I love, more than anything, dumb absurdist humor. Much as I've elaborated on here about my cherished qualities of meditation and reflection, I am an absurdly silly human being, and take pride in my humor. As a child, randomness was a championed quality of mine not merely in making others laugh, but my channeling said randomness into the written word was how I discovered my destiny as a writer. It is how I still recognize the earlier seasons of SpongeBob Squarepants as some of the finest examples of animation ever crafted, the Canada episodes of South Park as proof Trey Parker and Matt Stone have the greatest jobs in the world, and perceive the impending arrival of Invader Zim: Enter the Florpus as nothing more than divine intervention for the sake of today's youth.
When considering all that, Nintendo throwing me a bone with WarioWare, Inc.: Mega Microgames! in the midst of those halcyon days is nothing more than fate. It is extraordinarily, gut-bustingly funny, combining absurdist Japanese humor with the grossness of Nintendo's crudest mascot. It is only sensible Wario would be responsible for this madness: Mario's twisted doppelganger has always elicited a sense of self-centered absurdity, and so it is his natural duty to present the inner mechanizations of him and his buddies, be they for greed or the expression of art. Mostly greed, yes, but I'd like to think there is an inherent art in picking your nose.
In retrospect, it's hard to believe we've gone fifteen years without a single new take on the Mario RPG formula. Mario & Luigi: Superstar Saga, developed by Super Mario RPG alumni at AlphaDream and the game we are reviewing today, was the last new concept introduced and that was way back in 2003's GameCube/Game Boy Advance era. Since then, Mario & Luigi has ballooned with five consecutive sequels (including Superstar Saga's 3DS remake just last fall), Paper Mario only had one more RPG (2004's The Thousand-Year Door) before bumbling into a hitherto unfinished run of tone-deaf platforming/action hybrids, and despite what dubious rumors may tell you, Nintendo, Square-Enix and AlphaDream's aforementioned alumni remain uninterested in a Super Mario RPG sequel.
In other words, for maybe the past decade we've been offered Mario RPGs/non-RPGs people are either sick of or don't want, and whereas Nintendo may strangely be complacent with this state, I can only imagine a reboot of some sort would ease our depressed fatigue. My current adoration of Mario & Luigi: Superstar Saga + Bowser's Minions aside, Mario & Luigi's over-saturation is mostly imposed by the series' mixed quality: Superstar Saga and DS's Bowser's Inside Story are generally regarded as the best, with the rest either considered mediocre (Partners in Time), well-meaning but tutorial/content-bloated (Dream Team) or just wasted potential (Paper Jam). When the series works, its offerings are among the most delightful Mario spin-offs around; when it doesn't, it feels draining and monotonous.
In retrospect, that the initial reception to The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker -- once branded as "Celda" by embittered fans -- has all but evaporated is rather stunning. Witnessing the shift from the realistic Spaceworld 2000 demo into this brought upon much hellfire; I still remember several of my Zelda-loving friends hating the crap out of it and refusing to do anything with it (a promise that was eventually rescinded; personally, while I loved Majora's Mask and casually enjoyed Link's Awakening, I wasn't invested enough in Zelda to really care). While we could certainly chalk up the switch to poor foresight and communication on Nintendo's part, the shift into cartoonish cel-shaded graphics highlighted the number one complaint of the GameCube days: Nintendo was too childish, too alienating in their kid-oriented direction of Toon Links and the latest Mario game being dubbed Super Mario Sunshine.
Those days are now behind us, yet somehow in the fourteen-plus years since The Wind Waker's release, criticism remains intertwined with the game's identity. This isn't to say the game's not surrounded by a sizeable, adoring fanbase -- you'll find it commonly cited as a series favorite, in fact -- but it remained so dogged by harsh critique that would continue to split the fanbase not just in itself, but pave the road for future titles' division. It's too easy, perhaps too short, and the game's central mechanic of sailing took too long for many.
Most damnably of all, however, was the obvious evidence of it being rushed out to market: there are cut dungeons, abrupt sequences, and an infamous endgame fetch quest that amounts to nothing more than padding. One could even say said padding was the genesis for its plaguing future mainline entries, yet for as much as Twilight Princess and Skyward Sword would be inundated with handholding and bloat, neither possess this glaring, crippling flaw.
One that somehow flew over me when I first played it; it is a video game I have much reverence for, as The Wind Waker was the entry responsible for finally captivating me into the world of Zelda. It's one of my childhood favorites, in fact, taking the No. 4 spot in my "Holy Nintendo Five" alongside the likes of EarthBound, Super Smash Bros. Melee, Super Mario 64 and Kirby Super Star. For a child awakened to nostalgia, it was everything I looked for in a game: a vibrant world possessing that ever-so-rare euphoric warmth in its beauty, setting the imagination aflame of universes beyond our own. So gripping was its atmosphere that I envisioned myself as an explorer who seeped through dimensions, canvassing the musty depths of temples and seas alike.
These days, it's a little different. The Wind Waker is still something I'm very fond of, but time has rendered its flaws unavoidable; being such an ambitious project, those black marks of clumsy, shore-horned segments and stripped elements are only all the more apparent. And yet as I had once done on Nintendojo, even now I'm compelled to defend most of those same flaws. Yes, it is a game that misses opportunities and doesn't build upon them, but I adore so much of what it tries to do that I cannot help but raise an objection to those, well, objections.
