Pokémon Red and Blue

And so, it finally begins: my foray into a certain video game phenomenon that's ballooned far past its Nintendo origins. In a development still eluding my inner seven-year-old, I've largely cooled on my Pokémon passion. This isn't to say we had a falling out -- my two visits to Pokémon: Symphonic Evolutions should be testament enough -- but that I've only just purchased Pokémon Let's Go: Pikachu! four months after release, still have yet to open it, and am currently resisting the smoldering coals of Pikachu's eyes as I type this prove it's no longer my No. 1 video game priority. I confess this as a young man whose Pokémon background mirrored that of every other young boy in 1999 America: I played Pokémon Red -- one of the two versions we're reviewing today -- to death, worshipped the localized cartoon daily, and collected countless cards, stuffed animals, books, and toys. Those, too, reflect the ravages of time: the teams I've forged in Pokémon Red are forgotten and erased, I've long since abandoned the (still-running!) anime, my old cards -- despite my best efforts in preservation binders -- still pop up in various nooks and crannies,  strategy guides and comic books lie torn and/or lost, the stuffed animals display worn seams and cat gnawed-tears, and toys lie broken, disassembled, and battery-drained.

That it took this long to cover a full-length review for Pokémon -- having previously only covered brief impressions for Pokémon Soul Silver and Pokémon White while only reviewing the Detective Pikachu spin-off -- most publicly proves this shift, but make no mistake: while we could chalk up any number of reasons why I've fallen off the Pokémon ride, my same passion for writing, game analysis, and historic study applied to its Game Boy roots. It is my dedication to nostalgia that keeps me on this path, and what better evidence than playing both Red and Blue versions via their 3DS Virtual Console re-releases to completion? This was completely unnecessary in itself -- both only differ in version-exclusive Pokémon to catch --  but their infamous balance sparked an insatiable curiosity. If there's any confirmation a deep love for Pikachu still beats in my heart, let it be that.

However, it is said love that warrants an honest evaluation, and if said honestly is how I can best pay tribute to a past-life phenomenon, then I must echo the choir of Pokémon's more cynical fans and agree that, yes, Pokémon Red and Blue -- the international updates of Japan's Pokémon Red and Green -- haven't aged particularly well. It brings me no pleasure to report this, even though I can readily assert that they're still perfectly playable video games and still maintain a semblance of quality. Nay, what bears heavily upon my nostalgia-ridden heart that, strictly within the context of their respective battle systems and level scale -- the heart of Pokémon itself -- cannot hold a candle to even my least-appreciated members of the Pokémon canon. (Diamond and Pearl, which I've tried and failed three times to appreciate for reasons that still elude me, and Sun and Moon representing everything wrong with modern Pokémon in text overabundance and rail-roaded progression.)

And yet, such a dichotomy fascinates me -- the oft-cited betrayal of childhood memory should clearly vindicate what I dismissed as unadventurous slogs; therefore, that I ultimately still prefer these antiquated originals defies all logic. Or does it? What we have here is raw product birthed from creator Satoshi Tajiri's former passion for insect collecting -- our young avatar's quest to capture and train every last Pokémon -- wild creatures whose prominence as battlecompanions/recreational pets permeate the in-game world -- is encapsulated within a relatable childhood fantasy. Whereas Pikmin and Luigi's Mansion are but charming rough drafts, Pokémon Red and Blue have more ambitious designs, establishing an RPG framework for the purposes of battling, collecting, and trading among in-game opponents and your real-world peers.

It's a song and dance etched into our brains for over 20 years now, yet much as we think we know Red and Blue's Kanto region -- inspired by, but retroactively titled after the Japanese prefecture -- a cursory revisit wedges us into a metaphorical pair of outgrown shoes, stumbling every time we so much as encounter a retconned Pokémon attack. ("Oh, right, Gust was a Normal-type move back then. Not Flying. Yeah.") Much like the actual Pokémon themselves, that Pokémon games have evolved so far beyond in feature and scope that it's only natural archaic leftovers surface; indeed, that the likes of "undeletable HM moves required to finish the game" and "one-use TMs" stuck around long after Red and Blue renders such criticisms a little unfair, but when outfitted within the confines of limited, unorganized item inventories and inevitable balance woes, it remains lamentable, regardless. Taught Charmander the weak Cut move? Tough luck -- you're stuck with it forever.

