a video game cult classic. As per the definition, it bombed from a commercial and financial standpoint, but it highly resonated with a devoted, niche audience that still echoes its greatness from the mountaintops. Admittedly, the game eluded me during the year of its release, so perhaps I’ve inadvertently contributed to its commercial failure–and I will start harboring feelings of guilt that I transformed Ubisoft into the microtransaction machine they are today due to a lack of interest in their artistically driven titles from yesteryears. However, I subscribe to the adage that it’s better late than never, and it was finally time to rectify my aloofness and treat myself to a certified gem. After playing it, I’ve hiked up to the peaks with my gaming brethren to scream Beyond Good and Evil’s name in doing my part to pronounce its existence.

Despite what the title may allude to, Beyond Good and Evil has no connections with the collection of philosophies published by Friedrich Nietzsche. Beyond Good and Evil is staunchly in the science-fiction genre in terms of its thematic makeup. The elevated depiction of our future or the lofty and hypothetical, yet likely feasible concept driving the science fiction plot is a homeland war against alien invaders. The once-tranquil world of Hillys [Hill-iss] is trying its best to blockade the constant stream of attacks perpetrated by the parasitic DomZ, blanketing their population in a protective forcefield for safe measures to ward off the interplanetary pests. In wartime, one group of victims whose struggles are often overlooked are the helpless and clueless children caught in the middle of violent strife. In what is either off the coast of Hillys’ oceanside or a district entirely below sea level, a lighthouse is refurbished as an orphanage to shelter those who are the most vulnerable to the grizzly horrors of war. Jade, the game’s protagonist, is the co-proprietor of the orphanage along with her anthropomorphic boar “uncle” Pey’j. However, maintaining the livelihood of the lighthouse along with its junior tenants isn’t her only claim to fame as she has more occupations than a card-carrying con artist. Jade’s real passion is photojournalism, and she wishes to put her freelance lark to practical use by taking photographs that will win her the Hillys equivalent of the Pulitzer prize. The opportunity for journalistic glory comes knocking at her door when the Iris Network assigns her espionage work looking into the shady activities of the Alpha Section, the mercenary group with a stronghold control over Hillys and their efforts to combat the DomZ who have labeled Iris as a terrorist group. With the aid of the Iris Network’s intel and resources, Jade will scour the frontlines of every area with congested Alpha activity to blow the lid off of their clandestine corruption and cause an uprising on the streets of Hillys. As intriguing as the prospect of exposing the powers that be is, I wish the game kept the mystery of the Isis Network’s claims suspended a bit longer. Plus, that wish extends to depicting the Alpha Section a little less obviously as fascist evildoers. What kind of organization represents itself with a menacing skull as its emblem and expects to maintain a mirage of benevolence? Perhaps the developers should have implemented a few of the grey moral area philosophies from the book that share the same name in the story, and then maybe the events of the game would remain unanticipated.

In terms of its video game genre, Beyond Good and Evil is resolutely an action-adventure game in the vein of the 3D Zelda titles. As par for the 3D Zelda course, Beyond Good and Evil’s world of Hillys facilitates a free-flowing progression, yet with a relatively restricted design with defined parameters. Traveling through deep waters via Pey’j’s hovercraft may conjure up comparisons to The Wind Waker, but Hillys hardly enables the magnitude of a high seas romp. Really, the vacuous nature of the dense oceanic body surrounding Hillys is more similar to how Ocarina of Time used empty space as an uninterrupted medium between all of the notable destinations. Only in the case of Hillys, the seemingly endless waters are a more naturalistic way to render the vacant area that comprises the foreground rather than Hyrule Field’s sprawling barrenness on land. Hillys is essentially divided into three separate sections–northern and southern areas with a canal as the manmade transit connection between them. In the midst of the canal lies the Pedestrian District, the downtown epicenter of Hillys with enough hustle and bustle that it’s reminiscent of how the area around Hyrule Castle existed as its own sector separated from the outside hub. Given that this slice of metropolis life is situated in the center of the map, Beyond Good and Evil understands the nucleus model of a Zelda-esque world map splendidly. In addition to its astuteness, Beyond Good and Evil understands through hindsight that the outer region of the nucleus shouldn’t have a radius surrounding it that stretches for what seems like miles. The greatest point to the sensibility of Hillys’ design is that its entirety is succinctly compact, with any possible landmark being conveniently conspicuous from anywhere on the map. One destination to another in Hillys is approximately one minute away (in-game time), even without using the inexhaustible jet propellers of the hovercraft. Posturing the capabilities of 3D graphics had become unnecessary since the release of Ocarina of Time a generation prior, so the developers thought it was wise to highlight a restrained convenience that Hyrule Field was too busy trying to prove itself worthy of inducing awe to consider. Even though Hillys is as condensed as a made-for-TV edit of Pulp Fiction, I never grew tired of seeing the same setpieces as I quickly spanned the angled dumbbell shape of the map. The concentrated cut of Hillys that is available is still stunning, with whimsical fantasy elements juxtaposed with the electric atmosphere of futurism consistently generating curiosity.