Take the game's central context and mechanic: sailing on the wide open sea. The Wind Waker takes place in The Great Sea, divided into island-dotted sectors with all sorts of treasures, secrets and locals waiting for you. Grand as that may seem, many claim it to be a tedious exercise: even with the later aid of warping, sailing from one island to another takes an awful lot of time, and it's been accused of exploiting that for padding purposes via fetch quests. I, for one, cannot get enough of it; you could point to certain stretches of emptiness, but witnessing the game's various weather patterns and hearing The King of Red Lions' soft rocking within silent nights provides a soothing catharsis not found anywhere else in Zelda; as a matter of fact, I've yet to spot any other vehicular transport emulate this level of calm anywhere else.
Much of this has to do with how it perfectly fits into the exploratory heart of Zelda. The gradual process of a distant speck morphing into an island isn't just met with anticipation; it's perhaps the first moment Zelda had an open world-esque inkling of "you can go there." Indeed, The Wind Waker was perhaps the most "open" 3D Zelda in this closing pre-Breath of the Wild era: you won't be choosing dungeons in any which order, but it's not too long until The Great Sea is yours to explore. And perhaps it's not so empty after all: the careful
player will notice, for instance, that the treasure-filled Light Circles only appear
in certain sectors at night.
Not that The Great Sea doesn't forget to include some thrills; even when you're being chased by carnivorous Gyorgs and the helicopter-sounding Peahats, haven't you ever decided to just climb up that watchtower and knock over some Bokoblins? For all its aforementioned catharsis, the adrenaline of combating maritime monsters and bombing enemy battleships within the confines of your tiny boat is just as satisfying (not the least of which are the Big Octos, one of my many water-based phobias in youth).
Which reminds me: the combat has also been derided for undeveloped concepts (you can pick up enemy weapons like spears and longswords, but there's not much to do with them) or overtly-lenient shortcuts (A-button parries against Darknuts, otherwise known as "press A-to-win!"). While there's certainly a case for the former, it's enough for me that I've always found hilarity in the juxtaposition between Toon Link and the oversized weapons, while the latter looks especially cool and has great feedback in control/weight. That they don't detract from the combat in itself is a blessing.
Not exactly the best defense, I know, but to this day, The Wind Waker still possesses my favorite sense of Zelda sword-slicing: a punchy, rhythmical force of impact that conveys not the distinct sword slices of the past two 3D Zeldas, but whaling an enemy in a manner not entirely unlike boxing. It feels wonderful to execute, heightened by "strike" beats in the accompanying music. This isn't even factoring in the other weapons: I can't be the only one who's unable to resist constantly bashing in Moblin heads with a boomerang, right?
I ask that because it's one one of the many, many reasons why the visuals remain The Wind Waker's finest achievement. As mentioned earlier, you'll barely find a trace of graphics complaints to be found, and that's because The Wind Waker's cel-shaded aestheticis the definition of timeless: fourteen years later, you can hardly spot any limitations found in the animation, texture-work and graphics involved. It is a cartoon truly come to life, with the obvious Asian influences granting it a foreign mystique and enchantment not completely unlike Capcom's Okami.
It goes without saying it still has the most beautiful setpieces in all of Zelda, and while Breath of the Wild seems poised to dethrone it in this area, I can't imagine my breath ever ceasing to stop at some of The Wind Waker's best cases of art direction. Is there anything more beautiful on the GameCube than the Fairy Fountains, with their azure colors, nautical-based formations and luminescent walls providing the game's most soothing, jaw-dropping locale? Even the Great Fairies themselves are a mystifying visual treat; no longer are we treated to screeching, scantily-clad nymphs, but graceful multi-limbed deities comprised of petals and spiral cut paper.
When compounded upon by the chorus-filled heaven that is the Fairy Fountain theme -- said chorus being enough to render it the very best version of that classic theme -- they amount to nothing less than spellbinding scenery with an irresistible pull. Not one visit comes to mind where I hadn't just sat there and watched the crowd of ever-rising sprites ascend into the ether, and they're certainly not the only location with such a hypnosis.
So great are The Wind Waker's visuals that I'd even claim they come to aid anytime the gameplay may be lacking;
some rag on the dungeons, for instance, for being too linear. The best
Zelda dungeons provide an organic flavor of continually traversing
across their depths, so perhaps there's a point there. But why should I
care when the setpieces involved express the other very best factor of
dungeons: making me feel like I'm really there? All five of the game's dungeons excel at this: even now, I cannot help but be pulled in by the chilling, shadowy haze of the Earth Temple or the crowds of spores and writhing, squirming plants in the Forbidden Woods.
The last three -- Tower of the Gods, Earth Temple and Wind Temple -- are probably the best in how appropriately huge they feel: intertwined with the plot, the trio must invoke a grand, majestic aura to convey themselves as appropriately sacred. The Tower of the Gods is my particular favorite, its holographic rainbow bridges and rising water levels expressing a prestigious air echoed by its placement in the game's plot: its ascendance from the ocean after centuries' worth of sleep provokes a musty, ancient feel.