And yes, the unbalanced combat! How I wish I could say elements like never-ending Rage rampages and opponent-disabling Wrap sessions were but mild irritants of an outdated progenitor, yet even despite the dev team's massive laboring into the game's massive mess of code, balance was clearly an afterthought in favor of simply making the game function. For any trainer selecting Charmander as their first Pokémon, this is evident right from the get-go: the Fire-type lizard is effectively the game's Hard Mode, any and all Embers little match for Pewter City Gym's Rock-type Pokémon; conversely, Geodudes and Sandshrews are pleasant walk-in-the-parks for grassy Bulbasaur and aquatic Squirtle. When considering the only alternative options hitherto are puny Normal, Flying, and Bug-types, it presents a shocking absence of foresight.

Indeed, Charmander -- iconic as he and his final Charizard evolution are to the franchise -- is the most emblematic portrayal of Red and Blue's flawed composition. As children, we're inevitably drawn to his cool contrast from the other two, but through no fault of our own do we anticipate the growing pains awaiting us within Red and Blue's poorly reasoned level-up moveset system -- whereas Squirtle and Bulbasaur frequently build upon same-attack type bonuses with Water Gun and Razor Leaf well into their evolutions, we're left wincing as Charmelon's stuck with the pitifully weak Ember well into its Charizard transformation. Compared to other types, even he has it easy: Bugs have no strong moves to capitalize their advantage over game-dominating Psychics, the Ghost family (Gastly, Haunter, and Gengar) suffers the same in their crippling Poison-typing, and there's far too much set-damage/self-damage moves within the Fighting-type pantheon for my tastes.

Combined within the game's open-ended pacing, and this dysfunction's laid bare for any old friend or aspiring game historian to witness. By the time we reach Celadon City and divide time between its Grass-type Gym, the secret Team Rocket Hideout, and the ghost-haunted Lavender Tower, the games simply can't keep up with our ever-growing team steamrolling mid-20's opponents armed with un-evolved Pokémon. This isn't to say Pokémon Red and Blue don't make efforts to balance -- the Gym Badges gatekeeping Pokémon levels is a smart method against trading Level 100 Mewtwos into new files -- but while the seasoned player can simply avoid roaming trainers and experiment with lower-level Pokémon we catch along the way, a new one can hardly discern such self-imposed handicaps.

We spot other aged aspects, namely the, uh, "interesting" sprite design for the Pokémon designs -- for the uninitiated, Red and Blue took the liberty of "updating" Red and Green's sprites, and given the mixed results ranging from "just fine" (Voltorb/Slowpoke/Nidoking) to "complete Eldritch abominations", I can't definitively claim it's a general improvement. It is one thing, perhaps, to emphasize disproportionate stature for visual impact; I'd like to think I'm fond of Blastoise's imposing girth, and for historical purposes, I'm never not fascinated with how Pikachu started off as a little chubs. Regardless, with sprite canvas/Game Boy limitations being what they are, it doesn't take long for this direction to fall apart; I mean, good god, where do I even begin? Machop and Machoke's complete failures of proportion? Golem's bulbous pupils? The chilling, soulless countenances of Jigglypuff and Wigglytuff? Many cite Golbat's nightmarish jaws as the most terrifying, but I'm personally more vexed by Ekans's dead-fish eyes accompanying a gaping duckbill.

(And this is to say nothing about their inconceivable back sprites! Damn me if I could even figure out what's going on with Rhyhorn and Venasaur, and Charmelon's balloonish snout never not projects an air of forlorn bleakness. Botched plastic surgery, perhaps?)

But I've harped on enough criticism, and it'd be cheating to direct any ire towards its cookie-cutter story, as text limitations reduce characters to stock stereotypes, base motives, and non-sequitur observations. With the probable exception of Pokémon Black and White, Pokémon has never been host to any level of compelling storytelling, instead relying upon its player avatar as a means of projection. Really, it's telling the two genuine lines of dialogue stems from oblivious child curtness/clueless parents, the former observed above and the latter shared at the game's very beginning. ("All boys leave home someday. It said so on TV.") Localization inventions or not, we'd witness far more diverse script-work in later games, but the point is: they're never the focus -- it's the journey we mold for ourselves via avatar and personal taste.