Perhaps pacing to and fro from one end of the dense overworld to the other never became grating because the game diverts to cloistered subsections of Hillys often enough to progress the story. If you understand the tropes of Zelda and have been following the connections I’ve been making, one could already surmise that the pivotal progress points located in the various architectures around Hillys are Beyond Good and Evil’s “dungeons.” They’re one of my favorite staples of the Zelda series, and playing a game that emulates Zelda’s basic gameplay components made me salivate at the prospect of experiencing a crop of dungeons under a fresh IP. However, the reason why I put quotation marks around “dungeons” is because Beyond Good and Evil has its unique interpretation of Zelda’s labyrinths. In Zelda, the objective of a dungeon section in the most general of terms is unraveling the layers of the interior area via key collecting, puzzle solving, and natural exploration to uncover the boss battle core that serves as the dungeon’s climax. There is plenty of peeling to be done with Beyond Good and Evil’s dungeon sections, but the goal of excavating the premise is not to vanquish a mighty foe who either possesses a vital MacGuffin item or is a scourge affecting the morale of the dungeon and its outside vicinity. Enemies such as the booger monster and the gangly, sentient elevator unit serve as bosses with their sturdier health bars and considerable strategy needed to defeat them. Still, their encounters seem incidental just to check off the box of this video game trope.

I mentioned before that Jade’s assignment is to use her journalistic acumen to dig up dirt on the Alpha Sections, and infiltrating their various strongholds that assumedly house all of their shameful secrets is an integral step in tearing down their influence over Hillys. Iris intelligence will give Jade the coordinates to where they suspect the Alpha activity is at its most egregious, and snapshotting a photo of this scandalous deed with Jade’s camera is the dungeon’s primary objective. As simple as zooming in a camera lens and pressing a button sounds, it’s the circuitous route that leads to the Kodak moment that comprises the meat of the dungeon crawling. The towering Nutripils factory that used to produce Hillys’ favorite synthetic caloric supplement (and most plentiful health item), the “K-Bups,” has been abandoned since production significantly halted once the war began. Due to its lack of upkeep, Jade must reconfigure its array of electrical circuits so the transportation contraptions can lift her to the higher floors of the soaring establishment where the Alpha Section’s human trafficking operations are conducted. The radiantly red and spacious slaughterhouse is divided into three separate sections, all leading to the cavernous center of the building that all expose the Alpha’s allegiances to the Domz from three different angles. Excavating through the sublime, luminous interior of the Black Isle volcano’s lower base is performed before Jade gets her espionage assignment, but it still features the roundabout, puzzle-based progression of the other dungeons nonetheless. One might think that only offering three main dungeons would leave me unsatisfied since I tend to rag on Zelda titles that present a conservative number of them compared to games like OoT which featured almost a dozen. However, the few dungeons that Beyond Good and Evil display are an indication that the developers had a quality-over-quantity initiative at work because each of them is equally spectacular. Loads of engaging puzzles and route diversions matched with the sheer length of traversing through them make each dungeon equivalent to an artisan dessert–rich enough to satiate anyone’s appetite.

