Infernax Review

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

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Infernax

Developer: Berzerk Studio

Publisher: The Arcade Crew

Genre(s): Metroidvania

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

Release Date: February 14, 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Halo: Combat Evolved Review

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

[Image from glitchwave.com]

Halo: Combat Evolved

Developer: Bungie

Published: Microsoft

Genre(s): First-Person Shooter

Platforms: Xbox, PC

Release Date: November 15, 2001

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Star Fox Review

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

[Image from igdb.com]

Star Fox

Developer: Nintendo, Argonaut Games

Publisher: Nintendo

Genre(s): Rail Shooter

Platforms: SNES

Release Date: February 21, 1993

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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