Point is, the industry's own tastes and standards evolved over time, and I'm not about to dismiss a Game Boy game for that. In the context of Red and Blue, this may stifle itself somewhat: the aforementioned balance woes render it a relic for many, but why'd they do little to combat 90's children? Butterfree or Wigglytuff are ultimately useless in the grand scheme of things, but when propped up against our beefy Gyaradoses and Slowbros, they become niche underdogs we root for. Take my own approach to Pokémon: future critters in Spoink and Emolga are designated as team mascots, a calculated handicap that breeds immersion -- when they topple deadly creatures and overcome weaknesses through careful strategy, we're greeted with a triumph not possible with an effortless Zapdos clean-up.

Appropriated within Junichi Masuda's iconic score -- absolutely the one thing about these games that haven't aged a day -- and that engagement doubles twicefold. Much as I want to elaborate on the heartwrenching nostalgia every Pokémon fan drowns when they revisit Pallet Town and Viridian City's respective themes, I'll simply refer to this earlier write-up and instead focus upon the battle themes -- the Trainer themes are properly antagonistic, getting our heart pumping as Pokémon are wiped out one by one, but I think of the adrenaline-inducing Gym Leader theme as its strongest achievement: for those Charmander fans in the audience, reflect on what ultimately drafted the tension of scratching away at Brock's Onix -- the music's goaded us into defying all odds, chipping away little by little as the titanic rock-snake crumbles to energized determination. Charmander's the team's lone survivor, but as our opponent's HP bar teeters into the void, we know victory finally awaits us.

Child-empowering narratives were hardly anything new before Pokémon Red and Blue, it's little wonder they took off. Achingly sincere as its cousin in EarthBound is, gaming's greatest masterpiece directs us to "don't even think" of riding Ness's short-lived bicycle into caves; Pokémon, in the vein of our awesome uncle who sneaked us South Park video tapes at his mountain condo, laughs at such rigidness and allows that venture for the sake of convenience and adventure. Yes, it still enforces rules -- Professor Oak's conscience miraculously forbids any indoor cycling escapades -- but just like EarthBound, childhood logic dictates we are the star: we leave our homes to pursue our dreams, only because a mom lives on TV. We, as kids, have taken a journey of responsibility upon ourselves, and thanks to the emphasis on trading/version-exclusive Pokémon, it's not a solitary one either. Some may call Pokémon's tradition of two separate versions -- a concept born from Mario creator Shigeru Miyamoto -- a cynical cash-grab; myself, I think it's genius. Strip away the marketing cynicism for a moment and consider how, for a moment, how the games encourage interaction -- to obtain every last Pokémon, we're likely left with no choice but have no choice but to seek out other Trainers; in turn, lifelong friendships are forged, fan communities thrive, and we're taught the values of communication and engagement -- all from electronic material parents already think we spend too much time with. What better outcome -- from the most wholesome of intentions -- of Mr. Tajiri's Link cable dreams than that?

But it's that word, "responsibility", that best defines the philosophy of Pokémon Red and Blue's archaic design -- one-use TMs are an annoyance, yes, but as responsibility in selecting which Pokémon is best, we discover its emphasis on responsibility. For the veteran player discovering Red and Blue today, it's an awkward relic with humbling origins; for the children of yesteryear, it's a reflection of their impulsive decision-making, be it evolving Vulpix too early via Fire Stone or a Charizard stuck with Cut. In turn, can we think of these imperfections as Game Freak's own Cuts? Considering they were gradually mended over two decades of mainline entries, perhaps, but as we will discuss with its final update in Pokemon Yellow: Special Pikachu Edition, Pokémon Red and Blue ultimately achieve immortal quality. Still, it doesn't take a 2000-word essay to recognize a happy ending was already achieved; Charmander was still scratching the surface, but what he didn't know was that he struck gold long before.