Combat in the realm of a Zelda dungeon mostly serves as a supplemental component to traversal. This is especially the case for Beyond Good and Evil, where combat is so tangential that the player cannot even unsheath Jade’s skinny, lightsaber-esque Dai-jo baton unless in the presence of an enemy. At times when enemies spontaneously swarm Jade, slicing and dicing them with the Dai-jo is usually a quick and simple process, even if the player doesn’t blow them away with a charged blast. Pey’j can even perform a hefty percentage of the legwork if the player triggers his partner function, causing the ground to quake with the boosted impact of his nifty jet shoes which momentarily catches enemies in a vulnerable airborne position. Many enemies are dispatched not through aggression, but rather through calculated puzzle-like methods–such as pushing the weeble wobble robots into the electrical fence impediments to kill two birds with one stone. As opposed to combat, the aspect of gameplay that tends to take center stage in Beyond Good and Evil is the element of stealth. Given that Jade is sleuthing in enemy territory, the connotations of covert spy work imply that she must remain a fly on the wall–lest she suffer the consequences of trespassing. Sizeable swathes of each dungeon are dedicated to silently stepping around the Alpha Section stormtroopers who stand guard over their operations. They’ll unwittingly give Jade her window of opportunity to dart around them by pacing through the corridors of the facility or changing their idle position by rotating in place, and the trajectory of their movement serves as pronounced cues for the player to discern and act accordingly. If the player is feeling confident enough or the armored dope is being a tad unyielding with his line of sight, stealthily walking up to them and kicking the green oxygen tank on their backsides will incapacitate them due to the sickly-looking gas that spurts out of it. Kicking it again while they’re running around in a blinded frenzy will cause their entire suit to malfunction and explode, which is always a comically macabre affair. Even if the player doesn’t take the risk to execute this act of killing, it’s unlikely that remaining stealthy as intended will cause the player much aggravation. As stated before, the patterns of the guards pacing routes and marching in place should be easily perceptible. If the player makes a mistake acting too eager, the penalty for compromising Jade’s position is rather tame. Scurrying away to a darkened corner of the map causes the guards to send a drone to hunt Jade down. If she isn’t caught in its laughably limited scanning zone, the guards assume that the intruder has been dealt with and return to their posts unphased. I’m almost so appalled at their laziness to the point where I feel obligated to report it to the bald big cheese who commands the Alpha Sections. Despite the lenient penalty for exposing Jade to the enemy, the elongated stealth sections are smooth and agreeable enough that the player ideally shouldn’t have to experience the guard’s lackadaisical defensive measures anyway. However, what confuses me is that in some areas, a floating turret will shoot Jade dead in her tracks immediately if she is detected. Shouldn't this apparatus ideally be everywhere as a part of their overall security system?

As full-flavored as Beyond Good and Evil’s dungeon sections are, locating the photo ops without culminating in a final boss to cap them off is rather anticlimactic. After finding the evidence needed in the slaughterhouse, Jade had to retread her steps to exit the premises, which had the bothersome feeling of incompleteness even though I knew I had done the task thoroughly. For Beyond Good and Evil, the fulfillment of a job well done does not occur until Jade returns to the hidden headquarters of the Iris Network behind a secret passage in the Akuda Bar and they provide her with the tangible reward of pearls. Between hoarding the breaded Starkos health items and increasing Jade’s maximum health with the “PA-1s,” the primary collectible in Beyond Good and Evil are the glimmering, blue-hued white pearls. The RPG mechanic of increasing Jade’s health may be another aspect reminiscent of Zelda, but a shiny collectible that blocks progression with an arbitrary number is a condition pioneered by 3D Mario. Once Jade collects enough for the game’s satisfaction in multiples of five or ten, Jade must take the hovercraft across the street from the lighthouse to the Mammago Garage. Here, the rasta rhino mechanics will augment Pey’j’s piggy hovercraft with features that will allow Jade to reach the further stretches of the overworld, provided that Jade offers them their asking price of pearls for their services. Ideally, each addition to the hovercraft should be implanted between infiltrating the Alpha Section strongholds, for they are the keys to unlocking access to the next base of their operations. The targeted missiles will snipe down the security sentry barring access to the Nutripils Factory, and the manual hop ability is needed to bypass the red lasers surrounding the border to arrive at the slaughterhouse. You know me, I adore a game whose progression incrementally unravels a la the Metroidvania genre, and facilitating this from a collectible model like a 3D platformer in the way that Beyond Good and Evil does showcase a naturalistic evolution for this gaming trope. Yet, the satisfaction usually felt by increasing a character’s travel capabilities is somewhat diminished because the Iris Network rewards Jade with an exorbitant number of pearls to earn the next hovercraft part after she completes a dungeon. Are each of these still shit tests to prove Jade’s worth like the first dungeon was? Don’t they know that Jade having as many of these as possible is vital to their cause?

It’s also a shame that the Iris Network simply keeps progression flowing so starkly like this because it deletes the player’s incentive to earn pearls through other sources. They might be banned by the Alpha Sections, but the enforcement of their new decree seems to be as successful as prohibition because several residents still possess these illicit gemstones in spades. There are a total of 88 pearls to collect in the game, and plenty of them have to be obtained outside of the standard story trajectory. In the Akuda Bar, Peepers will host three rounds of thimblerig for one, and Francis the Shark will forfeit his pearl if Jade beats him in a high-stakes game of futuristic air hockey. Driving up to sandy dunes in the overworld will cause Jade to get mugged by a looter, and chasing him down to the dead end of the river rapids cave tunnel will retrieve their pearl along with every cent they stole. Other opportunities to earn the main collectible that tests the ripping acceleration of the hovercraft are the races, and one pearl is naturally the prize for finishing in first place. Jade is evidently still on retainer for a National Geographic type of publication, for they’ll reward her with a pearl if she fills a roll of camera film with newly photographed creatures found across the ecosystem of Hillys. Located in the back alleys of the Pedestrian District are the Alpha Section’s subordinate areas of operation where there is bound to be a pearl or two lying around. Hmmph, hypocrites! These are my favorite optional ways of increasing my pearl counter, for they act as truncated versions of the main dungeons. Still, even for the sections of gameplay that stray away from the main course, I found every secondary mode to be both appealing and agreeable on their individual merits.

