Yakuza: Like a Dragon Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 5/15/2024)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Yakuza: Like a Dragon

Developer: Ryu Ga Gotoku

Publisher: Sega

Genre(s): JRPG, Open World

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

Release Date: January 16, 2020

Guys, I took the coward’s way out. After being won over by the rightfully acclaimed Yakuza prequel, Yakuza 0, I said that I would journey through all of Kiryu’s adventures in Kamurocho in chronological order while anticipating their comparatively lackluster quality to the mobster’s origin story. However, proceeding with six whole games seemed rather daunting, and the assumed diminishing returns on the enjoyment factor while conquering the Kiryu half dozen didn’t provide a great sense of motivation. Therefore, I decided to instead divert my attention to a separate Yakuza property whose grass was equally as green as the Kiryu-oriented games were before they grew as old as their protagonist eventually did. Yakuza 7, or “Yakuza: Like a Dragon,” is the rebranded refurbishment that the series desperately needed, lest Sega’s crime-laden IP wilt away even further into an unrecoverable hospice. The series has officially sprouted a new seed from the decaying branches of the once-mighty Kiryu oak, and I’m happy to report that the seedling spawn is healthier than a garden-fed bovine on a prairie farm in Iowa. Come to think of it, Like a Dragon is surprisingly the precocious wunderkind. Despite the untested, amateur mechanics on display, Like a Dragon has garnered an astounding amount of acclaim. Hell, as part of the initiative to stray away from Kiryu’s long-standing saga, Sega has officially changed the name of the Yakuza series to “Like a Dragon” so it can encompass all ventures unrelated to Kiryu under one Japanese crime-focused IP umbrella. Considering that Judgment had already deviated from the bog standard beat ‘em gameplay in favor of a slower-paced detective story, why did the series decide to adopt the subtitle of its “seventh” entry as its new moniker? Because Yakuza (7): Like a Dragon is truly phenomenal, a testament to the fact that Sega’s need to reinvent the franchise was dire and that starting relatively anew always allows creativity to flourish.

Yakuza games tend to be rather lengthy, so one can imagine the lofty expanse of the narrative that occurs when it’s being arranged through the scope of the JRPG genre. The beginning exposition that introduces the scene and the conflict premise is prolonged to the duration of two whole chapters, with cutscenes so protracted that even Hideo Kojima might have taken an executive stance to cut them down if he were in charge. While I stated that Like a Dragon was like a reincarnation of the Yakuza franchise, the story beats of the conflict premise for Like a Dragon’s protagonist may indicate that nothing can truly be original. Stow away all of the lore exposition involving kabuki theater, an assassination at a Peking Duck restaurant, and a child being spared with the sacrifice of a Yakuza officer’s finger in your memory reserves for now. The focal point that drives the narrative forward is Ichiban Kasuga, an excitable, young Tojo Clan underling who was also adopted into the Tokyo organized crime syndicate due to being an orphan like the mainstay series protagonist we’re accustomed to. The tower of similarities between the two keeps stacking even higher when Ichiban suffers the same set of unfortunate circumstances as Kiriyu did when he was but a Yakuza rookie. Because Ichiban is a lowly plankton in a food chain of great white Yakuza sharks (and because he annoys the piss out of everyone), his family patriarch, Arakawa, proposes that he take a murder rap for lieutenant Sawashiro. Given his sense of loyalty for his crime family and his unbounded admiration for Arakawa, Ichiban turns himself in without so much as asking a single question. After serving 18 years in prison eating rice cakes off the radiator, Ichiban is released back into the public as a slightly greyer middle-aged man with a gaudy, eccentric perm that probably conducts as much static electricity as the Bride of Frankenstein’s vertical hairdo. Almost two decades spent away from the open range of society would be enough to perturb any ex-con, but the streets of Kamurocho are as foreign to Ichiban as an alien planet. No, this isn’t because everyone carries around pocket-sized computers, but because the Tojo Clan that he was eagerly waiting to return to has all but gone extinct. Kamurocho is now under the control of the Omi Alliance, the largest Yakuza organization originating from the Kansai region and the Tojo Clan’s archrivals. Ichiban encounters Arakawa to ask his former sensei about how a steadfast Kamurocho institution bellied up (and about his promise to treat him to Peking duck once he served his time), but Arakawa doesn’t acknowledge his presence. Collaborating with Adachi, an ex-cop turned taxi driver, Ichiban uses Adachi’s connections and knowledge of the Yakuza underground passageways to intercept a meeting that Arakawa is presently conducting. Ichiban believes that encountering his former boss in a more intimate setting will help clear up his hazy memory of him. Alas, all his persistence gets him is a steamy bullet to the chest, courtesy of the man he holds in such high esteem. As the screen fades to black and Ichiban’s fate hangs in the balance, the events leading up to this shocker of an introductory conclusion are very effective at exuding a sense of sympathy for our protagonist. Still, I argue that the cutscenes that don’t involve Ichiban in any capacity could’ve been shown at later instances in the narrative or omitted completely. As it is, they clog the duration of the first two chapters to an excruciatingly bloated degree.

After his intrusion, Ichiban isn’t hauled off by Arakawa’s subordinates into the Kamurocho harbor to serve as a free meal to the industrial waterfront’s various sea life. By some miracle, Ichiban survives the flaming hot sting of lead and is dumped onto a homeless camp one city over in Yokohama. Thanks to the medical assistance of a down-on-his-luck ex-nurse turned vagabond named Nanba, Ichiban makes a full recovery and is free to traverse through the streets of this unfamiliar setting. Specifically, the area of Yokohama that serves as Like a Dragon’s concrete playground is Isezaki Ijincho, the city’s nightlife-centric equivalent to Kamurocho. Love hotels and S&M clubs are lucrative places of commerce in the city’s red light district, poverty runs so rampant that shantytowns have been erected all over, and gangs of belligerent goons are always alert to bumrush unsuspecting civilians just for making eye contact with them, even if they’re looking at the backs of their heads. While the atmosphere of an electric land marked by debauchery and danger transfers over from the regular stomping grounds of Kamurocho, Ijincho differs greatly from the standpoint of urban planning. The neighborhoods of Ijincho forgo the tight grid-based design of Kamurocho’s outdoor corridors in favor of letting the pavement breathe a bit between intersecting streets. Aiding in the spaciousness of this new setting are larger pieces of infrastructure interspersed between the wall-to-wall buildings, ranging from the natural Sakura River that flows north in the western sector to the Jinnai Station in the center. Actually, Ijincho’s access point to Japan’s efficient public transportation subtly serves as the dividing line in the center between the two halves of Ijincho. I’m positive that I’m not the only one who noticed that half of Ijincho north of the Jinnai Station is far more opulent and more approachable with its parks, federal buildings, and swankier restaurants as opposed to the grimy aisles with dive bars and sex-centric entertainment on each side of every street in the southern district. Compare the snazzy tourist trap of Chinatown in the northeast to the vacant slum of Koreatown just below the train station, and you’ll see the contrast of Japanese gentrification at its most apparent. Black haze obscures any part of Ijincho that the player hasn’t visited yet on the map, so even visiting the northern half seems like a reward for progressing enough in the narrative past the filthy homeless camp that served as Ichiban’s spawn point. Still, no matter the general area, Ijincho is overall far more pleasant to traverse than Kamurocho because the sprawling expanse of the city pronounces the parameters of each neighborhood. Because the individual areas are broader and more defined, it allows the player to create a clearer mental image of the map’s overall layout. However, the wider breadth of Ijincho’s streets does allow for moving automobiles to act as obstacles in the foregrounds, and let’s just say that interacting with Ijincho’s domestic drivers might affirm some negative cultural stereotypes.

