Kingdom Hearts Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 7/15/2025)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Kingdom Hearts

Developer: Square

Publisher: Square

Genre(s): Action-RPG

Platforms: PS2

Release Date: March 28, 2002

Is 29 too old an age to start playing Kingdom Hearts? Is 9 too old to start playing Kingdom Hearts? That was the impression I gathered from a childhood friend of mine who dissuaded me from experiencing Square Enix’s colorful JRPG series with a rabid fan following when I was still of its appropriate age demographic. Simply put, he said the series was “lame,” but he also expressed the same lackluster sentiment on the first Jak and Daxter game because “it didn’t have any guns” like its sequels. Thank God I ignored him for that one, but I let his assessment of Kingdom Hearts color my decision to snub it during my gaming prime. What makes my shunning of Kingdom Hearts at the time especially lamentable is that the series is likely to exclusively attract gamers situated in its targeted consumer base of children and perhaps pre-teens. Experiencing Kingdom Hearts as an adult might elicit the opposite reaction of jubilation, which might include the symptoms that Pepto-Bismol is intended to remedy. The game’s conceptual foundation is a crossover between Final Fantasy and Disney’s intellectual properties, for the love of fuck. This convergence between two entities from two separate sides of the entertainment media landscape was initially thought to be ludicrous at first, but even without the hindsight of the series’ avid following for over two decades as proof, I could’ve told you that Final Fantasy and Disney are a match made in heaven (or Hell). Still, their offspring here is like the video game crossover equivalent of a jagerbomb, an alcoholic cocktail composed of Jagermeister and Red Bull that is so sickeningly sweet and syrupy that it should be illegal. Simply because two things have natural chemistry together doesn’t mean that they should copulate. However, despite how I’ve expressed that the two media institutions that make me bilious in their own rights are liable to kill me as quick as strychnine when they join forces, there has always been something about Kingdom Hearts that has intrigued me.

Apparently, the Disney half is the more otherworldly of Kingdom Hearts’ concoction, portrayed as a fantastical escape into the exciting realm of adventure for our plucky young protagonist, Sora. While the scrappy, blue-eyed boy and his two companions of similar ages, Riku and Kairi, are obviously cut from the same cloth of Square Enix’s contribution to Kingdom Heart’s conceptual mix judging by their designs, it doesn’t take playing every game in Final Fantasy’s exorbitantly lengthy library to know that they have been created as wholly original characters exclusively for this new IP. Still, their humdrum life of lenient responsibilities exists in the realm of Final Fantasy, considering that established characters from Square’s series live in close quarters with them. Yes, everyone knows that the epitome of a mundane, Norman Rockwell-esque existence involves a Swiss Family Robinson lifestyle on a deserted tropical island with Wakka from Final Fantasy as one’s neighbor, pissing off one’s parents by accidentally kicking his blitzball through the window every other week. Whether or not their existences are as ordinary as the game’s introduction is depicted as being, its normalcy for Sora and company is interrupted when shadowy creatures known as “The Heartless” invade their island home and envelop both Riku and Kairi into a void of the unknown. Sora, on the other hand, does not join the fate of his friends because he’s the prophetic figure destined to rid the Disney multiverse of the Heartless plague with the esteemed keyblade weapon that brandishes Mickey Mouse’s royal insignia. Still, a fraction of what makes him worthy of wielding such a prestigious weapon is his selfless, good-natured personality, so he’s determined to save his friends from the predicament that has been foisted onto them. Similar to Zelda, Kingdom Hearts presents the plot premise of the archetypal hero–a young boy’s call to adventure prompted by his savoir role, formally unbeknownst to him, that has been foretold among said adventure’s key supporting characters. It fits the overarching tone of Kingdom Hearts appropriately, but the way in which the game contrasts Sora’s uneventful life with the journey that ensues shows a laughable lack of perspective on the part of the developers.

Just to clarify, my distaste for both Final Fantasy and Disney does not stem from a general apprehension I have towards all media created for children. Otherwise, my catalog of reviews wouldn’t heavily feature Mario, Sonic, Kirby, and several other platformer mascots meant to sucker in kiddies of all kinds. No, the overall mark against both entities that in turn makes them inter-media soul mates is that they are cornier than my stool after a third helping of succotash. I don’t know which media executive figured that cloying, mawkish sentimentality and baroque melodrama were key ingredients in striving for accessibility. Still, considering the success of Final Fantasy and Disney (to a disproportionately greater extent) which are both brimming with these characteristics, he might have been onto something. Personally, there isn’t a Lactaid strong enough I can take to withstand the cheese oozing from either entity’s pores as profusely as SpongeBob after being dipped in fondue. In saying that, I do express a fair amount of respect for Final Fantasy for pioneering the groundwork in what we know as the JRPG genre, even though I tend to gravitate towards titles in the genre that subvert its thematic foundation. Disney, on the other hand, I probably haven’t said anything agreeable in their regard since I was in kindergarten. Not only did Disney’s eponymous founder have a black belt in bigotry, making David Duke seem like an amateur by comparison, but the collective of properties owned by his monolithic corporation that are showcased here as Kingdom Hearts’ various levels also reminds us that he was the biggest hack fraud in entertainment history. Barely any of Disney’s intellectual constitution consists of an original idea. Hell, the estate of Edgar Rice Burroughs demanded that Kingdom Hearts credit him so the developers could use Tarzan, and this game is backed by a corporation so indescribably huge that you’d think they’d be bulletproof. Hercules is from the storied Greek mythos, British author Lewis Caroll penned Alice in Wonderland, The Little Mermaid is a Danish fairy tale, Winnie the Pooh is the brainchild of A.A. Milne, etc. And these are just a few examples from what’s included in the game! A Nightmare Before Christmas is technically a property that Disney can proudly call its own without adaptational complications involved, but the film is so staunchly associated with Tim Burton and his idiosyncratic direction and art style that the film is like a cousin twice removed from Disney’s canon. The mishmash of hijacked literary works with Disney’s patented schmaltz injected as a brand signifier is a reminder of the company’s all-around creative bankruptcy, but that’s not really the fault of Kingdom Hearts. Then again, separating further from the source material with yet another layer of interpretation is bound to water it down even more, which makes Kingdom Hearts exude an air of pastiche if anything.