Again, the music is imperative: Tower of the Gods with its powerful chorus is easily the best dungeon theme, but the Wind Temple evokes the more common usage of atmospheric sound: Pikmin-esque instruments introduce the temple (perhaps the biggest hint that Hajime Wakai, one of the game's four composers, was behind this song?) as they segue into a lone, melancholic guitar, perhaps reflecting the solitary slumber of the moss-filled temple itself.
Naturally, The Wind Waker wants to show all this off with clever manipulations of the camera. Bosses have never been this huge before in Zelda,
for example, which gives ample excuse to draw the camera out during
each and every battle. Every instance is meant to emphasize Toon Link's
relative tininess to everything around him, be it the massive jaws of
the sand serpent Molgera or the vast ocean surrounding each of the three
Triangle Isles. It's a powerful effect adjusted to one's liking via
C-stick, and even now, I can't help but be absorbed by how huge
everything is.
And as expected for a game passing itself as a cartoon, the animation is wonderful; the dynamic expressions of Toon Link are commonly cited, but I'm especially taken with the game's horde of enemies. Watching the Moblin's antics (light their arses on fire!) or the armorless, weaponless Darknuts make do with their fists or stray Moblin spear lying around is greatly entertaining, and I've made it a hobby of mine to experiment with Toon Link's various weapons to gauge their reactions. Case in point: smacking Miniblins off the Forsaken Fortress's upper reaches with the Skull Hammer, as watching their puny little bodies launch into a watery grave is not unlike the awe of a soaring golf ball.
It's a good thing the character animation succeeds in its goals, as the story -- perhaps tied with Majora's Mask as being the strongest within Zelda's history -- wouldn't nearly be as good without them. Taking place as something of an alternate sequel to Ocarina of Time, its setting up of a mystery within an entirely new setting --- The Great Sea -- provides a fascinating juxtaposition: we desire to learn the fate of familiar kingdom we learn about in the intro -- a gripping sequence depicted in hieroglyph-esque woodblock prints -- but we're having too much fun with the new world's pirates and bird people and wood spirits for our curiosity to linger too long.
The Wind Waker is different from the previous two games in that strikes a mid-road: the themes and character moments involved aren't nearly as raw, but they ain't exactly subtle. The aforementioned "mystery" introduces a wealth of gravity and import to this new realm, yet even moments like Prince Komali's one-sided affection for Medli echo its biting themes of loss and moving on; in that respect, watching series villain Ganondorf earn his first touch of
character is a thing of beauty, and remains the most tantalizing moment of humanization in Zelda history. As a grown man who's watched his cherished
childhood slip away, it identifies with me more with each passing year.
So much of what makes this new setting so foreign is in the score: helmed by a four-man team (Kenta Negata, Hajime Wakai, Toru Minegishi and Koji Kondo in his first supervisory role), The Wind Waker brims with Celtic-influences and instruments, namely in the very first song we hear. Best described as the game's main theme, the playful Irish arrangement that is the Title Theme is reverberated throughout The Wind Waker as not just a clever recurring motif, but in tone: we find its whimsy shared in other compelling themes as well (namely the castanet-filled Dragon Roost Island). Personaly, I've always thought of it as a fairy-tale opening.
But it's not Zelda without the adventurous backdrops, which we find in the wonderful ocean theme. Both intrepid and marvelous, The Great Sea encapsulates the very essence of "adventure" in its entire duration, never failing to inspire the swelling need for discovery and the unknown. Everything from climbing Bokoblin watchtowers to watching seagulls fly alongside The King of Red Lions is heightened by this one song.
The Wind Waker is notable for being the first Zelda to establish unique theme for each boss, and while they are spectacular (Molgera and Helmaroc King being the standouts), the recurring mini-boss theme remains my favorite. Making a triumphant first impression through its chiming of bells, the way this valor is carried through the light-hearted whimsy of whistles is nothing less than infectious.
I should highlight one more positive while we're on the subject of sound: the conduction of the Wind Waker itself. I could elaborate on how much I cherish the game's sound effects, but it is one of the most ethereal moments of sound in Zelda, as even simply standing there graces our ears with a celestial air. This isn't even getting into the ascending chimes of the three conduction times, all accompanied by stunning choirs. The baton may not be as functionally deep as the Ocarina, but the sound reverie is enough to render it my favorite Zelda instrument.
All this and more is enough to propel The Wind Waker into the upper echelons of Zelda...but alas, for all its ambitions, it misses the very top. Everything to do with this relates to its rushed status: this is something not immediately apparent, but by end of the game's first act (roughly by the third dungeon), it becomes undeniably evident this ambitious title did not fully achieve its vision. Such a failure is not uncommon in the industry, but when it sinks to levels of wasting the player's time, it becomes a major detriment.
Case in point: the cut dungeons. After the game's opening stages, the story makes a point of collecting three magical pearls after completing the early dungeons. The first two are acquired in this matter without a hitch, but after a protracted dash to nab Nayru's Pearl, it's suddenly handed to you by the water spirit Jabun. The aforementioned Nintendojo article does have a defense for this -- that the "water" dungeon role may've been filled by the Tower of the Gods, which immediately follows -- but there's just no getting around how abrupt the Jabun sequence is.