Besides their eerily similar origin stories, I don’t think that Ichiban shares much in common with Kiryu. One might think that they’d be kindred spirits given their shared unfortunate experience, but a connection based on grief always proves to be a shallow one. If I had to describe the contrast between the two Yakuza protagonists, I can’t think of a more fitting way to illustrate it than by comparing the different demeanors between a cat and a dog. Kiryu is naturally the furry feline in this analogy, hiding his good nature underneath an aloof, withdrawn exterior. Ichiban, on the other hand, exhibits so many traits of “man’s best friend” that it’s a wonder that Arakawa and the other Tojo executives didn’t throw him treats around the office or bat him on the nose with a newspaper when he was out of line. The expendable, frizzy-haired ex-Yakuza grunt never exudes any pretensions of acting hard-headed and collected like his crime connections would connote. Ichiban can’t help but be an overly optimistic doofus with an unbridled enthusiasm that makes him endearing to some and irritating to others. You’d think with his immature disposition that he’d been in the slammer since he was a child instead of 24. Even though his childlike tendencies and naivety might be unbecoming of a middle-aged adult man, his arrested development is not a hindrance in tackling the challenges of both surviving and succeeding on the feral streets of Ijincho. Ichiban’s lack of cynicism and self-doubt, which tends to be characteristic of a seasoned adult, gives him an inflated level of confidence. Match that with his unwavering streak of benevolence stemming from his adorable aspirations to “become a hero,” and Ichiban is an indomitable force for all that is good and wholesome. He’s a dog off its leash with the cognitive acuity of a human, which allows him to apply his relentless positivity to better society as any domesticated canine would do if they could. Still, when approaching people whom Ichiban deems as his “masters,” who are the higher-up Yakuza in this case, he conveys expressions of genuine devotion to them so resolute that Webster’s needs to conjure up a more appropriate synonym for loyalty that matches Ichiban’s intensity. That is why it’s heart-wrenching when Arakawa pulls the trigger on his Tojo Clan pup. Imagine if Fry from Futurama had shot Seymour if they managed to cross paths once again: people would’ve fucking revolted in disgust. I never had such a strong emotional reaction to witnessing any of Kiryu’s hardships, so I suppose Ichiban is more than a substantial replacement as the series’ narrative backbone. Who would’ve thought that positivity and friendliness would radiate more charisma than stern stoicism?

Ichiban’s dog-like characteristics also extend to Like a Dragon’s combat, for his perspective in which it is portrayed is likely how a dog sees people with their unrefined eyesight and limited mental capacities. Or, it’s the everlasting effect of playing too much Dragon’s Quest in their formative years. Above the changes in the protagonist and setting, the true radical departure from Yakuza’s defined characteristics that Like a Dragon adopts is turn-based combat instead of the tried and true beat ‘em up gameplay. One might argue that basing a JRPG around the modern, urban landscape of Yakuza is ill-fitting, but I’ve given so many examples of “domestic JRPGs” at this point that the evidence needed to make a rebuttal to this claim seems obvious. If the argument stems from the awkwardness of turn-based combat compromising on the urbane and intimidating aura that a series centered around gangsters is intended to exude, let’s not kid ourselves; the Yakuza series has always been a bit silly, and the sincerity of the rough, macho characters only adds to to comedic tone. That is why the visual of a thug politely waiting for his turn to crack Ichiban’s skull open with a lead pipe doesn’t strike me as off-putting in the slightest. Like Kamurocho, throngs of bellicose baddies walk the streets of Ijincho, darting their hostilities towards Ichiban in a flash. They might be the same types of delinquents, punks, and other urban rabble-rousers that exist in Kamurocho, but we’ll never know their true identities thanks to Ichiban’s warped perspective. Whether it’s his overactive imagination or spending time in solitary confinement for a sizable portion of his prison sentence made him develop onset schizophrenia, the wretches of Ijincho are depicted in an eclectic array of fashions. The only other man who seems to share Ichiban’s twisted perception of these malevolent men is a bald guy who brandishes a wicked scar. He refers to the hundreds of reprobates that roam the city as “Sujimon,” giving Ichiban a device that catalogs their information once he encounters them. Do I have to state which Nintendo JRPG series this feature is borrowing from? The weaknesses and resistances of the enemies can’t be committed to an easy formula like Pokemon, but the range of enemies is equally as diverse. The wacky ways in which Ichiban perceives these malcontents are too numerous to list, indicative of the sheer variety on display for the player to contend with. The player will still grow tired of the frequent encounters with these assholes just to gain a crumb of cash and experience, but that’s just a continuation of a series’ staple hiccup.

The variation of Like a Dragon’s turn-based combat certainly doesn’t stop with the types of enemies looking to batter Ichiban for his lunch money. There’s also the factor of Ichiban’s line of defense against these lowlives that the player will select in a menu when it’s their opportunity to strike. At first, Ichiban will only be able to execute a series of fairly flabby punches, with some modest special moves integrated into the mix that cost a meager amount of MP (magic points). Once Ichiban stumbles into the offices of Hello Work, the local career advisory institution, Ichiban’s set of combat skills grows exponentially. I was initially under the impression that this feature directed the player towards a specific minigame that netted them a respectable sum of yen upon its completion, but I couldn't have been more misled. Essentially, Ichiban’s “job” chosen here is equivalent to selecting a role-playing battle class. For instance, the musician job (that a job clinic would never assign to anyone as a prospective career in a million years), involves Ichiban clubbing enemies with his acoustic guitar, strumming some sick cords whose sonic waves deal serious damage, throwing his mixtape to enemies like a Venice Beach drifter, etc. Ichiban will blind foes with a giant, wooden pepper grinder as a chef, slap them with confectionary treats as a “host,” throw a crystal ball to enemies like they’re bowling pins as a fortuneteller, and perform a deadly windmill of spin kicks as a break dancer (which, again, is not a realistically viable career option). Each job also has a progress meter that is separate from Ichiban’s general level scaling, and earning enough experience after battles will unlock more effective moves with said job. The system of simply waltzing down to the Hello Work clinic and having them hand over a job posthaste to Ichiban seems so far-fetched that it's comical, especially since he’s a former Yakuza with a criminal record. Still, alternating between classes on a whim just by visiting Hello Work whenever it’s convenient ensures that the turn-based combat is unlikely to grow stale, and increasing the amount of skills available in battle through experience just adds more range to the exciting possibilities of combat.

Turn-based combat also adds another dimension of difficulty to Yakuza’s gameplay. I may be declaring this prematurely, as I’m basing this statement solely on Yakuza 0, but the series’ standard beat ‘em up gameplay rarely offers any non-optional challenges in its narrative. Oftentimes, when facing off against a narratively significant boss in Yakuza 0, the severity of the onslaught they inflicted on Kiryu wasn’t anything a few Staminan drinks couldn’t patch up. Somehow with the mechanical swap of turn-based combat, there were a few instances in the story that amounted to genuine roadblocks where I had to reload and reconsider my tactics to succeed. The methodical nature of turn-based combat forces the player to consider every decision they make carefully, ensuring that they can’t act hastily or mindlessly punch and kick their way to victory. The consequences of failing to be fastidious with a turn-based system also come with stricter penalties. When I said that the wastrels of Ijincho were roughing up Ichiban for his lunch money, I was only half kidding. If Ichiban falls from having too much damage inflicted on him, the game will fine the player half of the total amount of yen in their pockets, as per the traditions of JRPG penalties. Considering that the amount of money a Yakuza protagonist has coincides with his progress, every Zen piece is precious and should be preserved at all costs. Another piece of JRPG protocol that Like a Dragon follows is that Ichiban is the designated leader in battle, so the fight ends if Ichiban is knocked out, even if his party members are still standing. Really, the only way to stave off having Ichiban’s bank chopped in half like a magician’s assistant is to humor my one perpetual grievance with the JRPG genre: grinding. What makes the tedious, repetitious process all the more vexing in Like a Dragon is that common enemy encounters will only warrant chump change of experience. A more efficient way of grinding is by spelunking in Ijincho’s sewers, where the rarer, more ferocious “Sujimon” roam. The issue with this venture is that not only are the sewers a drab dungeon crawler area, but their labyrinthian designs, where the player is intended to burrow deeper away from the entrance, make the additional grinding process anything but a convenient detour. To my dismay, Like a Dragon isn’t immune to the typical experience level-based contingency that plagues so many titles in the genre, and some sections are grating as a result.