Despite everything I’ve said, the format of combining all of these familiar properties as the pieces of a whole new product with foreign characters exploring them was what struck a chord in me when I was a child. Upon learning the concept that drives Kingdom Hearts’ narrative progression, I started obsessively concocting scenarios where my friends and I invaded fictional worlds that I was fond of (mostly from video games) and directed the stories surrounding them with my own creative insertions at the helm. The conceit was such a prevalent influence on my daydreams way back when that it’s unbelievable that I’m just now experiencing the source of my stimulation. So, do Sora’s escapades through treaded territory match the sense of wonder that the concept once instilled within me? Relatively, but I’m naturally lowering my expectations twenty years later. The cavalcade of Disney worlds is presented as if each property is an individual planet situated in the same galaxy, minus Winnie the Pooh’s domain where Sora teleports to a book containing the Hundred-Acre Woods to maintain the series’ presentational construct of a literal storybook setting. The vast majority of these worlds are segmented into districts, tied together by their recognizability from the film which the area stems or the shared, sensibly consistent iconography. I’m not sure if it's due to the graphics or the overall design, but each district emanates a feeling of a facsimile, as if we’re experiencing each Disney world via a series of dioramic models. I can’t determine whether or not it's a charmingly quaint aspect of the levels of Kingdom Hearts or if the uncanniness signals a bothersome sense of inauthenticity. Fortunately, each area’s distinctive gimmick adds a fair layer of moderate meat to spruce up its blankness and add some stipulations to standard progression. Sora consumes one food that makes him larger and one that makes him small as Jefferson Airplane once sang about in Wonderland, and the vines that dangle from the towering trees of Tarzan’s jungle are so long that they function as an organic slide. Olympus takes a different direction entirely as it is nothing but a series of enemy gauntlets taking place in a decorated gladiatorial arena–conducted by everyone’s favorite satyr Phil, who probably collects everyone’s wagers. I can’t say I’m all that chuffed that the underwater conditions of Atlantica force Sora to swim with a magical mermaid tail the entire time, but the consistent change of pace allocated to this world alone still fits the admirable pattern of flipping the script with each new setting unlocked. In the grand scheme of things, the veritable buffet of Disney worlds represented here are glorified versions of the typically wide selection of level themes found mostly in platformer games. Still, while I recognize that Kingdom Hearts is masking this trope with the perk of licensed properties at its disposal, it does achieve the same effect of preserving the player’s interest with variation. The novelty of seeing familiar land rendered in an interactive medium also helps, I suppose.

In addition to their polar topographies, another point of distinctiveness between all of the Disney worlds showcased in Kingdom Hearts is the thematically specific subplots contained in each of them. It’s as if Sora is interrupting the course of the respective film each world is based on, interacting with each world’s characters and creating an alternate deviation in plot direction as a result of his interference. Ariel still yearns to break free from her sheltered life under the overly protective watch of her royal father, Alice is awaiting her court-ordered decapitation issued by the Queen of Hearts, and Clayton is still breathing and walking about the jungle, with a lust to kill a gorilla so potent that it's borderline erotic. Fellow Kingdom Hearts-oriented faction, the “Heartless,” also seems to invade the scene as a new source of conflict amongst the ongoing established one, giving Jack Skellington new material to work with to spruce up the stagnating Halloween traditions of his holiday-themed residence. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t pan out for the Pumpkin King. Kingdom Hearts juggles injecting its own original content into these established stories gracefully enough, but it’s the way in which the player must progress this deviated scenario that is a bit oblique. Essentially, the player’s objective is to find the following cutscene that continues Sora’s mission to seal the world’s keyhole, which is anyone’s guess what the exact trajectory is to complete this recurring task. Once the player finds all of the immediate districts just by following the path of uncharted territory, it’s almost guaranteed that they’ll hit a brick wall in progression, and no amount of intuition will lead the player towards the intended destination where the next cutscene takes place. Oftentimes, furthering oneself through an area in Kingdom Hearts feels as hazy and directionless as attempting to find the origin point of where a fart was ejected. Every level in Kingdom Hearts is guilty of letting the player loose to blindly stumble around, but the worst offender of this is “Deep Jungle,” where the player must climb from the campgrounds to the tippy top of the colossal treehouse at least THREE times before they finally confront Clayton. The consensus pick seems to be Monstro (aka the whale that swallowed Pinocchio), but I’d argue that the innards of a sea leviathan are the only place the game offers where this labyrinthian, dungeon-crawler-esque level design is appropriate. Even the supposed “hub” of Traverse Town has the player run through each of its three districts in an indistinct pattern that is intended to eventually lead Sora to bumping into Donald and Goofy for the first time. I’ve often expressed that linearity in level progression can be a total snoozefest, but this mix of backtracking and shot-in-the-dark traversal is both contrived and unintuitive.

Kingdom Hearts also seems to punish the player while being adrift because the Heartless they once defeated will be resurrected once again if they retrace familiar territory. The tarry soul-suckers are the primary enemy type in Kingdom Hearts that Sora encounters, and the array of Heartless types is as diverse as the demons from Doom. Sora will start with swiping his keyblade at the knee-level, impish ones that invaded his island home, but they will soon be accompanied by Heartless that are at least five times more formidable. Some common variations include ones with wings that vaguely resemble bats, floating mages that absorb the elemental magic that coincides with their color, and rotund ones whose backsides are their vulnerable spots–evidently showing that they still possess stomachs if not a beating ticker. Other Heartless shape their identities from the world in which they reside, such as the skeletons in “Halloween Town,” the pirates aboard Captain Hook’s ship in Neverland, the ones that don Arabic garb while wielding scimitars in “Agrabah,” etc. The Heartless are certainly an eclectic band of interdimensional parasites; therefore, why Pinocchio's singing shoulder companion, Jiminy Cricket, keeps a log of them in a bestiary compendium. Their diversity is merely one fraction of their irritability on the field, but the feeling of annoyance mostly stems from their excessiveness. When arriving at any district of any world, it's almost guaranteed that Sora will be ambushed by a team of Heartless, with at least three different breeds fighting all at once. Not only do encounters come in multiple phases, but any aura of action in Kingdom Hearts will cancel interacting with anything else, like treasure chests and totally negate the use of the menu–erecting the most minimal pause screen imaginable instead. The Heartless demand that the player give them their full attention like a stern teacher during a lecture, which I’d find quite conceited, even if they have such a prominent relevance to the game’s narrative. Luckily, entertaining every bout with the throngs of Heartless will compensate the player nicely with the abundant expulsion of green health orbs and “munny,” the game’s currency that I hope was a typo left unchecked by the developers.

The persistence of the Heartless conjures up comparisons to the constant encounters that one experiences while playing a turn-based RPG title. Obviously, this is because Kingdom Hearts’ DNA is composed of half of that genre’s gameplay formula. Kingdom Hearts is staunchly situated as an action-RPG, a category of role-playing game that favors frenetic, uninterrupted combat as opposed to the patient, methodical inertia of the traditional turn-based setting. Increasing Sora’s various attributes via leveling up through combat is a core mechanical component, and his equipment can be swapped and accessorized to either augment these stats or customize a player’s comfortable gameplay forte. As par for the role-playing course, Kingdom Hearts offers two combat options that exist on opposite sides of the physical spectrum. The keyblade is naturally Sora’s melee weapon, slashing the droves of Heartless with an elegant onslaught of slick combos. The player can also choose to fight the Heartless at an impersonal range with magic attacks that span the typical elementals of fire, ice, and electricity. Later down the line, Sora can learn how to implement status-affecting magic, such as healing and using the power of winds as a minor defensive barrier. The latter magic mentioned is a blessing for any late-game challenges, but I always found the offensive side of Sora’s spells to be unremarkably tepid throughout his adventure, even in their enhanced versions. Maybe I verged towards the shade of melee inadvertently due to my penchant to do so in games of the same genre, but attempting to zap, burn, or freeze any breed of Heartless only ever resulted in shaving off a sliver of their total health. I’d suggest incorporating elemental weaknesses into the combat equation to give Sora’s magic some extra oomph, but perhaps that would result in an overload of parameters to work with.

