Metroid

To discuss these Nintendo progenitors is something of a difficult task: much as I adore the likes of Super Mario Bros. and The Legend of Zelda, for instance, they've certainly been outstripped not merely by modern standards but in their own successors. While Super Mario Bros.' immaculate design renders it just timeless enough to be accessible even to modern audiences, however, the same can't be said for The Legend of Zelda -- it certainly remains a masterpiece for those wishing to invest time into it, but barring one's possession of an NES Classic and its instant save states, its cycles of punishment and foraging fare quite poorly against the conveniences of today.

Much like The Legend of Zelda, Metroid is also often cited as an impenetrable classic -- the game is hard-as-nails difficult, thinking little to nothing of the player's morale. The overall "maze" design, while taking care to distinguish Planet Zebes's underground sectors from one another, does not establish the same philosophy with its room design and we're left with a homogeneous, indistinguishable look that's prone for disorientation. There are various reasons for this -- Metroid had a particularly troubled development, for starters, and the game as we know it today only came together in the final three months of development -- but let's be honest: it's not as if Metroid was the only 80's game that employed similar tactics, and I'd like to think the game still holds up regardless. Being a Nintendo historian, it's easier for fanboys like myself to overlook such flaws for the sake of research and personal amusement, and Samus Aran's first adventure is hardly an exception.

Of course, such excuses are hardly applicable to the passage of time at large, not the least in how the players of today demand convenience -- a luxury Metroid is thoroughly lacking in, and really, it's impossible to discuss Metroid without what doesn't work about it. Like The Legend of Zelda before it, we always start over equipped with an insufficient amount of health in 30 points, a number that inevitably shrinks as our life bars grow ever longer. And just like The Legend of Zelda, we're ill-equipped to regain that health back: with bloodthirsty aliens situated in perfected blind-spots to attack Samus -- be they dive-bombing from ceilings or constantly spawning from pipes -- it's an arduous trial-and-error process not meant for the faint of heart. When combined with the aforementioned maze disorientation, it's not uncommon for modern players to grow dispirited.

Problems all mitigated by the NES Classic's save states, you understand, but 30 years of such a brutal reputation can hardly be dissipated so easily (that, and with the NES Classic having a limited run, who knows if future releases will pick up the save state slack). This is hardly to say completion is impossible; in fact, my first play-through on 3DS VC took only three days, and I found most of the pick-ups by myself. How, exactly, I managed to accomplish this in my first week of college remains a mystery, but here's one likely answer: it's still fun.

Is Metroid as every bit as cryptic as The Legend of Zelda? Yes, and if anything, the homogenized set-up feels far more amateur than Zelda's deliberate overworld...and yet, call me crazy, but I actually enjoy getting lost. The key lies in the cues we get from gradual equipment; take, say, the very beginning, where we are unable to progress unless we pick up the Morph Ball. Said equipment shrinks Samus into a creeping ball, our only method of escape through its chamber's tiny tunnel. As we gather other equipment, we recognize other keys for progression, be it red doors by Missiles or cleverly freezing enemies via Ice Beam to use as suspended steps.

Yes, perhaps some cues are obtuse -- like Zelda, there's no cue in bombing for hidden passageways, and yet the snappy controls hardly render the process a chore: Samus bobbling about in Morph Ball mode, dropping bombs across the floor and juggling explosions into mid-air combos alongside walls  becomes second-hand nature, and we delight in discovering whatever cavities are unearthed. Metroid compels you to move forward by rewarding you: in discovering missiles, energy tanks, and weapon upgrades that make us stronger, we grow more motivated in searching every nook and cranny. Take what happens with the Screw Attack -- Samus is most vulnerable when she jumps, but this newfound gyrating prowess crushes everything in its path, our road to victory now made significantly easier. That it's obtained late-game is purposeful: it's unbelievably cathartic, as if we're exacting revenge on all the enemies giving us Game Overs again and again.

This is hardly to say we couldn't previously  take advantage of the world design, however -- for instance, we recognize the aliens spawning from pipes are prone to regeneration and goodies dropped, so we snipe their homes and replenish our supplies. Meanwhile, we recognize that while the Ice Beam isn't the strongest beam weapon available, it's certainly the most useful -- it makes Ridley's boss fight a cinch, and the aforementioned makeshift stairs render it a handy convenience (not to mention, its necessity for exterminating the titular Metroids essentially renders it a requirement, anyway).

 

Indeed, Metroid's flexibility is impressive -- it's a popular speedrun choice for a reason -- and yet, I can't help but wonder if it it's too hard for its own good. Again, the development process was what it was, but starting us off at just 30 points of health is an imposing, artificial adversity I've never cared for, as we're forced to scavenge for replenishment perhaps even longer than Zelda. Progression and exploration is in themselves fun; revitalization, when all our hard work may be dashed to pieces not even five minutes later, is not. The game is appropriately difficult where it matters -- the Mother Brain's projectile artillery may be Nintendo's most intensive, stress-inducing retro final boss, one invoking a genuine effort of 80's gaming grit -- but I can think of no other ancient Nintendo title that's this ravaged from antiquated QOL.

So then why do we newbies stick with it? The easy answer is the core gameplay's compelling enough in itself to keep us engaged, but that's only half of it; nay, it's Hirokazu "Hip" Tanaka's score that's the true star. Designed as a "living creature," it emphasizes the absence of melodies, often devised to spook us with the intensity and fear of encountering hostile life. The imposing mystique of the Title Screen is a stunning first impression, but its "tunes" like the atmospheric elevator themes are what cement Metroid's identity -- bubbling with haunting alien sci-fi, the pulse of Planet Zebes awaits with its ever-teeming wildlife, perhaps echoing the beating heart of a solitary Samus.

 

This is not always the case -- interestingly, the game is book-ended by two animated themes in Brinstar and the Ending Theme, the latter specifically designed to induce catharsis after the player's undoubtedly-arduous mission, whereas Brinstar is an active space-faring piece initiating progress. While Brinstar has represented Metroid as something of a main theme -- with great success, mind; it's one of my favorite rousing themes of the 8-bit era -- it's these gargling ambient themes where Metroid truly stirs to life, for they are where our isolation is laid bare. Look no further than the standout song in Kraid's Lair -- or, thanks to Super Smash Bros. Melee, often labelled "Brinstar Depths". It is captivatingly hollow, steady with fear as it booms into our ears. Paired with a metallic world, we are spellbound by an elegy transcending its metaphorical allegory and integrates into the self of the player.

And therein lies how Metroid is ultimately a success: thanks to one of Tanaka's best Nintendo soundtracks, we are synchronized into an alien world that gradually imbues within us, enough to make it the most engaging atmospheric NES game (a rare breed, but that renders it all the more stellar). We get lost, we die countless times, but we grow not to care: we become Zebes, Zebes becomes us, and we continue plunging into its depths to discover what awaits, be it death or reward. Such is the impetus in games such as this, where action is but a peripheral for the environment it begs us to explore.

Metroid is indeed a classic, albeit not a stone cold one -- it wouldn't be until two games later in 1994's Super Metroid where its full potential as a concept would emerge alongside a fervent cult following. Regardless, this original is engaging as it is frightening, as flawed as it is a concept far ahead of its time. It's one of a kind even within the sparse library 80's "Metroidvania," owing not merely to its ambience but in hosting what was one gaming's most stunning twist.

Screenshots courtesy of The Video Game Museum.