To ensure that Ichiban stays as his perky, man-child self in the heat of combat, the player must utilize the talents of his fellow party members. As the game progresses, Ichiban will gather up a ragtag of misfits who will all follow his lead, working under different sets of causes. The cynical and self-conscious disgraced ex-nurse Nanba initially collaborates with Ichiban to hoist himself out of the homeless rut he currently resides in. The affable, uncle-like Adachi was similarly told to step down from his position as a cop after acting insubordinate towards his commanding officer, who was wrapped up in a false-arrest conspiracy. The (canon) token female member of Ichiban’s crew is Saeko, who joins the boys after a mutual boss of theirs allegedly commits suicide. Unlike Ichiban’s other cohorts, she was not dishonorably discharged from her day job as a barmaid, but it’s unlikely she has glowing Yelp reviews because she’s not afraid to get confrontational with the more boorish, pervy patrons. Each of Ichiban’s partners come with their own “class” with its own distinctive menu of moves, but their skill sets are just as malleable as Ichiban’s once they visit Hello Work and change their “jobs.” I implore everyone to stick Saeko to the hostess job for the long run or to use her in steep situations. I can’t explain it, but the “sparkling cannon” move, where she shakes up a bottle of sparkling wine and sprays enemies with the bubbly and festive alcoholic liquid once it’s uncorked, dishes out an astounding amount of damage, while also afflicting an illness that counts as a status ailment. Is there a prevalent recessive gene across Asia that makes them allergic to grapes or carbonation? Are they all just lightweights? Anyways, besides sticking Saeko to a long term career (although I’m sure everyone will be curious to see what the “night queen” job entails for reasons that aren’t frowned upon), the fact that each one of Ichiban’s partners feature the vast potential of skills that he does soars the variety of gameplay options to the stratosphere.

If the player requires further assistance, Ichiban can use his newly acquired smartphone to call the “poundmates,” special offensive or defensive services that can be summoned to either deal damage to enemies or buff the party for a commission fee. Many of these helping hands are earned through completing the side stories, and they’re usually the more memorable and involved ones (saving a crawfish named Nancy from a hungry homeless man, resurrecting the career of a famed Korean actor, etc.) found around Ijincho. I didn’t think I’d be using the supplementary service all that often initially, but considering how few of Ichiban and his partner’s attacks deal damage to multiple foes at once, I ended up ringing the line for the poundmates more than a middle-aged white woman dials 911 on her neighbors. God bless you, Gary Buster Holmes. Ijincho doesn’t deserve you.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have made Ichiban’s partners sound as if they’re merely tools serving Ichiban to keep the man afloat in combat. They are all human beings, after all, with their own issues and stories that coincide with the struggles that life has thrown at them. Individual story arcs revolving around Ichiban’s partners take place at their designated watering hole, the Survive Bar, where Ichiban gives moral support and minor suggestions to the specific partner over a round of drinks. Once the partner confides in Ichiban five separate times, their “bond” will reach its maximum, allowing the partner to gain more experience in and out of battle, as well as unlocking new career options at Hello Work. Should it be any surprise that Sega has taken a decent helping of influence from Persona in molding Yakuza as a JRPG, considering that the company owns the rights to both franchises? The “social links” between Ichiban and his partners are a nice little nod to one of Persona’s patented life-simulator idiosyncrasies, but an even more overt instance of Like a Dragon borrowing Persona’s properties like a little sister taking her older sister’s clothes is Ichiban’s personality traits. Separate from his experience level in combat, similar to Persona, Ichiban must also be proactive in enhancing his non-physical attributes that mostly pertain to situations outside of combat. The six traits in question run the gamut of personhood, including passion, style, confidence, intelligence, kindness, and charisma. Completing a number of various tasks around Ijincho that vaguely correlate with a specific trait enhances each of them to a maximum of ten levels, and the unsavory adjectives that describe Ichiban’s lack of finesse with these qualities at the start become more glowing as the player sculpts Ichiban into a model human being. Once the player improves Ichiban’s personality to its limit, new career and even romantic options will be readily open to Ichiban. It’s an exciting prospect for the well-intentioned spastic, for sure. What exactly does the player need to do in order to turn Ichiban from a repugnant dud into an erudite, beguiling stud? Well, practically anything the game offers. Veteran Yakuza players will be more than familiar with the giant checklist that each Yakuza game implements in order to give players routine sparks of accomplishment by completing every conceivable aspect of the game in either small or large quantities. With the personality traits as another relevant, stackable progression point in Like a Dragon, the developers have wisely chosen to bridge the two together. Checking off any task on the board will result in one of Ichiban’s personality traits increasing slightly, with the rate of increase extending even more as the number needed to satisfy the task stacks higher. Because Yakuza’s progression is more free-flowing than the regimented day and night cycle of Persona, the player is given almost limitless time to hone Ichiban’s personality and sharpen him as a man of debonair sophistication far before the final chapter. While this does, however, ultimately verge into yet another aspect of grueling grinding, offering a tangible award for completing the most prevalent aspect of busywork the series exhibits makes the player more inclined to go the distance in completing this arbitrary list more than any game before it.

Whether or not they’re for the benefit of Ichiban’s personal growth, the minigames that Like a Dragon offers around town should at least inspire a modest sense of curiosity for most players. If they don’t, it’s because the minigames across the Yakuza series in previous titles have been spotty, to say the least. I’m still demanding a refund from whoever was running the underground catfight club in Yakuza 0, and that was thirty years prior to the events of Like a Dragon. Mahjong and Shogi are both still too cerebral for my feeble brain, and the batting cages still demand a high level of starting proficiency as if they’re under the pretense that the protagonist is training for the professional baseball league. While some returning minigames might not be all that stimulating (for me, at least), I was consistently floored by the new ones that Like a Dragon offered. The “Can Quest” minigame involves gathering a mass quantity of aluminum detritus along the shantytown block while riding a bike, which can be used as a currency to trade at a covert hobo market in exchange for health items, small amounts of yen, and meager pieces of armor. This system is intended to offer Ichiban an avenue to purchase goods and services at his most economically destitute, but I still continued to revisit this minigame once Ichiban climbed out of the homeless camp because collecting cans while crashing into competitors was genuinely a blast. To really boost Ichiban’s personality stats, he can sign up to take academic tests on a myriad of subjects at a vocational school. They mostly boil down to trivia questions, but trivia is one of my many fortes that I was glad I could flaunt to raise Ichiban’s stats. Watching old movies at a cinema is probably intended to make Ichiban more cultured, but the player spends most of the time in the theater fending off bipedal sheep wearing suits in a whack-a-mole button-pressing sequence so they don’t use their powers to make Ichiban start sawing logs in the middle of the film. I can’t tell if this scene is a clever externalization of falling asleep at inopportune times, or if it’s just another daffy indication of Ichiban’s questionable mental state. Possibly the most outrageous and mechanically intricate minigame that Like a Dragon debuts is Dragon Kart, a bona fide kart racer in the vein of Mario Kart. Don’t expect race tracks as extravagant or mechanics to be as refined as the kart series this minigame is modeled after. Still, I can’t help but marvel at the fact that something so uncharacteristic to the series like this is competent enough not only to be feasibly playable, but it's possibly the most thrilling minigame that the Yakuza series has ever devised. If Dragon Kart doesn’t evolve through subsequent Yakuza entries to the point of besting Mario Kart because the developers have scrapped it in favor of the Japanese card games or anything baseball-oriented, you’ve lost yourselves a valuable customer, Sega (I’ll probably just buy it anyway and sulk in solitude). The same goes for any of the aforementioned minigames I lauded, for it would be a shame to dispose of the strongest collective of new minigames the series has ever bestowed.