The game does admittedly find alternate ways to make Sora’s magic useful with minor platforming or puzzle conditions that pop up occasionally. This is, to say, that non-combat-oriented mechanics involving Sora’s spells are needed once in a blue moon, but platforming in general is as second nature to Kingdom Hearts as its RPG components. To fully foster the wondrous sensation of exploring a Disney world, Kingdom Hearts implements utility-gated conditions to preserve the player’s curiosity. All out-of-reach platforming snags are resolved with every step in increasing Sora’s airborne aptitude, first expanding his jump to the heights of Air Jordan and then allowing him to glide briskly with the aid of Peter Pan’s fairy dust. The ability to unlock the five different trinity markers in milestone increments also generates a revisitation trip or two, and the goodies rewarded to the player for going the distance and seeing what’s behind these colorful ground stamps are either rare materials, extremely efficient weaponry, or one of the 101 dalmatians the game implements as a collectible. Mmm, my Metroidvania senses are tingling, and they’re quite surprised to be perked up in an action RPG such as Kingdom Hearts.

Really, what all of these atypical elements for an action-RPG indicate is that Kingdom Hearts is taking a kitchen sink approach in its overall directive. Emphasizing aerodynamicism on the field is one thing, but there is no greater piece of evidence that Kingdom Hearts refuses to commit to a stable gameplay identity than the interplanetary traversal sections. When I refer to the string of Disney properties that Kingdom Hearts showcases as “worlds,” I’m not using the term to broadly divide them. Kingdom Hearts is situated smack dab in the literal Disney universe, a galaxy of properties externalized as planets that orbit the Disney King’s castle (it’s Mickey. The game overtly obscures this information for some reason, like we can’t take an educated guess). Because the realm of space in Kingdom Hearts is as terrifyingly harsh as it is in reality, Sora acquires a game-patented spaceship known as a “gummi.” This space vessel that resembles a knock-off Lego creation the size of a walnut intrepidly undergoes sections that emulate the high-octane on-rails shooting of Star Fox. Of course, these sections aren’t nearly as refined and robust as Nintendo’s IP, but that’s to be expected of a game that insists on treating its overall gameplay essence like throwing darts on the wall. The transitions between worlds in Kingdom Hearts are an adequate enough mini-game to supplement a dry, standard loading screen, but its gameplay is so bare bones that it's as if space in the Disney universe is still in the underdeveloped fetal period right after the big bang occurred. If the game didn’t allow a warp function to quickly travel to planets previously visited, I would’ve stubbornly put the gummi on autopilot out of exasperation. However, even though piloting the gummi is an elementary excursion, the same cannot be said for the shockingly overcomplicated ordeal of modifying it in Chip and Dale’s garage. I will not pass judgment on anyone who either had to read the tutorial multiple times or refused to humor this little mechanic job altogether.

Kingdom Hearts might have a habit of undercooking its various gameplay attributes for the sake of variety, but one aspect that the game evidently placed on a pedestal of higher precedence is the boss battles. The Heartless may be the overarching agents of destitution in Kingdom Hearts, but the developers would be remiss if they glossed over the smorgasbord of Disney villains to integrate into the game as its milestone foes. The lineup of iconic antagonists is obscured in shadow as they ominously speak about their devious schemes like the Legion of Doom, but if their recognizable vocal inflections didn’t give away their identities, the rule of thumb is that they will be the final boss of their respective world that they inhabit. We’ve discussed Clayton already as the final confrontation in “Deep Jungle,” even though he’s a non-entity in the overarching plot involving the other villains. As for the members of the villain coalition, Hades pits Final Fantasy’s golden boy, Cloud, against Hercules at the Olympus Colosseum to kill the demigod, Jafar attempts to attain unfathomable power through the mystical genie lamp, Ursula manipulates Ariel to usurp her father’s reign under the sea, Captain Hook captures Wendy while evading that damned hand-chomping crocodile, etc. My favorite of the bunch, the grotesque, yet jaunty Oogie Boogie, is still mucking about Halloween Town with his three Boogie Boys, making mischief from the interior of their walking bathtub. The immensely intimidating Chernabog even makes an appearance, and the thought of being face-to-face with this behemoth demon lord is a spine-chilling prospect. It sounds like I’m fawning over these figures simply for their inclusion alone, like a frothing Disney fan boy, but the aspect of these villains that actually makes me giddy to discuss them is how the developers have designed their respective battles. To my utter surprise, the bosses of Kingdom Hearts are consistently challenging, almost to a degree where I’m concerned for their targeted demographic. As early as the second world visited, Cerberus erected a stiff brick wall in my progression with his spitting of flaming meteors, dark magic pillars emerging from the ground, while he protected all angles of vulnerability with his trio of chomping heads. Ring leader Maleficent burned me to a crisp with her neon green dragon breath too many times for comfort, and the underwater spatial parameters of “Atlantica” handicapped me in the fight against Ursula. Regardless of a particular foe’s steep difficulty curve, every boss fight in Kingdom Hearts requires a certain level of patience and battle acuity, unexpected of a game with the Disney name attached. I shit you not, the game that came to mind as I was dodge rolling, parrying, and looking for a window to heal during these fights was FromSoft’s future action-RPG series that everyone is probably sick to death of me singing the praises of at this point. How’s that for a moment of clarity?

The player must give every boss encounter that Kingdom Hearts dishes out to Sora their utmost attention because help is hard to come by when darkness befalls the Disney universe. Of course, what I’m snidely referring to are Sora’s partners, of whom I’ve been keeping veiled just to dedicate a tirade towards. Steadfast Disney figures Donald Duck and Goofy have been assigned by Mickey to assist Sora on his quest to restore balance to the realm, and it’s as disappointing as your mom making you take your little brother on a date with you. Besides their excruciating voices that make me wish that tinnitus would finally take my hearing out to pasture, these two examples of Walt Disney’s lack of real talent are about as useful to Sora as owning a car while living in Manhattan. They’re both intended to provide support in battle, with Donald predisposed as a magic-casting mage and Goofy as a defensive rock to block blows from Sora with his slightly higher stat range. Still, their inability to refrain from attacking enemies guns blazing and suffering the consequences of this action makes them a consistent liability. That, and the multifaceted elements of some boss battles that require more than simply attacking, like jumping over Oogie’s scythes spinning on his roulette table, guarantee that they’ll eat up damage due to their AI’s narrow perception of battle conditions. Sure, one can change their settings in the menu to make these grating dunderheads more practical, but there’s always an extent to their improvement. I can’t stop Donald from healing Goofy or vice versa instead of Sora as intended, and that’ll likely lead me to a game over as a result. In the sense of the story, are they intended as the comic relief characters? They’re both about as funny as a burning orphanage, or maybe I’m conflating my modern sensibilities with the humorous intent that Walt had in mind with these two during their inception in the early half of the 20th century. Either having a character whose speech is practically unintelligible without subtitles or the other, approaching each serious scenario by saying “gawrsh,” is a total conflict in tone.