Those in disagreement with me on Beyond Good and Evil’s gameplay variety tend to state that the game should’ve stuck to one gameplay mode because everything they attempt is undercooked. Still, even among the harshest of critics, they tend to accede to the fact that what keeps Beyond Good and Evil from devolving into an unfocused mess is the impeccable characterization holding it together. Jade is an exemplary protagonist, and I’m not going to undermine her with the “for a female” disclaimer. She kicks major ass like Lara Croft, but there is something more substantial about Jade that supersedes putting a woman in the typically-male heroic role instead of a damsel in distress. Her photography is a vessel for her search for the truth, illustrating traits of integrity and honesty. Her orphanage showcases her compassion towards others, and the fact that she knows the name of seemingly everyone roaming around the Pedestrian District displays gregariousness. Her credentials for a humanitarian award are lovely and all, but what elevates Jade as a character is how all of the objectively admirable characteristics are mixed with tasteful moments of levity–like when she chases Woof around the lighthouse for the K-Bops in his mouth and calling Pey’j an “old fart” as playful banter. It also helps that Jade isn’t supporting the game alone with her charisma, as the salt-of-the-earth tech wiz Pey’j is almost equally as charming in his own right. The presence of their character dynamic while on the field together never ceases due to constant interactions between them, and it exceedingly aids their likability factor as characters. When Pey’j is captured by the Alphas, the secondary role is fulfilled by Iris informant Double H. He may not have the storied history with Jade as Pey’j does, but I find the man who attributes his chivalrous attitude to the teachings of the fictional Carlson and Peeters philosophy book to match Jade and Pey’j’s geniality. In the raging debate of how women are depicted in video games, we often forget that exemplary characters are not defined by their intrepid feats, but by how nuanced they are akin to people in real life as Beyond Good and Evil shows us.

Unfortunately, the commendable character writing is almost compromised by Beyond Good and Evil’s climax. In the search for Pey’j and all of the orphans that the Alphas unceremoniously abduct from the lighthouse, Jade travels to the DomZ base on the moon via Pey’j’s hidden spaceship called The Beluga. It’s here in this alien hive stripped from the same set as a level in Perfect Dark where it’s revealed that the Alphas have been abducting the citizens of Hillys so the DomZ can feast on their life force. It’s also on the dark side of this celestial body that Jade finds a lifeless Pey’j, and freeing him from a cocoon casing doesn’t make a difference. However, the devastating scene of seeing our porky friend flatlined is negated entirely when he soon recuperates totally unscathed because of a special ability Jade has to resurrect dead people. Huh? During what is one of the steepest difficulty curves I’ve faced in a while, the DomZ High Priest final boss keeps referring to Jade as “Shauni” which further implies that she’s not a regular human being. Jade stops the succubi menace, frees the orphans, and overthrows the Alphas as the prominent governing force of Hillys with the photographic evidence she’s been collecting, but I couldn’t help but focus on what was revealed about Jade during this climax instead of the happy ending. Giving Jade these extraordinary, supernatural abilities is unnecessary overkill to highlight positive traits relating to her. The enormity of her capabilities now verges her into Mary Sue territory, and that’s never a tasteful solution to compensate for a lack of nuanced female characters in any medium.

Beyond Good and Evil is a game that throws everything and the kitchen sink at the wall and sees what sticks. In my time with this underrepresented gem, I found that everything the game attempted was acceptable because they proved to be competently controlled and executed. Still, I wonder if the ease of each of the modes that the game tackled was due to the developers refining them to perfection, or because they didn’t enable the same robust skill ceiling as other games that feature the same types of gameplay. Even if the games that Beyond Good and Evil borrows from already do what it does better, namely Nintendo’s franchises, even those who feel underwhelmed admit that it’s all packaged in something with considerably more character and story substance than any of its influences. I’ve discovered that Beyond Good and Evil is an example of a cinematic game, injecting the strengths of film that video games up until this era were deficient in and rounding out the medium as a result--even if the game has noticeable holes in these departments. If the game garnered enough attention at its release, maybe it would've served as the example for the next generation that laser-focused on implementing cinematics in gaming. We’re on the wrong timeline, folks.