Of course, all Yakuza fans know that the most sizable piece of side content for any entry to the series is the optional business arc. Ichiban will come across a failing business called “Ichiban Confections,” and takes it upon himself to reinvigorate the struggling cookie/biscuit stand because sharing the same name as the company speaks destiny to him (and because he’s the most stand-up guy in Ijincho). Needless to say, a child operating a lemonade stand has more business acumen than Ichiban. This is why the professional guidance of company heiress Eri, her experienced grandmother, Tome, and the obligatory business involvement of poultry with mascot, Omelette, is imperative to the success of Ichiban Confections, with our intrepid hero serving as the heart and spirit of the operation. The goal that Ichiban must meet for the modest roadside attraction is to climb the ranks of the Ijincho corporation chain all the way to the tippy top, or at least that’s the ambitious stipulation given by the lender, the fabulously wealthy entrepreneur, Nick Ogata. Many of Yakuza’s businesses have befuddled players with their excessively stiff learning curves, but Ichiban Confections really takes the cake (no pun intended). Never in any previous capital venture has there been so many opportunities to sink the company to the sea floor, and without a proper explanation from the game on how to combat every issue that might lead to utter disaster. Essentially, the business has to meet three different quotas by the end of a financial period, which are net worth (the funds), employee morale, and overall sales, and then take part in a shareholder meeting where Ichiban and company have to deflect the complaints of three to five shareholders and pacify them. From my experience, one of these quotas will be neglected because funneling money into one contradicts the other. You need to drain the funds in order to upgrade the businesses and the employees, which will, in turn, lower the company’s net worth. All the while, most of the employees available at the start do not have the credentials to keep the businesses out of the red zone in every category. Once I learned to let the businesses roll in their shoddy shapes and put all my eggs in the shareholder basket, sufficiently combating their inevitable anger by mastering the mechanics of that portion led me to success. Soon, I took the Ijincho business circuit by storm. For those of you who aren’t as persistent with this stress-inducing side project and decide to let the cookie stand get devoured by the more profitable predators, I still recommend that you persevere through the anxiety. The profits earned through Ichiban Confections are the only substantial way to earn a high income, and turning the company into at least a contender in the rat race earns Eri as a secret partner. You’re telling me that you’re going to pass up a chance to have two hostesses unleashing “sparkling cannon” in all cardinal directions on the field? Ichiban’s party will become more feared than a guy with two flamethrowers in the Vietnamese jungle.

All optional content in Like a Dragon serves to augment the game and have the player be consistently entertained by the smattering of possibilities at their fingertips. Still, the player shouldn’t feel disappointed returning to progress the story once in a while, for Like a Dragon’s narrative is equally enthralling. What is initially established as a rags-to-riches story with Ichiban acclimating to life in a new city progressively turns into an Ijincho conspiracy that runs deeper than the gang could ever have imagined. The catalyst event for that continual arc happens when Ichiban and his crew find their employer, soapland operator Nonomiya, hung from the soapland’s ceiling in what looks like a suicide. However, a faint hearing of Chinese spoken during a phone call that took place right before his unexpected death leads the gang to investigate the tragic events under the suspicion of murder. Their investigation leads them into the inner workings of the Ijin Three, the trio of mafia factions operating in Ijincho: the endemic Yakuza family, the Seiryu Clan, Chinese Liumang, and the Korean Geomijul. Between their individual criminal schemes of social security fraud and a city-spanning surveillance system, one clandestine escapade that unites all three organizations is a counterfeiting operation that funds political protection against the invading forces of the Omi Alliance and other larger crime syndicates. Once the operation is blown wide open to the press and a coup occurs within the Liumang, Ijincho’s crime soil is ripe to be planted upon by Omi scavengers. Still, there’s the matter of how the waves of Omi Alliance termites can steal territory so easily. Back in the day, before Ichiban’s lengthy prison sentence, he was well acquainted with Arakawa’s son Masato, who was bound to a wheelchair due to having suffered from a collapsed lung as a newborn. He was presumed dead due to his debilitating handicap, but Ichiban is shocked beyond belief to learn that his old Tojo Clan ally is not only still alive, but has overcome his disability and became the governor of Tokyo (under a different name to elude his Yakuza upbringing). It would be a life-affirming success story, only if “Governor Ryo Aoki” weren’t still using his Yakuza connections to flood all of Japan with Omi Alliance influence while ousting anyone he deems as an obstacle or liability in the process. He’s also the reason Ichiban had to serve time in prison, not Sawashiro. Ultimately, what I’m trying to illustrate by summarizing the plot is how a new layer of the conspiracy is unraveled at every step of the story, reloading the sense of shock and intrigue to retain the player’s interest. Soon, the player will forget all about the alleged murder of the soapland owner because the bigger picture has blossomed and captured our attention far beyond what the initial starting point could’ve.

Eventually, the layers keep unraveling to the point where it hits an emotional, poignant core regarding Ichiban’s character. It turns out that Arakawa didn’t perceive Ichiban as a nuisance to be quelled from his presence. He meticulously shot Ichiban in a non-fatal area to have him travel to Ijincho using the trash circuit, a risky maneuver to use Ichiban in Ijincho to retaliate against his son’s political influence. Once Ichiban reconvenes with his former boss without him blowing a hole through his chest with a bullet, he and several other Omi executives make the shocking decision to dissolve the Omi Alliance. Once the decision is set in stone, Arakawa suspiciously ends up dead just like the soapland owner. We’re to believe that Aoki’s decision to kill his own father has made him an unrepentant beast who must be stopped at all costs, but a valuable piece of lore complicates this shocking action. Sawashiro confesses that Aoki is really his son that he abandoned as an irresponsible teenager, but Arakawa actually had a baby in the same set of lockers, and he took the wrong one. It’s heavily implied by Sawashiro that Ichiban is Arakawa’s lifeblood son, considering he shares the same unorthodox birth circumstances occurring around the same time. Not being blood-related to Arakawa doesn’t excuse Aoki’s disturbing decisions, but it does uncover a conversation about his character. Like Kiryu and Majima, Ichiban and Aoki represent character foils that can be compared and contrasted by their similar set of circumstances. For these two in particular, there’s a “nature versus nurture” argument at play. The source of Aoki’s domineering lust for power and control stems from feeling weak and helpless as a child due to his physical encumbrance, but who is to say that he still wouldn’t have been spoiled by special mob boss protection as a patriarch’s son anyway? The reason why Ichiban is so grateful for Arakawa and his Tojo Clan affiliates is that they were the ones who finally gave him a home and a place of belonging after being deprived of a basic human need for so long. Because the upbringings of the two could’ve swapped at a razor-thin margin of chance, who is to say that Ichiban couldn’t have become a megalomaniacal monster in a position of political power instead of the personable goofball he is today?

Awing at the convoluted plot and discussing the depth of the character relationships are common talking points on Like a Dragon’s narrative substance. However, what I gathered from Like a Dragon’s story was a biting commentary on modern sociopolitical affairs. I’ve neglected to mention Bleach Japan in the chaos of Ijincho’s conspiracy because they represent a distinct, analogous facet that reaches outside of Like a Dragon’s story. The organization's mission is to cleanse Japan of any “grey zones,” which involve any form of legal prostitution in the red light districts and any sex-oriented businesses that are turned a blind eye to by law enforcement. Using the example of brothel owner Hamako, people who are involved with this business are more kind and generous than Bleach Japan would ever give them credit for, for there’s more context behind their practices that allow them to be permissible. Still, this context doesn’t stop Bleach Japan from harassing Hamako and other sex work managers, namely protesting vociferously outside their places of business. For an organization that preaches an absolute good, they tend to use violence as a means of backlash against those who stand up to them, namely Ichiban and his crew. In reality, Bleach Japan acts as the face of Aoki’s political revolution, using the mirage of righteous progress to replace what was erased with something that benefits him, not society at large. Does anyone else see parallels between the attitudes of this fictional organization and a certain percentage of young people who feel obliged to squash anything they deem to be problematic? I don’t have to name names; if you’ve been alive and active on the internet over the past ten years, you’re aware of whom I’m referencing. It’s the most pervasive societal trend that occurred in the time of Ichiban’s prison sentence, and the game comments that giving common people this much political control is dangerous, since it's caused a seemingly impenetrable institution like the Yakuza to concede to their demands and fold like a pool towel. However, the game suggests that people who define their lives by all-encompassing, radical activism aren’t all smug, self-satisfied hypocrites, but are rather misguided pawns pulling the strings for political forces who don’t share their beliefs like they say. Kume, the gutless turd who serves as Bleach Japan’s figurehead, stabs Aoki to death once he learns that he’s not really a fighter for social justice, technically confronting the “bad guy” of the story, albeit in the most extreme way possible. It’s a devastating scene for Ichiban as his former Tojo Clan mate dies in his arms. However, the irony of this scene is so rich that it can be cut like butter, which caused me to burst out in hysterical laughter.