I’d say to ditch Donald and Goofy by giving them enough money to drown their sorrows in the House of Blues, but their inclusion is relevant to Kingdom Hearts’ prevalent theme of friendship and other meaningful types of personal bonds. The Heartless aren’t just a race of enemies to provide constant whacking fodder: they seem to represent an overall sense of negativity and despair. Given that our protagonists are representatives of a company whose brand promotes positivity to a degree of superficiality, Sora and company are the combatants of the Heartless in more than just the physical sense, expressing the values of wholesome ideals as do-gooders ideally would. One could point to his blossoming bond between him, Donald, and Goofy as evidence of their stance, but the game presents their claims even clearly in portraying the relationship between Sora and Riku. In their halcyon days on the island, Riku was the stronger and more confident kid that Sora was in friendly competition with. Combine this dynamic with Kairi as a figure amongst it, and I smell a budding, messy love triangle waiting to ruin everything. When Kairi is abducted by the Heartless and the villain faction, Riku and Sora clash in their attempts to be Kairi’s knight in shining armor. Or, shining knight who wields the esteemed keyblade and becomes the hero of great destiny, Sora’s destined title that makes Riku green with envy. Their strained friendship culminates on the grounds of the remarkably ornate and wholly original Hollow Bastion, where it looks as if Riku’s jealousy has turned him to the dark side like Anakin Skywalker. When the keyblade teleports to Riku on his command, Donald and Goofy start following him on account of their assignment, and he throws Riku his old wooden sword as a reminder of his ineffectual inferiority. The scene is quite a gut punch. However, Riku’s newfound villain role is nullified by introducing Ansem, who was possessing Riku to antagonize Sora. The humanoid Heartless leader wishes to submerge the world into a complete dark oblivion using the universe’s core because he believes it to be the nature of the heart. Hmm, where have I heard this diabolical aspiration before? I would’ve loved for the game’s narrative to have culminated in Riku becoming the full antithesis to Sora and have our hero pull the plug on his oldest friend, who had verged too far to the side of evil. It would’ve illustrated a direct dichotomy in choosing the path of light versus dark, but the game decided to backpedal and put a bog-standard villain at the forefront. Then again, if I had a hand at writing for Disney, angry parents would start sending me emails demanding that I pay for their children’s therapy sessions.

Do you believe in magic, dear reader? I was skeptical of such phenomena, but I think I’ve been bewitched by Kingdom Hearts. Admittedly, I could make a drinking game for every time the game made me wince with its overbearingness, as I expected it would. However, the rich layers of gameplay Kingdom Hearts has in store caught me off guard enough to the point where I’m making genuine comparisons to a series I’ve often proclaimed is the zenith of action gameplay. Kingdom Hearts is a well-oiled machine underneath its cherubic surface, the battle bot colored pink wearing a bow that runs circles around its less deceiving competition. Consider its strive for variation that rivals any of my beloved 3D platformers that I grew up with, and this game would’ve floored me as a child, although lord knows I needed another reason to be as unpopular in school as I was already. Kingdom Hearts is flawed, cringy, and exudes all of the characteristics of its father company that I can’t stand on more than just principles alone. Still, I have to give credit where credit is due, and Kingdom Hearts is more than meets the eye. Maybe I’m just a big ol’ softy at the end of the day, and Kingdom Hearts has melted my callous exterior with its charms (or maybe I’m having a stroke).

Rabi-Ribi Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 7/13/2025)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Rabi-Ribi

Developer: GemaYue

Publisher: Sekai Project

Genre(s): Metroidvania, Bullet Hell

Platforms: PC, PS4, PS Vita, Switch

Released Date: January 28, 2016

Don’t tell any of my homies that I’ve been playing Rabi-Ribi. In fact, don’t relay this information to any ladies/prospective dates, potential career outlets, or the local authorities. You might think that obscuring the knowledge of playing a video game from the general public is being rather dramatic, but even taking one quick glimpse at the aesthetic that the games confidently bestow, can you blame me for my “irrational” anxieties? Common wisdom has taught me not to judge a book by its cover, but even the decayed, leathery, ghoulishly evil cover of the Necronomicon is more deceiving than what Rabi-Ribi has in store. Is this game serious with its bodaciously twee anime art style and the cutesy, “UwU” girls at the forefront of it? I know loud and proud bronies that confidently wear t-shirts displaying their affection for the petite cartoon ponies, and even they would fear the potential ridicule they’d receive for associating themselves with the general subsection of Japanese animation that Rabi-Ribi evokes. It’s almost as if GemaYue, the sole developer of Rabi-Ribi, crafted this game privately to relish in some fetish he evidently harbors just to have hackers leak his creation via an underground circuit of the internet, much to his embarrassment. Given that the game’s art style makes me recoil in revulsion, why in the hell did I lower my ten-foot pole that was comfortably keeping a safe distance between me and this game? Well, the kicker is that Rabi-Ribi’s primary genre tag is my forte of Nintendo’s claustrophobic space series marrying Konami’s gothic IP starring the world’s most famous vampire. I simply had to find out if Rabi-Ribi had something of either narrative or mechanical substance beneath its shameful surface, and it’s a case of curiosity killing the cat with cringe.

You’ll forgive me if it sounds like I’m rolling my eyes or groaning when detailing the plot premise of Rabi-Ribi. Erina, our protagonist, wakes up from some sort of stupor in a cardboard box to shock when she sees that she’s been transformed from a rabbit into a human being. She retains some of her features, such as the long, floppy ears, but now she resembles the type of bosomy bunny that roams around Hugh Hefner’s Hollywood mansion (because of course she does). To uncover the mystery of her transformation, Erina makes haste towards her home village of Rabi Rabi Town on Rabi Rabi Island, the residence of many other girls of her oversexualized ilk. Accompanying her on her adventure is a pink-haired pixie named Ribbon, whose outfit reminds me of the girls that used to prowl around my college town’s bar scene, signifying with their clothing that they craved male attention without ever needing to utter that desire. After Erina finds Rumi, the mayor of Rabi Rabi Town, she tasks Erina with finding the rest of the town’s coalition to power a portal that transports the user to another dimension.

