Okay, we're getting warmer: Mega Man 2's American boxart is no prize, but maligned as it is, I like to think it's not the catastrophe that was the original. Say what you will about inaccurate character design, but as they feature something resembling actual proportion, I think of it as a relative success in that patented 80's way of box arts fulfilling the template for our imaginations. This fantastic Eurogamer interview with artist Marc Erickson reveals it was a uncoordinated hodgepodge of circumstances -- a hapless art director's interpretation of Mega Man ("he's obviously shooting, so he must be using a pistol"), Erickson simply assuming the character was an actual man, and an overall lack of cooperation between the various Capcom branches in conserving the original character design. Simply put: let us not judge Erickson for simply doing his job.
Nay, we are here to judge Mega Man 2, otherwise known as one of the finest classics of the 8-bit era and what truly etched our Blue Bomber into gaming history. By the same token of the former, it's no stretch declaring it one of the NES's masterworks, and for my money, I consider it the system's finest third-party effort. When considering how many Mario knock-offs stumbled and fell in their ill-fated attempts to capture the golden goose, that it can stand arm-in-arm with the actual Marios and Kirby's Adventure is a miracle I cherish dearly. There's no slippery controls, no projectiles nonsensically thrown in arcs, no absurd difficulty for the sake of absurd difficulty -- it's just a damn good video game, one I'd dare even say reaches the vertigo of perfection.
And yet, there's the genius behind it: on one end, Mega Man 2 is just difficult enough to keep us on our toes; you'll certainly still be measuring jumps and analyzing enemy swarms/attack patterns a regular routine. I think of Quick Man's stage, wherein as brilliantly exhibited by Kotaku's Peter Tieryas, is a calculated free-fall echoing the level's emphasis on speed. Those instant-death laser blasts -- horizontal beams impeding our progress -- materialize one by one, forcing an urgent escape towards the bottom; in effect, we're subject to a gradual learning process, ebbing frustration into rising satisfaction. (Even the trick of using Flash Man's Time Stop power comes with a downside: you won't have an advantageous weapon against Quick Man himself.)
Mega Man 2's about balance, but most importantly, it's more concerned with us having a good time. In an age where 2D platformers were impenetrable for the sake of munching up quarters, Mega Man 2 is blatantly un-cynical: its recycling of the "Choose Your Robot Master" format from the first game, this time with no Elec Man-esque obstructions and two additional Robot Masters, allows us to tackle it any way we wish. My own approach to Mega Man is randomized with bookended firmness -- I typically start out with the most basic-looking robots and leave the toughest-looking guys for last, with replays factoring into level difficulty -- but this is why I champion Bubble Man as the ideal starting point: the entire level is about gauging jumping distance, as evident from the very beginning where we're hopping from platform to platform against a raging waterfall. As we submerge underwater, the buoyant physics drift Mega Man ever closer to the deadly spikes decorating walls and ceilings; compounded upon by robotic maritime weapons, Bubble Man's lair is an ever-delicate symmetry of jumping and shooting, one that yet again we delight in mastering. (The level being the default opening selection doesn't hurt, either!)
We also pick up on other things; for instance, thanks to Wood Man's assortment of giant dog robots and guerilla attacks -- courtesy of literal robot cyborgs, naturally -- we might might ourselves running low on stamina. Upon first glance, the ensuing onslaught from Pipi birds and their hordes of egg-spawned babies are nothing more than a nuisance; however, our sweeping up their remains yields an unexpected boon: pick-me-ups galore in Life/Weapon Energy. A devious plan formulates -- we retreat naught but a yard, then casually stroll back into their spawn position for free health refills. There's other tricks like this throughout the game, yet I can't help but assume this particular haven channels this fantastic interview with Akira Kitamura -- perhaps the true creator of Mega Man -- and his elaboration upon the level design. While I sympathize with his regrets (although I can't say I've ever struggled with his Wood Man example), we must recall the ones harshest on a work are the creators themselves. This is not to say we should dismiss their retrospections entirely, but I'm never not awed at how on-point his self-imposed rules applied to Mega Man 2; the enemy waves, especially. The final enemy playing into our hands feeds into the player's satisfaction into growing stronger, and what better example than foot soldiers unknowingly aiding the enemy?