Once again, a Yakuza title has run me ragged. Still, like upon finishing Yakuza 0, it’s a gratifying kind of exhaustion felt after experiencing something magnificent. The Yakuza franchise intrepidly makes a radical diversion from their comfort zone of beat ‘em up combat and the continued narrative surrounding their mainstay protagonist to the unpaved territory of JRPG gameplay with another upstanding gentleman at the helm. For most franchises, they’d fumble in some aspects while attempting to rewrite so much of their foundation. Yet, Yakuza: Like a Dragon excels regardless because it retains some strong essentials to the franchise, such as its open-world free roaming, its bombastic sense of humor, and a gripping web of a crime story. The game does get bogged down with the muddy conventions of JRPG grinding at times, but the momentary upsets of this are not enough to weigh down every other glowing positive this game exhibits. I think Yakuza: Like a Dragon is of equally high quality to that of Yakuza 0, an amazing feat considering that a game with an untested mechanic is of the same prestige as the game that served as the apex point of Yakuza’s refinement. And you know what? I’ll probably come to appreciate Yakuza: Like a Dragon even more when I’m trudging through all of the Yakuza games leading up to it.

The Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Ages Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 5/14/2025)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

The Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Ages

Developer: Flagship

Publisher: Nintendo

Genre(s): Action-Adventure

Platforms: Game Boy Color

Release Date: February 27, 2001

For ages, I thought that the Oracle duology of Zelda titles on the Game Boy Color presented minor alterations of the same game as any pair of Pokemon titles. Now, after conquering the action-oriented Seasons, it’s time to delve into its more cerebral twin, Oracle of Ages. My reason for tackling Ages second after Seasons was not based on a preference for swinging Link’s sword at a multitude of enemies, but because of the preconceived notion that Ages was a rather high-brow experience. I was under the impression that Seasons was the little piggy who crafted a shoddy shack out of assorted twigs and glue, while Ages was the more astute brother pig who built a house out of reinforced concrete. Being the big, bad wolf in this analogy, I figured I’d practice blowing down the foundation with the less durable material before attempting to collapse a lung trying to penetrate the solid fortress. Did “practicing” for Ages by playing Seasons make my experience with Ages smoother? From what I’ve gathered, a few returning elements were more readily approachable. Still, no matter the similarities, Ages is truly a fundamentally different Zelda title than Seasons in ways that scratch deep beneath their surfaces. Oracle of Ages may not be too obtuse to humor, but it’s still one of the most challenging titles in the franchise.

The player will have to trust my assertion of Age’s differences from Seasons, for the game’s introduction might prove otherwise. Once again, Link is abruptly summoned to adventure by some sort of cosmic influence, and he awakens in a pleasant spot of grass in an unfamiliar land. This time around, the goddess whose the center of attention in this scene is Nayru, the blue sister of Din, who is alternately more demure than her fiery, self-assured sister. A crowd of curious people surrounds Nayru as she serenades them, but her modest performance is interrupted by a malevolent force. This time around, it’s not Onox with a violent windstorm. The evil perpetrator is a witchy succubus named Veran, who infiltrates the gathering by possessing series staple character Impa to get close enough to the goddess and take full control of her personal autonomy. The plot premises between Ages and Seasons ring so eerily similar that one’s initial assumption of these twin titles being pallet-swapped clones like a pair of Pokemon games. Still, despite the litany of copied properties with a few minor differences, one major implement Ages inserts into its story is the addition of a deuteragonist of sorts. Ralph is apparently Nayru’s de facto guardian, tardily arriving on the scene of her capture and expressing the most zeal for the situation at hand. He’s certainly committed to his role of taking all of the proverbial bullets for the lovely Nayru, and he’s made it a competition with Link to be the one who wins her freedom over the control of Veran and possibly her heart by proxy. I don’t have the heart to tell this poor sap that his efforts will be all for naught, or at least in the department I’m certain he yearns for. Considering that the conflict narrative took a backseat in the nosebleed sections of Seasons until the climactic point of the adventure, it’s nice to see that Ages is implementing a character that will remind the player of the quest’s purpose from time to time.

The Game Boy Color’s pixelated graphics might also make the player believe that Ages’ takes place in the same setting as Seasons, but Labrynna exhibits plenty of fundamental differences from the map of Holodrum. While Seasons tended to evoke elements from the first Zelda game as a sign of the series’ evolution in fifteen years, Ages conversely revels in a prosperous, post-Ocarina period of the franchise. Labrynna shares as many typical topographical features that comprise a Zelda overworld as Holodrum, but the differences lie in what exists in those naturalistic regions. Mountains still tower over Labrynna in the north, but these hilly peaks are the grounds of the Gorons, a major race of rock creatures who were only seen in the 3D Zelda titles up until this point. I suppose the aquatic fish whose heads emerge from under the water to spit balls of fire are classified as “Zoras,” and they are here in the rivers of Labrynna to hurl flaming loogies at all angles relative to Link’s position. For the first time, the domesticated, articulate Zoras from Ocarina of Time coexist with their hostile, neanderthal cousins. In addition to districting sizable sections of the map to two of Ocarina’s major races, Labrynna also has the Zelda world standards of a hub village near the spawn point, graveyards, and grassy plains that stretch for miles. In the context of Ages’ prevalent obtuseness, I suppose the more pressing question regarding the overworld is how difficult it is to navigate through. Surprisingly, I’d make the argument for Holodrum being the more arduous overworld to traverse through, for there are four seasonal conditions that complicate the terrain. This isn’t to say that progressing through Labrynna is smooth sailing throughout, but my experience constantly changing the terrain of Holodrum with the “Rod of Seasons” made all of the progression snags in Labrynna far more approachable. Like Seasons, general progression is hinted at by the wise Maku Tree located around the vicinity of the overworld’s primary village hub. However, the key difference with this character/traversal aid is that in Ages, it’s a younger, gender-swapped version of the mighty, omniscient oak. A distinctly feminine tree isn’t inherently odd, but the bulging, kawaii eyes and facial expressions are slightly disturbing. The female Maku Tree even develops a crush on Link because, naturally, it's her feminine duty to find our intrepid hero sexually irresistible. Is anyone else uncomfortable?

Traversal through Labrynna also acts in conjunction with the game’s “alternate setting.” In Seasons, a land called Subrosia was nestled between a dimensional rift under Holodrum, showcasing a dynamic relationship between both lands, bonded by the core mechanical gimmick of the game. Technically, Ages doesn’t have an alternate setting, complete with its separate zip code and radically different environment. The portals that appear in the square patterns in select spots on the ground will instead transport Link to Labrynna about a century in the past. The general graphical color palette shifts from bright and vivid to a muted tone to discern and signify the two eras of Labrynna’s history, and topographical elements are warped around ever-so-slightly to suggest that approximately one hundred years is enough time for land masses and manmade architectures to naturally bend with the passing of time. With this mechanic at play, Ages yet again reminds us that despite its rudimentary pixels, it’s a game that succeeds the more technically expansive 3D titles of the series. Time travel has been used as a mechanical and narrative conceit for both Ocarina of Time and Majora’s Mask, so I’m going to have to deduct points from Ages for aping a series standard instead of carving out its own distinctive, untested gimmick like its Oracle twin. Still, I’ll give Ages credit for providing the clearest display of time travel and its effects through its gameplay. Unlike Ocarina, whose cataclysmic event was sandwiched ambiguously between two playable time periods and the ephemeral three-day reset of Majora’s Mask, the cause and effect of altering Labrynna’s history showcases a permanent change in its present. For example, King Zora is absent in the present day of Zora’s Domain because he succumbed to an illness, but Link can give him a potion that cures his terminal ailment, so he’s still sitting on his throne in the future. A token of “brotherhood” received from Goron legends will help Link navigate through the present-day Goron tribe, and the Maku Tree’s affections for Link stem from him performing a kind deed for her when she was just a sproutling. The paradoxical nature of time travel is treated with a surprisingly direct correlation, almost as masterfully as Chrono Trigger. It utilizes the premise of time travel more tactfully than either of the 3D games preceding it.