If the fact that Erina refers to Rumi as “master” is any indication, all of Rabi-Ribi’s attributes that are difficult to stomach continue deeper than just its aesthetic on the surface. Characters, especially Ribbon, annoyingly refer to themselves in the third person, and the dialogue in general smacks of stereotypically trite feminine verbiage indicative of a male writer who has a narrow and ignorant understanding of how women talk. To make matters worse, Rabi-Ribi is easily one of the more dialogue-intensive Metroidvania games I’ve ever played. Not only do conversations between NPCs prattle on for pages and pages, but gameplay is consistently interrupted with sudden screen-freezing textboxes taking place mostly between Erina and Ribbon. GemaYue evidently didn’t get the memo that Metroidvania games borrow elements from Symphony of the Night, not the derided Simon’s Quest. I don’t think the influx of textboxes was a necessary evil in expositing Rabi-Ribi’s “lofty” narrative, but because it’s the only way they can flaunt the anime figures seen on the cover in an otherwise limited, pixelated graphical plane. Representing a character with their avatar while they speak is a charming presentational detail in a game like Persona, but in a game where the anime style runs too thick to the point where every character has perpetual “fuck me eyes,” every instance of text popping up on screen is quite discomforting. Thank Christ that the rudimentary pixel art on the field greatly diminishes the kawaii illustrations exhibited during text conversations.

Perhaps I should stop harping on Rabi-Ribi’s presentational aspects and delve into the meat of the Metroidvania gameplay. Overall, Rabi-Ribi treats the genre’s patented interconnectivity matched with its utility-gated progression points competently enough. Throughout Erina’s journey of literal self-discovery, she’ll encounter the typical Metroidvania enhancements that allow her to traverse more thoroughly through the terrain, such as aerial maneuvers like double jumping and wall jumping, a powdered lubricant that allows her to slide through tight crevices, and a bomb that blows away rocky obstructions in the shape of a rabbit’s orange vegetable of choice. Utilizing all of these upgrades with a diligent habit of exploration will often reward the player splendidly with items that augment Erina’s other attributes, such as maximum health and damage output. The world map, with an abundance of these aidful trinkets in its deeper recesses, is as colorful and diverse as the rooms of a dollhouse, and the rationale of each district’s placement amongst one another is surprisingly concise considering how it liberally revels in variety. Still, one point of critique on Rabi-Ribi’s world is how the map itself as a point of reference is rather unclear. Its symmetrical, angular schematic is evocative of the one that guided the player through the depths of Zebes in Super Metroid. Still, the underlying difference is that the entire map of any area could potentially be fully illuminated regardless of whether or not it was previously discovered once Samus found a map station. Because Rabi-Ribi’s map exclusively jots down places that the player has already visited and every inch of the area is depicted as a square or rectangle with hazy barriers, players will likely remain oblivious to the uncharted corners without extraneous guesswork involved.

No matter, for Metroidvania progression and exploration seem to be nothing but formalities in Rabi-Ribi. The gameplay aspects that Rabi-Ribi seems to emphasize over all else are combat and light RPG mechanics. Exhibit A: Rabi-Ribi’s “standard difficulty” mostly eschews the exploration/backtracking aspect of the experience, while the “alternate” setting places these aspects at the forefront, like a traditional title in the genre. All other pieces of evidence to the claim that Rabi-Ribi yearns to divert from its genre trappings will be clear whenever the player is forced to fight enemies on the field. Not only are the majority of spaces more congested with enemy activity than the average Metroidvania fare, but every hostile’s offense is so scattered and erratic that it genuinely designates Rabi-Rabi as a “bullet hell” game. Avoiding enemy adversity can be incredibly overwhelming at times, but Erina’s line of defense fortunately covers all bases. It turns out that Ribbon isn’t just a yappy companion always in proximity to Erina’s ear, but a useful tool in inflicting five different shades of projectile damage to enemies, equally as merciless as the firepower they bombard Erina with. When Erina is in intimate range with any enemy, her trusty hammer is certainly effective enough in batting them with blunt force. I’m sure the significance of Erina’s melee weapon of choice stems from its ubiquity among other tarty feminine characters across a wide array of fictional Japanese media (Amy Rose instantly comes to mind), but Erina supersedes this strange feminine stereotype with the grace and adroitness she exhibits when wielding it. Combining both ranges of offense will increase the game’s combat meter, and the rate of achievement is signified by a letter grade that comes with increased battle benefits as the attack chain continues. Add to the fact that most items uncovered during exploration and the wares of Miriam’s shop in Rabi Rabi Town either extend Erina’s offensive and defensive attributes or are healing items intended to stave off her demise, and Rabi-Ribi’s prioritization of combat over traversal as its general modus operandi is perfectly transparent. I’ll excuse the unorthodox Metroidvania design ethos here because it’s executed adequately, but it’s still inexcusable how indiscernible the more humanoid enemies are from the innocuous NPCs.

The full extent of Rabi-Ribi’s combat is on full display with the game’s extensive slew of bosses. Every other girl that resides in Rabi-Ribi’s world that Erina enlists in Rumi’s escapades has a chip on their shoulder when Erina encounters them for some inexplicable reason, which then escalates to a full-out brawl. As unassuming and innocent as these young ladies seem, each of them is a testament to the bullet hell component of Rabi-Ribi’s gameplay. During each boss encounter, every single girl that Erina unintentionally provokes unleashes a harmful fireworks exhibition that is equally as vibrant and profuse as the next. I swear that every display they spew never repeats itself, matching the distinctive nature of snowflakes. Of course, the unpredictability of each boss's stylish showcase makes evading them all the more challenging. It’s here with Rabi-Ribi’s formidable foes where this adorable puppy gnashes its sharp canines, and the player is liable to meet their untimely demise. Healing items are naturally vital in mitigating Erina’s death, but the player will stand a better chance at besting these bunny haters by honing a technique to increase the combat meter. Otherwise, hitting a boss with Erina’s hammer will feel as if it were swapped for one of the inflatable ones they give out as prizes in carnival games. Rabi-Ribi’s bosses are certainly engaging in their unexpectedly steep conditions, but I’d argue that it still isn’t a mark of intuitive gameplay. Bullet hell games are traditionally made for the arcade in mind, which is designed to eventually vanquish the player through increased attrition. When that gameplay aspect translates to a game that is intended to be finished, being faced with a spray of energy that is practically unavoidable does not bode well with the general reasonableness expected from modern games in this format. I’d suggest stocking up on health items to alleviate every inevitable scratch and burn, but the game thought ahead of this and only allows the player to have two of each healing desert in their inventory.