One can't also help but wonder if the "mini-dungeons" -- Fire Mountain and Ice-Ring Isle, used to obtain certain equipment -- were the two cut dungeons, and yet they're so short even the term "mini-dungeon" does them a disservice (aside from a cool secret in the latter). This isn't to say they're terrible in themselves -- they actually fit relatively seamlessly into the progression -- but one also cannot help but imagine if these dungeons were tied into the game's mid-game twist: one I shall not spoil for those who have yet to plunder The Wind Waker's depths, but it's a gripping possibility that would've opened up the game's already massive world two-fold.
Of course, the elephant in the room is the Triforce Hunt: a blatant case of padding that would set the example for bloated, uneventful events that would later plague the series. This is the one area my article faltered in defending, as it not only abruptly shoehorns itself into the narrative but its repetitive lazy cycle speaks for itself: you sail all over The Great Sea to find a Triforce Chart, hand it over to Tingle to translate for hundreds of rupees, and then go off to recover the Triforce piece.
This is a process repeated seven times, and to make matters worse, it gets thoroughly openly lazy. Practically every one of them jams in enemy brawls, homogenizing even its rare inspirations into an endless, tiring cascade of swordplay. Take the chart involving the Ghost Ship: it's a perfect concept for a game set on the high seas, with the set-up involving an elaborate quest to obtain an ocean villa, discover a zombie-infested basement within and acquire the bewitched Ghost Ship Chart. All riveting stuff, especially when the ship itself greets itself in the night, its demonic chanting alerting us to its presence...only to end up being yet another enemy horde.
While The Wind Waker is not as shockingly amateurish as its Mario GameCube contemporary (Super Mario Sunshine) in compensating for rushed development, its failure stings a bit more in that it's this close to achieving masterwork status...only to slip up in Nintendo's drive to meet the Japanese holiday season. It is a game I still fervently defend and regard as superior to the mediocre 3D efforts over the next decade, but that simple fact undermines not just any arguments I push forward, but a rare betrayal to Nintendo's values and work ethic regarding development.
To my mind, I can imagine a Wind Waker that stands up with the very best of Zelda. It is absolutely a visual masterpiece, one that will certainly be held up as one of the finest applications of aesthetics found in a Nintendo game. But I cannot claim the same as an actual game; visuals will only get you so far, after all, and between the likes of its lack of unique mini-bosses and the undeveloped enemy weapon system and once again doing the "Ganon's Tower is a hodgepodge of previous dungeon concepts" endgame shtick, there's the sense it's just not trying hard enough. By itself, it's a betrayal to its graphical ambitions; as a Zelda game, it's perhaps the most disappointing thing of all.
And yet to me, it doesn't really matter. Do I still lament The Wind Waker doesn't achieve its dreams? On some days. Do I lament we never got the planned sequel? Definitely, and that's because I love so much of what it earnestly tries to accomplish that it still sets a reputable bar. It's an even rarer example of a game where I don't care it has flaws, I don't care it makes missteps; above all, its infatuating sense of catharsis is enough to lull me into sweet, sweet rapture, one where another world is active and awake.
Even now, that is still everything I'm looking for. The Wind Waker is not the best Zelda, but it is the Zelda that still speaks to me the most as an adult with its brilliant themes and meaty exploration; to my inner child with whimsy nostalgia and a warm, beating heart. For that alone, it remains my favorite Zelda.
Plays In: Menu Status: Original Composition Composed By: Ryoji Yoshitomi
Video games are often cited as a method of escape: be it stress, tragedy or dysfunctional families, we depend on our favorite hobby to smother our woes. Even if it's only temporary, anything from a ten-minute foray into Super Mario Bros. to being absorbed for hours by our Animal Crossing village may be the only daily relief for troubled lives.
Yet how often is it games give something back to us? In today's example, it's not as if I was going through anything difficult when WarioWare, Inc: Mega MicroGames! reached my grubby 5th Grade hands, but I remember it most fondly as a game that spoke with me. This is hardly unique to WarioWare--just observe the troves upon troves of preschooler computer games where characters speak directly with toddlers--yet somehow Wario and his new crowd of game developers constantly engaged with me and made me one of the gang through one common thread: random, dumb humor.
My childhood secret of nostalgia was always kept clutched to my chest, yet I always outspoken with my favorite area of comedy. I constantly devised stories and characters representing the most demented products of my mind, be it sentient spoons or zombie men crimelords who feasted on the flesh of cereal character mascots. The sacred "Game in the Basement" action figure rituals with my and my friend Matt involved Pepsi Seal murder mysteries and Kung Fu Beanie Babies (among other vastly inappropriate adventures I won't be sharing here). Invader Zim, Ed, Edd n' Eddy and Courage the Cowardly Dog all embraced these themes and were three of my favorite cartoons growing up. It was one of primary reasons why EarthBound, gaming's masterpiece, meant to so much me.
Most of this, as you may expect, went over the heads of my peers. Not that they didn't watch Nickelodeon or Cartoon Network, but seeing as how my brand of humor circuitry isn't exactly the norm, it was difficult to find others who shared my passion of blood-sucking monkeys (it would eventually lead to an eventual outcasting due to the belief I was "retarded," but that was a ways off). This is echoed even in my adult life: I'm the guy whose favorite episodes of South Park adopt the "bludgeon one stupid joke repeatedly" model (Terrence and Philip in Not Without My Anus, Jakovasaurs, Crippled Summer, etc.), which were never very popular.