Link uses a mythical harp to transport back to Labrynna’s glory(?) days, an instrument obviously influenced by the time-altering properties of the ocarina. In relation to how the “Rod of Seasons” was the integral item in employing the game’s core mechanic, the “Harp of Ages” is also accompanied by a slew of other tools at Link’s disposal. Because Ages focuses its gameplay on puzzles instead of combat, some items have been swapped to appropriately complement a more wit-oriented Zelda experience. Platforming-intensive items like the Roc’s Cape and the magnetic gloves are no longer of relevant use, but other items replace them to round out Link’s arsenal. A regular hookshot replaces the magnetic gloves in spirit, and clinging to objects out of Link’s reach propels him to areas he’d have issues climbing otherwise. The Cane of Somaria makes its valiant return from A Link to the Past to materialize blocks to use in stamping down button switches and navigating through platforms with invisible trajectories. The seeds are just as prevalent here as they were in Seasons, but the apparatus that turns them into projectile ammunition is a tube that shoots a single seed. Subtracting the simultaneous flinging of multiple seeds may be disappointing if one has played Seasons first, but the aerodynamic force of the tube allows the seeds to ricochet across all the walls momentarily, allowing the player to coordinate their seed shots as if they are playing billiards. If the physics involved with the seed shooter is any indication, the items in store foster the puzzle-latent gameplay of Ages beautifully as the items did for the respective gameplay ethos of Seasons.

When discussing the utility of the weapons available in Ages, I’m mostly referring to instances in the game’s dungeons. Still, the range of Ages puzzles expands far beyond the enclosed parameters of dungeon progression. When I stated that Labrynna was easier to traverse than Holodrum, I meant generally walking about the game’s overworld. When it comes to progressing from point A to B, B usually pertaining to the next dungeon, Ages maintains its puzzle-laden mechanics throughout its run time to such a degree that it’s almost absurd. The entirety of Ages is denser than the deepest of ocean seafloors and stacked with more concurrent ingredients to contend with than eating a triple-decker club sandwich. Sure, the Maku Tree gives Link a general cardinal direction to the next essence, but arriving there is consistently a serpentine zigzagging through seemingly innumerable impediments. Ages isn’t just inclined to not hold the player’s hand at any given point: it expects them to execute feats of traversal equivalent to finding one’s way around a cemetery at night while blindfolded. If the player manages to come close to their destination, one core hindrance will often lead them four or five steps behind. For example, the animal buddies are featured here again, albeit less prominently than in Seasons. To navigate around a bit of terrain on the path to a dungeon, Link needs the special capabilities of one animal buddy, but only one will be of use due to a predetermined selection. Because I was unaware that I had to procure the respective horn that calls either Ricky or Dimitri, I had to find the whereabouts of the uncharacteristically-colored Moosh far away from the place where he was needed and return to the complication at hand while riding on his backside. Before Link can access the third dungeon, Link must first regain all of his tools that have been stolen by a group of bipedal lizard folk who reside on a remote island located at the southeastern corner of the map. The process of taking back what is rightfully Link’s incorporates heavy usage of warping to and fro from past to present, which will happen so frequently that it’s almost recommended that the player plot a schematic chart that details each step. The same process is equally applicable to entering Zora’s Domain, which also involves submerging Link underwater in addition to performing a time warp every few steps. These are only a few examples, as I could easily use every trek to a dungeon in Ages as an example of how complex every waking moment is on the field of Labyrnna. On paper, turning the traversal of the overworld into a ceaseless puzzle box is admirable from a design standpoint. In execution, constantly having to backtrack due to not seeing the game’s intended trajectory quickly becomes vexing and overwhelming.

Don’t get me wrong, the puzzles featured in Ages’ dungeons exhibit a display of constant brainteasers to contend with as rich and demanding as the ones in the overworld. I stated that the consistent issue that plagued the dungeons in Seasons was that each of them felt far more vacant compared to the lavish, detailed ones from previous Zelda titles. With Ages, the aesthetic layout of each dungeon is equally as lacking in terms of foreground properties, but it’s far less bothersome here. One doesn’t have time to bemoan the middling magnificence of the dungeon when they’re wracking their brains in every corner. Setpieces from Seasons transfer over, such as the train carts and turnstiles, and they are incorporated heavily into the mix of progress impediments that litter each of Ages’ dungeons. Joining them to make every inch of Ages’ dungeons as complex as trigonometry are colored cubes meant to be rotated into a fixture to unlock doors and colored walkways where Link mustn't retrace his steps. At least one of these puzzles is dedicated to filling a room per dungeon, but each of these labyrinths displays its own quirks that make them all distinctively challenging. The “Crown Dungeon” involves several gates that are color-coded red or blue, where the gates of one color can only be accessed at a time. “Moonlit Grotto” acts as a light version of “Eagle’s Tower” from Link’s Awakening, where Link must find and destroy a series of blue crystals to unlock a passageway to the dungeon’s final boss. Link uses a new item called the “Mermaid Suit” to swim beneath the trenches of “Mermaid’s Cave” without needing a brief breath of air, while he conversely makes a conscious effort not to dip into the boiling lava surrounding the platforms of “Skull Dungeon.” While emphasizing the puzzles of these dungeons has made them more memorable than the ones from Seasons, a fraction of their resonance is due to feelings of frustration. Because the puzzles per room in Ages’ dungeons are so dense, any dungeon that requires a substantial amount of backtracking is a goddamn nightmare. This is especially the case for the game’s later dungeons, notably “Ancient Tomb” and “Jabu-Jabu’s Belly.” I’d get so irritated trying to retrace my steps in these dungeons that I started to abuse the checkpoints situated between the beginning and the miniboss to regain my foothold, something I never resorted to in Seasons. The latter dungeon mentioned, a top-down 2D iteration of the fish behemoth’s innards, is by far the most maddening Zelda dungeon I’ve ever experienced, adding the elements of draining water in between grueling amounts of backtracking. When people state that they hate Jabu-Jabu’s Belly, they must be referring to the one from Ages, right?

Naturally, the puzzle-oriented gameplay that is intertwined with overworld and dungeon progression seeps into how Ages’ bosses are dispatched once Link manages to outwit all of the conundrums leading up to them. Unlike Seasons, whose boss roster was an amplified reunion of baddies from the very first Zelda title, Ages conjures up several original foes to conquer. Really, these bosses had to be fresh and unfamiliar, for it’s the only way to ensure that the player spends a considerable effort scratching their brains on how to defeat them. Discussing these bosses in great detail would be a disservice to the grand riddle behind all of them, but I will say that the weapon or tool acquired in their respective dungeons is utilized wonderfully. However, the one spoiler I will elaborate on in regards to Ages’ bosses is intended to be a fair forewarning for the game’s climactic duel against Veran. After climbing her tower and learning that Ralph is going to erase himself from existence in his blind fury to save Nayru, Veran puts the goddess's body up as a wager for finally defeating her in a three-stage fight. The first stage is a reheated version of when Link fought her beforehand, but the next two will likely put the player in a bind. For a final boss intended to culminate a puzzle-oriented experience, there’s very little brain function required in defeating Veran. In fact, swiping at her as she buzzes around the room as an abominable series of giant insects with her witchy, feminine face involves more guerilla combat similar to any boss from Seasons. The boss feels like a leftfield rug swipe because it doesn’t involve any of the shrewd skills of puzzle solving to conquer in a game bursting at the seams with them. It’s certainly not as ball-busting as Onox was, but it might be wise to utilize the advantages of the appraised rings to survive this final fight. It’s not as if the game offers a ring to boost the player’s cleverness.