While the bosses were all-around admirable, they still didn’t offset the rest of Rabi-Ribi’s elements that were violating my senses at every waking moment. Before my threshold of tolerating Rabi-Ribi’s off-putting essence reached its breaking point and caused me to vomit, something happened in the game’s narrative that momentarily quelled the nausea. When Erina enters the stele situated at the center of Rabi Rabi’s town square, she is transported to a world unlike the quaint, female-dominated one she’s familiar with. In this modern city setting, Erina and Ribbon are ambushed and sexually harassed by male characters who all take photos of the scantily-clad girl with their smartphones while making crass, lascivious comments. While batting these creeps away with Erina’s hammer in self-defense, I came to a moment of clarity. Considering the gender, unflattering design, and behaviors of this enemy faction, the game finally showed some self-awareness of its implied demographic. Not only that, but the game seemed to be reaching into the realm of metafiction, commenting on the asocial depravity of the worst kinds of fans these types of works attract. Unfortunately, this scene was not extrapolated on, and the game’s plot instead verged towards the lore of a bunny genocide and a figure named Noah who serves as the game’s gruelingly lengthy final boss. I’m greatly disappointed that the game almost conveyed something of substance just to plunge downward back to the catacombs of nonsense. The remainder of Rabi-Ribi’s story should’ve played out as a character vs author/artist conflict, confronting the man in the “real” dimension who penned this pandering filth and satirizing the fan culture that surrounds it. This scenario might be stretching too many fictional insertions on my part to be plausible, but what Rabi-Ribi’s story actually amounts to is nothing but overly convoluted poppycock.

It turns out that Rabi-Ribi is more than just the first Metroidvania game that one can masturbate to, or at least the first one that ostensibly obliges the player to do so. While there isn’t much mechanical depth in its interpretation of a Metroidvania game’s world design, its unusual integration of bullet hell gameplay certainly makes it unique and genuinely enthralling, albeit not entirely approachable. Frustratingly enough, even with its laudable features, I still can’t digest the disgusting implications of its quasi-pornographic art style despite trying my best to overlook them. When the game introduced me to its characters and throttled me through its messy, overwrought plot, all it did was affirm my prejudices against it. Rabi-Ribi may not deserve the ugly title of “Custer’s Revenge for the subsequent century,” but it is still undeserving of being noted as an exemplary title in the Metroidvania canon.

The Legend of Zelda: The Minish Cap Review

 (Originally published to Glitchwave on 7/5/2025)

[Image from glitchwave.com]

The Legend of Zelda: The Minish Cap

Developer: Capcom/Flagship

Publisher: Nintendo

Genre(s): Action-Adventure

Platforms: GBA

Release Date: November 4, 2004

Did you know that a third Oracle game was slated to join the Zelda duology on the Game Boy Color? Yes, if the event of two lengthy handheld Zelda titles being released on the same day wasn’t copious enough, Oracle of Secrets was intended to round out the duo to a solid trilogy. Unfortunately, due to the absurd time crunch that comes with trying to create three Zelda games to release in unison, Oracle of Secrets was aborted and thrown in the garbage. Farore, the third Golden Goddess of Hyrule, was also likely teased mercilessly by her sisters for having their central narrative role extinguished, whereas they were fortunate enough to have theirs see the light of day. Although the Goddess of Courage unfortunately never received a Zelda game where she was the leading lady, Capcom did decide to reignite their deferred third Zelda project on one of Nintendo’s handheld systems. However, they didn’t unnail the coffin they laid Oracle of Secrets to rest in, and the Game Boy Color had retired and named a successor in the time that Capcom returned to their ambitions in creating three Zelda titles. One console generation later on the subsequent Game Boy Advance, Capcom’s efforts in keeping their promises resulted in The Legend of Zelda: The Minish Cap. I wouldn’t describe Capcom’s third contribution to the Zelda franchise as either a companion piece to the Oracle games or a spiritual successor. The commonality that this GBA game shares with the Oracle twins really boils down to being crafted by the same third-party developer. This may disappoint all Oracle fans who were clamoring for another game to showcase another attribute of the Zelda franchise and make it the mechanical forefront of the entire experience. I, however, am glad that Capcom did not choose to recapture that particular design ethos that defined their two previous Zelda outputs. The Oracle games were distinctive enough, but ultimately suffered from an unbalance of gameplay attributes that typically comprise a well-rounded Zelda experience. I figured that Capcom taking a whack at a Zelda adventure with more traditional components at play would result in something extraordinary. Alas, abiding by a consistent formula only makes The Minish Cap’s flaws less conspicuous.

Given that the series had revolved around the sun numerous times up to the release of The Minish Cap, seasoned Zelda fans should have a fairly clear idea of what characteristics define a “traditional” Zelda game. The proud kingdom of Hyrule is the prominent fantasy land foreground, its young female heiress is either held in captivity or indisposed, and the instigator of the conflict involving the regal figure is a herculean force of divine evil who is attached to both the princess and the blonde, green-garbed protagonist by a prophetic connection linked by a golden trio of triangles more powerful than the Eye of Providence. If you were keeping a scorecard, The Minish Cap features about 2½ of these tried and true Zelda tropes. Plus, it’s not as if familiar territory is bound by steadfast fidelity and cannot be innovated on. An example of The Minish Cap adding a pinch of its own creative flair to Zelda’s customs is fleshing out the relationship between Link and Zelda. Namely, by channeling Chrono Trigger with the two casually attending a carnival in the Hyrule town square. Judging from both the deja vu of paying homage to Square’s iconic JRPG title and the way in which the Oracle games presented their conflict premises, most players should detect that this merry scene is bound to go awry. Before Zelda can be the belle of the ball in a ceremony relating to a Master Sword-esque Picori Blade, an ominous figure with a strikingly purple color scheme named Vaati emerges and fractures the sacred sword before it is unsheathed from the ground. The villainous Vaati also renders the princess frozen in stone with a single blast of magic for defying his wickedness. It also looks as if Link displays an uncharacteristic cowardice when he decides to dodge the immobilizing blast instead of blocking it with his shield, as it initially looked like he was intending to do to save Zelda, but I digress. With the Picori Blade out of function and the kingdom’s eventual successor to the throne imprisoned in her hardened cell, King Daltus tasks Link to remedy the grief that Vaati has inflicted on this fantasy land through a daunting quest. You know me, I commend any Zelda title that tends to subvert the series’ tropes and tendencies, and offering up a new antagonist into the fray of the more typical Zelda fare here is enough to get into my good graces. Still, Vaati’s dark magician persona, plus his plot to plunge Hyrule into interminable darkness, is all too reminiscent of the series staple swine’s malevolent plans to be praised as a wholly original primary foe, hence the “half” point in how many Zelda trope boxes the Minish Cap checks off.