Whether or not this enemy ruleset applies to every Mega Man is up for debate, but Mega Man 2 perfects it in such a manner that it continues to challenge even the most ardent perfectionists. Just observe Crash Man's ascension complement to Quick Man's descent, the stage's emphasis on ladders leaving us easy prey for Tellies -- cylindrical robots ominously floating towards us and threatening to knock Mega Man down. The first screen, supplied by a floor, warns us what we're up against; future screens stripping that floor away and leaving us exposed to falls compounds upon a persistent tension of thrill and fear. It's in this that we recognize Mega Man 2 is the closest NES game reaching Mario's philosophy of telegraphed levels and player adaptability; yes, the two series divide among innate differences, but think of how many forgotten clones that tried and failed -- nay, perhaps even outright ignored, or attempted to glean -- its calculated flexibility. To the experienced veteran, our just-in-the-nick-of-time acrobatics within compact, hour-long playthroughs keeps us coming back again and again; to the beginner seeking thrills, the perhaps-overpowered Metal Blade plows everything in sight. Both inevitably feed into the other: the former seeking more proficient Special Weapon use, the latter eventually discovering the game's mechanics.
Still, if we must entertain Kitamura's regrets, there's one candidate that springs to mind: the Boobeam Trap. One of the bosses in Wily's Castle, this elaborate set-up of turrets requires careful timing and strategy with the Crash Bomber, the only weapon capable of destroying both the weapons and their blocky barriers. We could, perhaps, cite the game's mercy in erasing any walls previously blown up in a failed life, but that it a) requires unforeseen energy conservation in both the levitating Item 1 and Crash Bomber, and b) the utmost precision in firing shots and the correct blocks does not sit well with many; I confess to not particularly enjoying it, either.
But such mishaps are rare, and I can't imagine staying angry at a game with music this good. While it's a shame not much else by Takashi Tateishi took off -- that I confess to not having played the rest of his repertoire is telling -- that he created what's easily one of 8-bit gaming's finest soundtracks is something we must commend. We witness this from the very beginning: the opening theme gently reintroducing us into Mega Man's world as we gaze upon a glistening nighttime metropolis. Then, a crescendo, accompanying the camera's ascension of a looming skyscraper until a chiptune dissonance greets a helmet-less Mega Man. As a fierce techno rock beats to the swaying of his unfettered hair, our energized awe ensures a prolonged commitment, owing to the very same blend of imposing audiovisual storytelling later reserved for Dr. Wily's towering sentinels.
To discuss any one of the stage themes would require an essay in itself -- Bubble Man's subdued danger, Quick Man's euphoric build-up, and Wood Man's addictive, persistent beat are unbelievable stand-outs, all electronic raves triumphantly illustrating impending action and fearless peril. But for as much Kitamura and Tateishi pushed for "cool themes", I know in my heart of hearts Crash Man's grooving breakdown is my all-time favorite Mega Man stage theme. It being the sole "cute" survivor in Mega Man 2's sea of coolness renders it an instant earworm; in fact, given its accompanying stage I'd say it's the one definite element channeling Mario's "try, try again" encouragement into play, thereby producing a level we cannot possibly subject to rage.
I proclaim this fondness despite the presence of Wily Castle 1/2, otherwise known as the greatest 8-bit action theme known to man. Born from shrinking memory space, Tateishi's resorting to repetition ends up its biggest boon: the theme immediately demands our attention, wasting no time in echoing the thrill of a souped-up, ready-to-roll Mega Man storming the lion's den. It's little wonder it's the game's most unforgettable theme: the perfect portrayal of an energizing, adrenaline-pumping climax accompanying what's already an electrifying finale.
That's, in a word, Mega Man 2: unforgettable. From the aforementioned opening to the profoundly melancholic credits sequence, Capcom's 8-bit masterpiece is an immaculate storm of player engagement, visual storytelling and careful symmetry. Merely listening to its its nostalgic banger of a password theme -- yet another candidate for its most earwormy tune -- is proof it's their most timeless artifact; an immortal exercise never grown weary.
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