After playing through Oracle of Seasons, the objective I kept a conscious thought of was to see if Ages would supplement its twin’s shortcomings. The reality of the relationship between these two GBC games is that they are two different extremes lying on two entirely different ends of the Zelda spectrum. It's a Heat Miser and Snow Miser kind of dynamic presented between both of them, and their stark contradictions cannot feasibly converge into one nuanced product. Fortunately, most other Zelda titles already fall in a middle ground between both extremes, so either unbalanced experience with the Oracle titles presents the possibility to indulge in the type of Zelda gameplay one prefers to their heart’s content. I enjoy a tasteful mix of both, but I think I’ll side in favor of Seasons because Ages is austere to a fault. Still, the slightly elevated narrative and masterful utilization of the time travel mechanic gives me enough substance to appreciate Ages anyway.

The Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Seasons Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 5/14/2025)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

The Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Seasons

Developer: Flagship

Publisher: Nintendo

Genre(s): Action-Adventure

Platforms: Game Boy Color

Release Date: February 27, 2001

For seasons, I assumed that the Oracle duology of Zelda titles on the Game Boy Color presented minor alterations of the same game, like the Pokémon titles. In reality, Capcom's subsidiary company, Flagship, graced Nintendo’s first colored handheld system with two fully-fledged Zelda games that have separate stories, dungeons, and other distinctive creative attributes. It’s like being half Jewish during the holidays, with another treasure trove of presents arriving on Christmas once the candles of Hanukkah, lit weeks prior, are extinguished. Still, despite the excitement of indulging in a Zelda menage a trois, it’s likely that the primary demographic could only afford one of these titles at a time. Because of a lack of disposable income, it was paramount to choose which of the Oracle titles to buy based on one’s personal preferences. I am not faced with this crucial decision because 24 years of time passing has made both Oracle games readily accessible for cheap, but choosing which of these games to play first was still something to consider. I landed on the red-covered Oracle of Seasons not from an impartial round of Eeny Meeny Miny Moe, but because Seasons is rumoured to be the simpler of the two. If the Oracle games represented the two sides of the brain, Seasons is apparently the emotional, creative right, or at least when contrasted with Ages’ emphasis on puzzles. I’m not averse to puzzles in gaming, much less ones in Zelda games, but Seasons seems like a logical first because of how advanced Ages seems in comparison. Still, I am basing this decision on the information I’ve gathered from public consensus, so now I can see for myself whether or not it holds water.

Handheld versions of Nintendo titles tend to take liberties with their respective franchises’ narrative traditions, and Game Boy Zelda games aren’t apprehensive in shuffling up the series formula if the whimsical fever dream of Link’s Awakening is any indication. Like the aforementioned title, Oracle of Seasons deviates quite a bit from the standard Triforce quest in Hyrule. Link inexplicably falls in the soft grass of a land called Holodrum, and he’s greeted by a girl with brilliant red hair who takes him to what looks like the campground of pioneers that have docked their caravan on a grassy plain. A wicked storm interrupts their merry dancing session, and a sinister cyclone whisks everyone away except for Link. However, this is no indication of violent, spontaneous weather patterns. Behind the cyclone is a sinister figure named Onox, who has captured the red-haired girl, the goddess Din, in the first step in his diabolical scheme to essentially murder the planet by upsetting the balance of the seasons. Oracle of Seasons may present a new setting, add unfamiliar characters, and alter the stakes in the major conflict, but all that the various factors at play in the premise do is mask the tired similarities. Tell me, what’s the fundamental difference between saving a captured Din versus Zelda, or the sinister plan of the main antagonist? Strikethrough Din with Zelda and Onox with Ganon(dorf), and everything will still comfortably fall into place as a standard Zelda story. They can’t all be mavericks like Link’s Awakening.

However, one cannot substitute Hyrule for the kingdom at the center of Seasons’ setting. Where Koholint Island was all around askew, there is something more comfortably familiar about Holodrum, despite it deviating from the standard Zelda setting of Hyrule. Actually, the eerily off-putting aspect of Holodrum’s familiarity that the player might notice is its geographical similarities to Hyrule as it was depicted in its very first iteration on the NES. The first dungeon can be accessed immediately as the game begins, and it’s a gangly, hollowed-out tree situated on an island connected by a bridge from the mainland. Link visits a western graveyard in the later portion of the game, and I’m fairly certain that the foreboding domain of Onox is situated in the same geographical location on Holodrum’s map as Ganon’s was on Death Mountain. Really, what reminds me the most of Hyrule’s 8-bit debut in Holodrum is how segmented its map is. To signify that Link has arrived in another district of Holodrum, a white light accompanies the classic transitional loading freeze that occurs whenever Link steps out of the square perimeter boundaries that comprise the world’s entirety. The added luminescence is quite jarring, and it distracts the player from learning the layout of the map. Fortunately, Oracle of Seasons was developed in a post-Ocarina of Time world, so the developers have implemented accessible features to prevent the overworld from regressing into the esoteric maze that was the first game’s Hyrule. Teleportation items called Gale Seeds are so plentiful that they literally grow on trees, and a map is available as a constant reference point that details where the player has and hasn’t visited yet. If that fails to work, the omniscient wisdom of the Maku Tree will set the player on the right track, once they pop his sleepy snot bubble anyway. Holdrum’s various kernels of compact design evoke the most classic of Zelda maps in ways that all the subsequent upgrades of Hyrule don’t.

Holodrum is fairly adequate as a substitute for Hyrule, but the true point of interest regarding the map of Oracle of Seasons is the other world that exists beyond/beneath it. The swirling vortexes found on the field teleport Link to Subrosia, a mysterious netherrealm with an adjacent relationship to Holdrum on the surface. A Link to the Past presented a dichotomy between darkness and light, with the “dark world” engulfing Hyrule in a warped and disorienting chaos depicted in a Hieronymous Bosh painting. Despite the surrounding lava (that looks like boiling Coca-Cola thanks to the pixelated graphics) that radiates Subrosia in a perpetual, crimson glow, the district is not the contrast of good versus evil that A Link to the Past presented. Surprisingly, Subrosia is quite the humdrum little burg. Subrosia has homes, shops, and all of the other establishments that comprise a civil society. Its cloaked denizens look suspicious on the surface, but they are a perfectly domestic race of creatures. Interacting with them will expose their good-natured demeanors that they veil under their shrouded clothing. Link will join a dance troupe with strict team choreography, take a female Subrosian wearing a cute pink bow as a gender signifier on a date, and have one of his items stolen by two delinquents that he must reattain. Hey, getting mugged is far more commonplace than being attacked by pumpkin monsters and disembodied skulls. Because there was a hidden veneer of friendliness in Subrosia underneath the hellish surface, it made the alternate Oracle of Seasons overworld far more interesting than the seemingly inviting one on the surface.

The primary reason for visiting Subrosia for a significant portion of the game relates to the game’s central mechanical gimmick. In each of Subrosia’s temples lie the four goddesses that will grant Link the power to manipulate each of the four seasons. With a swish of the magical item known as the “Rod of Seasons,” Link can alter the weather of Holdrum to fit the typical outdoor conditions associated with each season, provided he can find a tree stump on the field to stand on. Each season naturally comes with a unique set of environmental circumstances to contend with. Spring is when the foliage is the most fertile, so Link can use plant pods to bounce himself upwards while gazing at beautiful, freshly-bloomed flowers. The prolonged period of vegetative growth leaves the herbage wild and unkempt by the summer, allowing Link to climb a series of vines like a ladder. The golden autumn is apparently when the pesky mushroom obstacles are ripe enough to rip from their roots, and the snow of winter is obviously a unique, seasonal hindrance to work around. Sections of Holodrum are designated to a certain season, but they can always be altered with the rod to unlock passageways that only specific seasonal conditions allow. Ultimately, besides the aesthetic change, those conditions really do boil down to the ones I previously mentioned. Spring and winter are the two seasons that present a varied seasonal contrast, while summer and autumn seem like an arbitrary obligation. I understand that not incorporating all four seasons into the fray would be incredibly uneven, but they could have at least implemented more than a single element into the mix to make the seasons more mechanically discernible. Overall, I suppose that the four constantly shifting with every corner of the map provides enough intrigue about how the weather conditions affect the layout of the land, even though it is the source of the jarring, white transitions I mentioned earlier.