While Link is still the only suitable contender for a quest of this caliber, this isn’t because of a typical prophetic destiny foretold in the texts relating to the Triforce. The Hyrulian lord details a very specific trajectory in restoring tranquility to his kingdom, and the restoration process will involve the Picori. These impish creatures are believed to be merely a myth by Hyrule’s denizens, but the king assures them that they are just reserved. Specifically, they only reveal themselves to the impressionable eyes of children, their guideline of interacting with humans evidently adopted from the Hayao Miyazaki mythical creature rulebook. Due to both his bond to Hyrule’s royal family and his preadolescent status, Hyrule’s distinguished governing force deems the blonde boy a perfect candidate to venture into esoteric territory and conquer the evil that currently plagues Hyrule. What the Picori relevance of this adventure entails from a gameplay perspective factors into The Minish Cap’s distinctive mechanic. When in the vicinity of an object with a circular shape like a tree stump or a vase fit to house a redwood tree, the “minish portal” encased inside will allow Link to shrink himself to the itty-bitty size of the Picori, which is approximately equal to that of an insect by my estimation. This exceedingly diminutive stature allows Link to traverse through the nooks and crannies of Hyrule that would prove to be far too tight otherwise. These infinitesimal spaces typically consist of cracked openings in walls, climbing creases on the exterior sides of buildings like a makeshift ladder, and going from indoors to outdoors via tiny holes situated at the bottom portions of buildings. If the Hyrulian people believe the Picori to be nothing but pure fiction, why have they modeled such a convenience for them to traverse through in their architecture? I’m surprised Link doesn’t cross paths with any rats or roaches on his adventure, for these entryways are a perfect invitation for infestation from these pests. In more pastoral settings, such as the “Minish Woods,” Link can intimately explore the society of the cute, shrew-like Picori. Their community is as proud and as storied as the larger kingdom surrounding it, despite the fact that their living quarters are composed of hollowed-out fungi and domestic objects carelessly left behind by humans in the dank, damp corners of the woods that they reside in.

While Link’s normal size and the speck size he regularly transitions between present a clear contrast in his stature, the substance of this mechanic lies in how both sizes function as two halves of the traversal equation. Exploration has always been an integral aspect of Zelda’s gameplay makeup, especially in the 2D top-down Zelda titles. Expanding upon this core attribute of the series, since it was rendered in humble 8-bit pixels in the first Zelda game, has usually involved broadening the span of Hyrule’s map, but the Minish Cap presents another variation on the classic Zelda design philosophy. What Minish Cap’s main mechanic does is the inverse of Zelda’s evolution, expanding the breadth of Hyrule by allowing the player to scour every corner of the immediate area more intimately than one ever thought was possible. The ability to dig deeper into the concealed crevices of the kingdom via the shrinkage mechanic unlocks access to an unparalleled dimension of exploration that was inconceivable until now. The joy of discovery isn’t just achieved through marching into uncharted territory, but also by thoroughly examining the layers that exist in one’s proverbial backyard. An argument may arise that the magnitude of Link’s epic journey is squandered when he’s rerouting through the same general perimeter at a different angle in ant form. My rebuttal to this is that the scaffoldings, crawl spaces, and dirt mounds of Hyrule’s houses and tall grasses seem as foreboding as the elevated, molten peaks of Death Mountain when viewed from the perspective of someone or something as small as the Picori, so the epic scope of adventure is warped instead of diminished.

As for the character who facilitates Link’s manual minimizing, Minish Cap is the first top-down Zelda game to feature a companion character, or at least one that stays by Link’s side like the 3D titles. Ezlo was once an esteemed sage in the ranks of the Picori people, but a curse inflicted by the wicked powers of Vaati currently befalls him. One might notice that his handicapped state has molded him into a sentient green head cloth that comfortably fits Link’s towheaded dome, the most visually overt sign of implied partnership that it seems like destiny calling. For being the partner character that is literally attached to Link, Ezlo manages not to smother our intrepid hero, nor does he shrilly squawk in his ear as his big-beaked bird visage would suggest. Ezlo chimes in only at appropriate moments to emphasize whatever the situation is at hand, which keeps the player on the right track without explicitly holding their hand. The character dynamic at play between Link and his magical cap, conveyed in Ezlo’s dialogue, is one of an older, wiser figure guiding his younger sensei through the daunting and unpredictable conditions of adventure. He can also double as a paraglider when faced with a cyclone, intended to launch Link in the air and glide him over to a platform further out of reach. Ezlo is a valuable asset in traversing through the Picori's strange and microscopic realms of Hyrule, and his personality, matched with his restrained input, easily makes him one of the more palatable partner characters that the series has seen.

I believe that the Picori portions of Minish Cap, when Link is but a walking crumb, are intended to pad and supplement the entirety of the game’s world map. I say this because Hyrule seems to have slimmed down considerably since it was last rendered in the top-down perspective way back in A Link to the Past. Zelda worlds, while glancing at them from the downward perspective, tend to be segmented by subtly defined parameters, and the player will know when they’ve stepped outside the boundaries of the rectangular perimeter when the screen shifts to position Link in the center once again. The districts of Hyrule in The Minish Cap allow for more space to traverse through before the transition occurs, and it seems like they’ve successfully contained entire regions of Hyrule to one or two screens, thanks to the GBA’s hardware. Still, the spaces of Hyrule here that provide more room to roam with less interruption could hardly be described as vast, as the player will find themselves in another district in a few seconds while traveling in any cardinal direction. I don’t know if the dimly lit, arboreous terrain that both the Minish Woods and Lake Hylia share made them indiscernible from an aesthetic standpoint, but I had no inkling of a clue that I had stumbled into one or the other due to how brief the journey was between them. All areas located directly below Hyrule Castle and the town square at the northern tip of the kingdom can be grouped as a collective zone due to their flat valley topographical range, even if this general area consists of places like Lon Lon Ranch that are intended to be more notable than the wild boonies of Hyrule that directly surround it. The exceptions to this rule are the craggy hills of Mt. Crenel, the swallowing swamps of the Castor Wilds, the spooky graveyard that lies along the Royal Valley, and the Cloud Tops, where the fluffy liquid accumulations are so thick that they can support a society totally separated from the grounds of Hyrule below. The reason why these particular sections have more meat in their traversal time is that they serve as obstacles to prepare for the dungeon or other enclosed destination that Link is edging closer towards by navigating through them. Otherwise, Minish Cap’s rendition of gaming’s (second) most storied kingdom on the whole is lacking the sprawling expanse that a fabled fantasy land should exhibit. Even the uninhabited mass of grass that is Ocarina of Time’s overworld spanned for what seemed like miles, for better or for worse.

For the most part, Link shrinks whenever a snag involving his size appears on the mainline course of progression. Altering Link’s physical stature is still an aspect of uncovering all of Hyrule’s various goodies and best-kept secrets, but obtaining most of them involves a process outside the realm of simple exploration. Fads are evidently just as prevalent a sociocultural force in Hyrule as they are in our flesh and blood reality, and the hot new trend sweeping the nation is kinstones. These shimmery trinkets are in great abundance throughout Hyrule, included in the contents of chests and in the untended grasses alongside hearts and rupees. Still, despite how commonplace they are, none of Hyrule’s citizens seem to have collected the other halves of their precious kinstone pieces, and Link supplies them with their complete set when he fuses them in a trade sequence. Matching either green, blue, red, or gold clovers and crowns is said to result in good fortune, and this myth is affirmed when a mysterious chest, rare enemy, or other random happenstance suddenly appears somewhere in the overworld. Approaching any of these kinstone-oriented occurrences will indeed grant Link something valuable in some way, shape or form, which can include rupees of high monetary value, heart pieces, scrolls that detail sword techniques, etc. Veteran Zelda fans might recognize that each of these rewards is usually found after digging through Hyrule’s more inconspicuous corners, and this new process of increasing Link’s various assets is quite cheap and tedious. The issue is not that I had to scrounge around for the Hyrule equivalent to Pogs, for every type of kinstone appeared so often that I was practically tripping over them like disassembled Legos. I, and likely the majority of Zelda fans, find fault with the fact that the tantalizing meat of exploration that a Zelda game should ideally foster has been unnecessarily streamlined and diluted with this new mechanic. The exploration aspect of Zelda wasn’t broken, so I’m not sure what compelled Capcom in their attempt to fix it.