When considering all that, it saddens me quite deeply WarioWare's presence has practically dropped off the face of the earth. That it had to die with Game and Wario--a project that betrays the very core of the series--is especially heartbreaking; I'd take flawed entries in the vein of Smooth Moves and D.I.Y to keep the blood pumping, and it's all because like EarthBound and Animal Crossing before it, it understood me. It knew I'd shake my head in amusement at warped Nintendo references, grin at a falling nail yell "HYAAAAAAAH!!!" in-between a poor man's fingers, and laugh at watching a beautiful anime woman shed tears after retreating a loogie up her nose.
It was Nintendo's modern embracing of random humor, and now it's gone. All I have left are the entries that spoke to me in elementary/middle school; in fact, it'd be inaccurate to label it "modern". WarioWare's now yet another childhood dream: one I can return to any time, because it came true.
Whenever I hear this song, I say to myself, "I've come home." And just think: it was Wario of all characters who made me feel welcome. How peculiar!
Final Thoughts: Naturally, I was thrilled when this received not one but two arrangements in Super Smash Bros. Brawl. Yoshitomi-san himself returned to do a medley, but Keigo Ozaki's version is actually one of my favorite arrangements from the game.
Origin: The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker Plays in: Fairy Fountains Status: Arrangement Arrangers: Kenta Nagata, Hajime Wakai, Toru Minegishi, Koji Kondo
Gueeeess who's attending the Master Quest tour for The Legend of Zelda: Symphony of the Goddesses this Friday? That's right, I'll heading down the Mann Center in Philly to have sweet, sweet orchestrated Zelda music grace my ears once more. I attended the first tour back some three years ago, so I figured it was about time to revisit.
So for today, I thought I'd share one of the songs that's scheduled to play: the Great Fairy's Fountain. Anyone who calls themselves a Zelda fan should be intimately familiar with this theme, as it not only signals the start of a magical new adventure via the file select, but it also plays within the mysterious fairy fountains hidden across Hyrule. However, this particular Fairy Fountain theme is located not within the hidden crevices of Hyrule, but in the blue expanses of The Wind Waker's Great Sea. It also happens to be my personal favorite.
And why's that? Just listen to that video! Look at that background! Wind Waker was in no short supply of gorgeous setpieces, and the Fairy Fountains were among the cream of the crop. Home of the spiral streamer-adorned Great Fairies, these interiors are decorated with an ethereal blue so stunning it never fails to take your breath away. And that choir! The choir! This is actually the one and only Fairy Fountain theme with vocals, whiiich is pretty much the main reason why it's my favorite. Can you believe how well it elevates those familiar harps?
The Wind Waker was the very first Zelda game to capture my imagination as a child, back in the later era of my prepubescent age. I'd played Zelda games before, but it was here where I first lost myself in the immersion of dungeons lost to time and abandoned treasures waiting to be discovered. It was the dawn of a new hidden reverie for me, one very different from the sugary sweetness of Kirby and the wistful nostalgia of EarthBound.
So often would I lose myself in the game's locales. I was no longer the player, but a lone explorer who seeped between dimensions. I inhaled the musty, ancient air of the Wind Temple. I crossed the holographic projections of the Tower of the Gods. I sunk deep, deep down into the forgotten realm of Hyrule.
I would stand in awe within the Fairy Fountains. I'd gaze up, the heavenly chorus filling my ears as the luminous lights lifted themselves higher and higher into a mystical abyss. Where did they lead? Why did they go? I didn't know, but I did know I was no longer the awkward 6th grader trying to fit into a scary new environment, or the one everyone thought was mentally retarded. I was the me I always dreamed of.
Final Thoughts: ...gotta say, though, I'm not sure why they have two separate Majora's Mask suites in the Master Quest set list. That they don't have the Link's Awakening suite (or at the very least, the brilliant Ballad of the Windfish arrangement) is a crying shame. Also not looking forward to the Skyward Sword suite, ick.
Since the passing of 2002, the already-troublesome situation for the Nintendo Gamecube had not improved. While Metroid Prime received universal acclaim and Animal Crossing was an unexpected success in the West, other long-awaited sequels weren't so lucky. Super Mario Sunshine's unorthodox F.L.U.D.D. mechanic and brutal difficulty turned off many longtime fans, while the ground-focused combat of Star Fox Adventures--not to mention the surreal, tonally unfitting shift of setting for the series--initiated a stigma that haunted the series ever since. With the aforementioned Game Boy Advance "port breeding ground" initiating cries of laziness, things weren't looking up for the Big N.