The “Rod of Seasons” is the item in Oracle of Seasons with the greatest narrative precedence, but the other tools in Link’s arsenal are just as imperative in his quest to restore environmental balance to Holdrum and rescue the fair Din. It turns out that I spoke prematurely when I said that Link’s Awakening featured unique Zelda items that were endemic to it. Many of those items have transitioned over to the subsequent handheld Zelda game and were either greatly innovated on or were rebranded completely. Roc’s Feather returns and allows Link the capability to jump once again, but it is eventually upgraded to the “Roc’s Cape” that extends its aerial ability to a glide function. I’ve mentioned the gale seeds that teleport Link to a select few destinations, but I neglected to delve into the other types of seeds that grow around Holdrum with their own distinct properties. Essentially, the seeds function as surrogates for Zelda items that have been misplaced. Ember seeds light torches and trees like a lantern, and pegasus seeds will supercharge Link’s moving speed and jump length without the footwear apparatus that allowed him to do this in Link’s Awakening. Kind of seems like a downgrade because of the ammunition, eh? These seeds can either be dug out of their sack or slung as a projectile with the slingshot, which can now fire three shots simultaneously with an upgrade. A series of horns will call three animal buddies to assist Link’s traversal on the field, and the player can control this eclectic gang of creatures while Link rides on their backs or in their pouch like a joey. The pouch in question belongs to the kangaroo named Ricky, whose phenomenal jumping capabilities can elevate Link up those towering cliffs while walloping enemies with his hefty boxing gloves. If the steep obstacle is instead a waterfall, a dodongo named Dimitri will carry Link up the cascading drop point while probably being ignorant of how many of his kind Link has slaughtered at this point. Lastly, a winged-Charmin bear named Moosh will use the sheer force of his bodyweight to crush rocks with an airborne slam. I’d be willing to bet that the trio of animals summoned by the horn as help was taken from the animal buddies from the Kirby’s Dream Land games, but the core difference is that Link’s mobility consistently feels like an enhanced modification, like driving a car instead of pedaling a two-seated bike from the back. I should also highlight the magnetic gloves, for they’re a wonderfully kinetic innovation on the hookshot that propels Link over perilous gaps with far more player involvement. I would sell the item selection in Oracle of Seasons short because much of it is a variation on the ingenuity that Link’s Awakening displayed in this department. Still, continuing the trend of ingenuity that the previous handheld Zelda game presented with Link’s array of gadgets and extending on it is nothing to sneeze at. It’s far more engaging than what was presented in Link’s Awakening while not diminishing the previous game's contributions. In addition, the grueling trade sequence quest that made progression in Link’s Awakening a chore is optional here. The Master Sword acts as the incentive for the player’s diligent efforts in completing this series of side quests, with a specific pattern learned in Holodrum’s Lost Woods unlocking its location.

Still, it is recommended that the player go the distance and become Holodrum’s de facto delivery driver to earn the Master Sword because Oracle of Seasons is the most combat-oriented Zelda game to date. In fact, this was the core design initiative that drove the game’s development, highlighting the physical factor of Zelda’s gameplay while diluting the puzzle aspect. Because Oracle of Seasons is a far more meat-headed Zelda title, the dungeons tend to be quite sparse. Stepping into one of these labyrinths, especially after playing Link’s Awakening, feels like attending an open house where all of the decor and knick-knacks that give a home a lived-in quality have been removed. Removing the clutter that comprises the typical Zelda dungeon was a conscious decision on the part of the developers. In place of the intricate set pieces that involve methodical planning to navigate around are clusters of enemies waiting to bombard Link in close quarters, and a key is usually earned upon defeating all of them. Like many elements in Oracle of Seasons, the vacant dungeon design that emphasizes enemies is evocative of the first Zelda game’s minimalism. Still, as an intentional nod or not, the stark vacancy on display here, without the excuse of 8-bit hardware as a hindrance, leaves a lot to be desired for the dungeons in Oracle of Seasons. Admittedly, Seasons does feature a select few puzzles that are fairly substantial, but they are very few and far between all of the hordes of enemies. No amount of carts on train tracks that most of these dungeons cram into the mix can salvage the fact that the overall layout is concerningly emaciated. All of the dungeons in Seasons tend to blend together into a forgetful mush as a result. Still, I must detail the surprising fact that the later dungeons in the game feature platforming challenges fit for something like Super Mario Bros. once the Roc’s Feather upgrades into a cape. One sidescrolling section in the “Sword and Shield Maze” where Link is dodging fireballs over lava while jumping on platforms reminded me more of Bowser’s Castle rather than any of Ganon’s domains.

Considering that combat is given a greater emphasis, one might assume that Seasons’ bosses are quite formidable, and they’d be correct. It’s not as if the series has struggled to offer a meaty challenge with their climactic dungeon foes in the past, but some previous entries, such as Link’s Awakening, stumbled at every step to supply their dungeons with worthy final battles. Come to think of it, so did the first Zelda game for the most part, and I think the developers were working with the same sentiment in mind. By far, the most overt form of Zelda 1 worship that Seasons commits is recycling the same boss roster in almost the same order. However, thanks to either Capcom’s initiative or hindsight inherently upgrading them, the familiar foes that underwhelmed us in the past have evidently been bulking up over fifteen years. The Dodongo doesn’t just walk around nonchalantly so Link can gingerly place a bomb down its gullet, and the Digdogger greatly utilizes the magnetic gloves even if it makes the fight rather finicky. I laughed out loud when all it took to vanquish Gohma in the first Zelda game was a single arrow to the eye. All that laughter did was fuel vengeance inside the cyclops arachnid, and his newfound swiftness and grabbing ability are not to be taken lightly.

Even though Onox fulfills the character role of Ganon as a Zelda title’s primary villain, his fight is incomparable to any of the evil swine’s. Labeling Onox’s duel as an endurance test would be an understatement. The final battle against the maniacal “general of darkness” is equivalent to running a marathon in the Amazonian Jungle, keeping watch for the unregulated obstacles that are bound to trip up anyone if they don’t maintain constant vigilance while sprinting. Pegasus seeds will aid in eluding the swings of his giant flail, but it's going to take some considerable trial and error in avoiding an encased Din who joins the fight as a shield of sorts. Onox’s second phase in the dark depths of his tower’s basement, where he transforms into a dragon creature, is completely ludicrous. Why? Because the platformer-intensive design of this battle is an honest-to-God Dr. Wily fight from Mega Man masquerading as a Zelda boss. From the X-axis perspective to jumping on his massive hands to reach his weak point at eye level to the spray of lightning-fast energy bullets, don’t tell me that the mad, grey-haired doctor isn’t going to pop out of the beast in a capsule upon its defeat. That is, its eventual defeat after several grueling attempts of perfecting each stage while Link’s health is still beeping like a vital signs monitor by the end. Congratulations, Onox; you can now confidently step out of Ganon’s shadow and claim the distinguished title of the hardest boss in Zelda history (that I know of).

Keep in mind that I can’t comment on whether or not Oracle of Seasons is intended to be one half of an overarching Zelda experience with Oracle of Ages yet. I can only assess the game on its individual merits, and it’s certainly a jumble of uneven elements. Delving into the bad, or lackluster, aspects first, Seasons has a habit of neglecting many Zelda elements that are usually integral to an excellent Zelda experience. The narrative is practically sidelined for the duration of the game, and the conflict that catalyzed it is terribly clichéd. I don’t mind the emphasis on combat, but diminishing the puzzle factor of a Zelda dungeon to this degree presents a lack of nuance that typically makes them exceptional. Still, Oracle of Seasons excels by taking the onus of Link’s Awakening to subvert the mechanics of a standard Zelda title every step further with its item roster. I’ve griped about the redundancies of the season-changing mechanic, but it's such a prevalent aspect of Seasons’ progression that it's anything but a waste of potential. Oracle of Seasons is a game with stark strengths and weaknesses on the quality spectrum. I have a suspicious feeling that Oracle of Ages will compensate for what Seasons is lacking while faltering with what it shines in, but that has yet to be determined.