Once Link navigates through the more obtrusive territory by shifting his size like Lewis Carroll’s blonde heroine in Wonderland, he will uncover the location of a dungeon that houses one of the four elements needed to restore the Picori Blade to its perky self. One would think that a dungeon’s inherent labyrinthine design would produce a section more complex and meandering than the straightforward dash between the districts of the overworld. Sadly, the dungeons of Minish Cap have been collectively straightened out like dough after being pressed by a rolling pin. When I received a boss key as the final item in any dungeon, I soon realized that the trajectory towards this crucial item was barely ever halted and required backtracking as par for the Zelda course. Plus, theming each of Minish Cap’s dungeons after the elemental Macguffin found at their cores sort of conceptually confines each of them to a tired level trope the series has seen countless times up until this point–even if some of them do admittedly craft interesting progression stipulations around them like using sunlight to melt the ice in “Temple of Droplets.” Really, the substance of each dungeon lies in how heavily they incorporate one of Link’s tools into the thick of traversal, and each of them practically relies on utilizing a specific item almost as a conceptual crutch. The “Gust Jar” is a high-powered, ceramic vacuum cleaner whose impressive suction function can clear “Deepwood Shrine” of its obstructive, rubbery cobwebs or wipe away thick clumps of dirt caking an object. Any physical matter sucked into its powerful vortex can also be used as projectile ammunition, like the “Suck Cannon” from Ratchet & Clank. When the dirt stacks up in masses where they’re as thick as marble in "Fortress of Winds,” Link must use his trusty “Mole Mitts” to claw and dig his way through the blockade of earthy obstructions. The magical properties of “Cane of Pacci” allow Link to transform any vacant hole into a trampoline or flip a specific slew of objects right-side up, and the latter function of the wooden staff is used to a great extent in safely hopping from floating igneous raft to igneous raft over the lava flow in the “Cave of Flames.” Minish Cap skips over the “Roc’s Feather” straight to its upgrade of “Roc’s Cape” to soar with the gusts surrounding “Palace of Winds,” instances of platforming that are less demanding than when we last saw the gliding garment in Oracles of Seasons. Another unique mechanic to The Minish Cap that seems to have as much gameplay precedence as shrinking is cloning Link for a brief period, judging by how prevalently it's employed and that it seems to be the core component of recharging the Picori Sword with every elemental obtained. When Link steps over at least two panels situated on the floor while charging up power in the Picori Sword, Link will grow a wispy doppelganger that will symmetrically stand by his side until it dissipates in approximately 10-15 seconds. The maximum number of clones is four at the Picori Blade’s full potential, and then Link will be able to move humongous tablets the size of Chicago’s “Cloud Bean.” Overall, Link’s various doodads and abilities do a wonderful job at distracting the player from each dungeon’s linearity with their unique properties, in part because puzzles involving their utilization serve as the consistent roadblocks that keep the player from breezily darting to a dungeon’s finish line.

As per Zelda tradition, the tool that Link unlocks will also be used to conquer the dungeon’s boss that lies within its climactic core. Exploiting a boss's weak spot with the item most recently obtained is a Zelda trope as traditional as the Triforce, but the distinctiveness of Link’s tools and abilities here makes the process of dismantling each of these formidable foes especially engaging. Sucking away the dopey, giant ChuChu’s bodily balance with the “Gust Jar” and flipping away Gleerok’s rocky armor with the “Cane of Pacci” involve only one item, and fighting the defrosted, oversized Octorok is a continual pattern of lighting his tail aflame with the lantern to then bat the seeds he expectorates back at him with Link’s shield. Using these items to great effect against the respective bosses is fine in its own right, as it always proves to be, but the duels that incorporate a mix of minimizing and multiplying Link into the action are Minish Cap’s crowning achievements. Link deviously becomes a destructive little virus when he digs through dirt to the Mayan-inspired Mazaal’s core units after causing him to malfunction from the outside, and jumping from the red and blue sky stingrays with the “Roc’s Cape” while hacking at their multiple eyes with Link’s duplicates is one of the most exhilarating boss fights of the entire series. Truly, the final encounter of Vaati is the king of boss circuity amongst the rest, justly so considering he’s propped up as the game’s only hostile force of any narrative consequence. The corrupted ex-Picori displays the extent of his magical might through his multiple phases, forcing the player to frantically scratch their heads with every shift of his physical form, while his ominous eye stares at the player throughout to instill a sense of menace. Vaati inflicts an endurance test on the player as the ultimate hindrance in saving Hyrule, and it makes clever use of every single tool and ability that Link has received throughout his adventure. However, while I admire and adore the thrills that Vaati’s fight fosters, the reason why I sweated with tension and dreaded potential failure wasn’t due to Vaati’s varied opposition. You see, before Vaati’s first phase, Link must first humor his dire trickery and face three rooms of assorted enemies under a time limit before he cracks open Zelda like a stonemason. One ball and chain wielder and an assemblage of keatons prove to be of little significance, but the three darknuts that huddle around each other like a football team at centerfield are a different story. Due to their limited lines of vulnerability, swift sword swipes, and the looming time constraint overhead, these three burly knights ran me ragged. Honestly, they proved to be a sturdier challenge than Vaati, and when the appetizer is meatier than the main course, you start to question the overall quality of the restaurant.

The Legend of Zelda: The Minish Cap is a bite-sized Zelda experience in more ways than just controlling a flea-sized Link for over half of its run time. In some ways, this statement connotes that Capcom brazenly bit a chunk out of their creation before they served it, much to everyone’s dismay and confusion. I stated that Minish Cap bore little to no similarities to the Oracle games, but now I get the impression that there is a correlation between how the duology was received and how it affected Minish Cap’s development. The reason why Minish Cap’s map was slenderized to fit a corset and its dungeons hardly diverted from their immediate track likely stemmed from the migraine-inducing progression trajectory that Ages laid out. Minish Cap’s bosses are probably more puzzled-oriented because players were irritated by the beeping of the heart gauge during Season’s spicier battles. For the latter, I commend Minish Cap wholeheartedly. However, for the former, the result concludes Minish Cap as a bit of a rushed and perfunctory product. Its distinct mechanics elevate it on the whole, but I’m still rather disappointed that it hardly outranks either Oracle game on a scale of overall quality. It’s a shame that Capcom never crafted a masterpiece when Nintendo’s seminal series fell into its lap.