2003 wasn't promising. The already-controversial The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker launched that spring to American audiences and continued to split the community, with the most negatively-cited examples including its easy difficulty, padding, and obvious evidence of rushed development. Fans were still scratching their heads at the announcement of the bongo-equipped Donkey Konga, and wondered if Nintendo had any idea of what to do with the Kong family following the recent sale of Rare. As sequels to Mario Kart, Pikmin and Paper Mario were still taking their sweet time, Nintendo began throwing whatever gimmicks they could at their consoles --be they the Game Boy Advance/Gamecube Link Cable, the card-swiping E-Reader, and the Game Boy Player peripheral for the GameCube. None of them caught the public eye, and so it was all the more embarrassing when the GBA/GC cable was front and center at Nintendo's E3 conference accompanying a yawn-inducing reveal: a multiplayer version of the original Pac-Man.
In the midst of it all was an unexpected announcement: the revival of the cancelled Nintendo 64 project, Kirby Air Ride, only this time retooled for the Gamecube. The game's troubled development still remains a mystery: we still don't quite know why the original version--originally named Kirby Bowl 64--was cancelled, much less why it was risen from the grave (our only insight into the game's development rests in a 2003 Nintendo Power interview with the game's producers, which didn't yield any answers). Air Ride's unintuitive control scheme confused journalists attending trade shows, and so the game failed to drum up hype in the face of the highly-anticipated Mario Kart: Double Dash!!. Could the fact that Kirby creator Masahiro Sakurai was at the game's helm as director turn public perception around? Having been behind the mega-hit Super Smash Bros. Melee, it seemed the young developer had nowhere to go up but up within the Nintendo echelon...
...unfortunately, it wasn't meant to be. Shortly after Kirby Air Ride's summer Japanese launch, Sakurai resigned from HAL Laboratories, dealing yet another huge blow to Nintendo. Rumors persisted he not only wasn't satisfied with Kirby Air Ride's development but of structural changes at the company, and his confirmation of being exhausted with sequels in a post-resignation interview is the only shred of evidence for those claims.
Is Wikipedia's uncited claim of his being disappointed with Air Ride development woes correct? Despite the evident use of Kirby Super Star graphical assets in the cancelled version's screenshots, it remains unknown if Sakurai was involved with the N64 game at all. if he truly held a grudge against the game, it's unlikely he would've included overt references to it in Smash Bros. games from Brawl onward. Yet if we disregard its troubled gestation, perhaps the real clue to Air Ride's sloppy, unfocused development lied within the gaming press.
In what remains the most inconsistent review amalgamation I have ever witnessed for a single title, Kirby Air Ride's scores ranged from praise to claims of boredom and dismissal. GameNow and GamePro magazines found themselves surprised at how fun the game's multiplayer turned out, but only after digesting the game's "quirks." Meanwhile, reputable sites including IGN and Gamespot led the charge with shocking 5.0 scores (out of ten), bemoaning the game's emphasis on simplicity and unintuitive controls. Electronic Gaming Monthly even took jabs at the dubious grammatical status of the title, and so Kirby Air Ride appeared destined for the forgotten halls of Nintendo mediocrity...
But that didn't happen. What rendered this inconsistency all the more divisive was the consumer reaction, which consisted of nearly unanimous praise. Despite the infamous control scheme, players found themselves endlessly amused with the flight mechanics and the gorgeous soundtrack. The City Trial mode was a particular anomaly; Nintendo World Report may have found it a missed opportunity, yet it was by far and away the most popular mode of the entire game, some say to the extent where it constituted the entirety of some players' playtime with the game.
In retrospect, I'm not that surprised at this division. Certain Sakurai titles--specifically, Kirby Air Ride and Super Smash Bros. Brawl--are blasted to hell and back for their attempts at deeper mechanics, yet most still sink countless hours into them on a surface level. The basic functions of Sakurai titles click with enough people, and I imagine the supplemented evidence of passion (be it art direction, sound quality or just plain charm) help override any perceived flaws. I also find it rather suspect that several outlets' complaints could've been solved with a quick trip to the options menu.
But what exactly divided critics and players alike on Kirby Air Ride in the first place, and furthermore, is it a good game? Perhaps a conversation with the current CEO of Nintendo can enlighten us...
---
In the Iwata Asks column for Kid Icarus: Uprising, Sakurai elaborated to Satoru Iwata on his peculiar game philosophy: disassembly and reassembly. He takes what he perceives to be the "fun" core of a genre, disassembles anything unnecessary, and then rebuilds it from the ground up. For example, beating up someone in a fighting game is fun, right? Yet are the elongated combo maneuvers necessary? Furthermore, what if we could extend that beat-em 'up fun to something of a four-player party game? The end result: Super Smash Bros.
As Kirby Air Ride's a racing game, let's say Sakurai took a look at fellow racer Mario Kart, for example. You maneuver and steer via a control pad/stick, hold down the A button to accelerate, and use the shoulder buttons to drift and break. There are several other buttons dedicated to series mechanics (such as the staple weaponry), but for all intents and purposes, it's intuitive, accurate to driving an actual car, and--most importantly--it works. It's not the world's most popular racing series for nothing.
Kirby Air Ride is...well, saying it's a tad different would be a vast understatement. See, the floating vehicles operated by Kirby and his color-coded doppelgangers--dubbed "stars"--accelerate all on their own without any input from the player. This is entirely due to the game's simplified control scheme: you use the control stick to steer and the A button for everything else. In other words, Kirby Air Ride is a one-button racer where breaking, boosting, swallowing, and utilizing Copy Abilities are shared via the same input.
It goes without saying this is not intuitive in the least, and though I probably couldn't have provided the definition of "acceleration" back at age eleven, it was obvious something was still completely off. My first memory of the game is vital: my friends and I went straight to the City Trial mode for an initial dry run only to be met with confusion. We were thrown into the middle of a city with absolutely zero context (least of all as to why there was a volcano right down the street), fumbling with the controls as we were crashing through trees, pelted by giant meteors, and discovering random underground mazes. We picked up various power-ups and weapons, yet had absolutely no clue how to use them. Then after five minutes, a bell rang, and we're suddenly in a race! One of my friends wins, and suddenly a checklist pops up saying we unlocked a vehicle or something.
Now, we could have just watched the handy tutorial videos, but you know how kids are. In any case, despite the "simplified" controls it's clear how downright relentless Kirby Air Ride is in playing by its rules. But these are rules we've never quite seen before, and I figure most everyone who's played the game went through a similar bout of confusion to the point where Air Ride was dismissed as broken, throwaway nonsense. With game critics having places to be and gamers being a fickle lot, it's little wonder Air Ride was subject to such divisive reception.
...and yet, call it Stockholm Syndrome, but much like the rising damage counter of Smash Bros. or Kid Icarus: Uprising's globe-spinning camera, I have unabashed love for Kirby Air Ride's unorthodox control scheme and cannot imagine it being played any other way. Make no mistake: it is by far the most unintuitive of Sakurai's titles, and to not label it as one of the weirdest Nintendo games ever developed would be doing it a disservice. Yet that it actually works despite its few flub-ups regarding execution deserves genuine praise, for Kirby Air Ride is very much an organic experience.
And what a coincidence: the namesake Air Ride mode is perfect in describing how this quirky racer works. The core racing mode of the game, Air Ride features nine courses and fourteen selectable stars for each Kirby to ride (King Dedede and Meta Knight also attend as unlockables, and respectively race via a Wheelie and wing-powered flight). No matter what vehicle or course you pick, Air Ride's emphasis on charging and boosting--a process Sakurai defines as "Push"--is key. Steering via control stick can only provide so much maneuvering, and so every time your Kirby avatar makes a turn, a well-executed boost is necessary for consistent movement and staying ahead of the competition.
As stated before, opinions will differ on this. Anyone can quickly pick up on Mario Kart's turns and handling, but Air Ride players must consistently depend on muscle memory and on-the-ball thinking in judging when to execute a well-timed turn via charging and boosting. Compounding on this are Air Ride's take on Copy Abilities: familiar enemies litter the courses and possess their typical powers for Kirby to utilize (Fire, Freeze, Bomb, Needle, Wheel, Wing, Tornado, Plasma, Mike, and, of course, Sleep), but their being tied to the brake/boost button can be extraordinarily awkward to adjust to. Say you're charging the Plasma ability via twirling the control stick, but have to make a turn. Regardless of how much plasma you've stocked, you have to release it in order to move on, even if you're not in a prime position to attack. A few others are inputted via spinning (Tornado) or activate automatically in the presence of rivals or enemies (Sword), but most do not, and to repeatedly brake for attacking tends to kill momentum.
It's awkward, it's unintuitive for the sake of being unintuitive, and yet through the same black magic that undoubtedly contributed to Sakurai's eternal youth, Kirby Air Ride's sense of drifting is top-notch. Despite the Copy Ability issue, drifting and boosting on their own works because the Stars are constantly sliding even as you're turning corners. There's no manual acceleration, yet there's a perpetual sense of tight control since navigating the courses requires utmost precision.
Boosting in particular grants a satisfaction unlike any other racing game; of course, the amount of boost power vary from star to star. The Rocket Star sacrifices speed over explosive, while the Swerve Star--my personal favorite--ditches handling for high top speed and precise brakes (that, and the "advanced ancient ruin" design is rad as all hell). I particularly enjoy the boost meter's presentation: it gurgles and replenishes with all the fervor of chugging down your favorite drink, the tasty fluids supercharging your energy. One could be correct in saying that playing Kirby Air Ride is much like ingesting the modern-day ambrosia known as Welch's White Grape Juice.
Beyond boosting, Kirby Air Ride emphasizes, well, the air. Much like recent Mario Karts, the game focuses on gliding rather than full-on flying. The course design reflects this via ramps and cannons and such, and while the design quality might not match Mario Kart's best, but a variety of fun gimmicks render racing a blast. Magical rail grinds and branching paths pepper each course (sometimes even being combined!), and I've always found great joy in the latter by the game encouraging me to repeatedly slam my vehicle into fragile walls.
Obstacle destruction aside, it all melds together to form a racer imbued with fantasy-stylized spectacles within gorgeous locales--and by the way, detailing Kirby Air Ride as "gorgeous" is really underselling its inspired art direction. The full-blown imagination of Kirby Air Ride's aesthetics deserve an in-depth article of their own, but their impact on gameplay is palpable. Storms of aerial grinds into active volcanoes and shortcuts in the form of airborne ferris wheels instill a laid-back catharsis of sorts into the player, and it's why the unlockable course--Nebula Belt--remains the weakest due to reverting to a more standardized, flat course. We can guess this was to emphasize the climatic "skills only" trope found in certain Sakurai titles (ala Super Smash Bros.'s Final Destination stage), but it's a real shame considering its sound (that theme!) and the potential from setting.
The genre-standard Time Trials are available, but of peculiar note are the Free Runs. Instead of being confined to a solitary three-lap for practice, this mode allows you to stick around as long as you please. If I either choose to aim for a best time or lose myself in grind rail surfing, I'm free to do so, but I find myself drifting towards the latter (in a mistake carried on from Smash Bros. Melee, the timer keeps ticking whenever you pause). Regardless, the fact remains that Kirby Air Ride is a satisfying solo racer like no other.
Emphasis on the word "solo". Multiplayer in this mode can provide some entertainment, but it possesses fatal flaws. As a racer first and foremost, Air Ride succeeds in introducing a variety of interesting vehicles for the player to operate, but "interesting" doesn't always translate into "being actually viable." Air Ride becomes so fascinated with emphasizing the gimmicky nature of certain Stars it neglects to properly balance them amid the natural, more well-rounded rounded Stars (such as Warp Star, Wing Star, and Shadow Star).
Take the Rocket Star, for instance. Its function primarily depends on charging for a good while, then unleashing a massive boost. There is an unbridled joy in mastering this vehicle for solo time trials, but it's simply too slow for a genuine race. The Slick Star is too caught up in loose turning, the Turbo Star inexplicably takes forever to charge up at the beginning of race, and the less said about the mess that is the Bulk Star, the happier I'll be.
I obviously don't mean to dismiss the Air Ride mode entirely. As stated before, mastering the world's most unconventional racer via Time Trial and Free Run provides a special--if not depressingly isolated--sort of satisfaction, but the actual races can come across as, well, unfocused, and there's no denying the Copy Abilities can feel at odds with the control scheme. These can be overlooked, but the sad truth remains that only about half--if even that--of the stars are reasonable choices for an actual race.
What is usable can be immensely enjoyable and fulfilling, even taking that in regard and for all my gushing within such confines, it all hinges on whether or not it clicks. For game journalists and a good chunk of the gaming public, it did not. I'm something of a lenient Sakurai fan--I frequently enjoy walk-offs and scrolling stages in Smash Bros. despite their infamous reputation (the former of which continues to confound me) and have no issue with Kid Icarus: Uprising's stylus controls, but even I struggle in defending what's supposed to be designed as the game's core appeal. In that respect, Kirby Air Ride's brand of mediocrity destines it to Nintendo's hallowed abyss of the forgotten...
And therein lies the true genius of Kirby Air Ride's organic constitution.
At first glance, City Trial is something entirely alien to the Kirby realm. It's the closest the series has ever teetered towards such a human-exclusive setting, and yet its entire presentation is fully immersed in surreal abstraction: a city square surrounded by biomes and man-made constructs of all sorts--a forest, a construction yard, a pair of volcanos, beaches, underground mazes, and even a miniature golf course. Absolutely zero context is given to its presentation: we don't know why a bizarrely condensed biosphere has developed on some island in the middle of a valley, let alone why Kirby and his band of doppelgangers flock to it despite the never-ending barrage of natural disasters.
It could be said that its sheer introduction is even more unintuitive than the core Air Mode, and that's why it continues to astound me it's the breakout--and just simply the best--feature of the entire game. What's even more of a miracle is that City Trial is Kirby Air Ride's ticket into the realm of legitimacy--not only in being something incredible, but actually legitimizing it's mistakes.
The mode functions as something of a time-limited massive playground. Players zoom around the city for five minutes (or up to seven, if you fiddle around in the settings), scavenging for randomly spawning Stars of their choice and busting open boxes. These boxes contain your typical multiplayer offerings in weapons and power-ups, but the main goal of gathering "Patches" take priority. By upgrading vehicles through emblems that increase top speed, boost power, offense capabilities and such on, players take their new and improved rides to compete in a random stadium event (or, if adjusted in the options, to a mini-game of the players' choice).
What makes City Trial so successful is that it's a mode that doesn't just emphasize competition; it encourages empowerment. Remember the Rocket Star? When considering its default status, it's not so hot, but now you can improve it to levels beyond viable status. By the end of your duration in City Trial, it's zipping along in the sky, crashing through trees and rock formations at top speed, and charges up into massive, prolonged boosts in no time at all. In other words, City Trial legitimizes what are, quite frankly, terrible stars in the game's core racing mode.
I cannot, for the life of me, think of another game that does this--a game that encourages me to take something fundamentally useless in its starring mode and beef it up. It's now possible for the Rocket Star to win actual races, and not only does it feel wonderful, but it feels earned. I'm not just slapping on a new part in some shoddy customization menu; I'm meticulously scavenging across the city, gradually revamping the vehicle to my liking.
And it's not alone: no longer is the Slick Star impossible to control, nor does Turbo Star have to deal with inane charging times. As much as I typically go for the Swerve and Shadow Stars, sometimes I lead myself astray into that special joy of upgrading those two stars into legitimate status. Oh, sure, it's a challenge taking hold of the reigns, but it's a fun challenge. Even the Bulk Star...well, nothing can save the Bulk Star, but I guess they can't all be winners.
Even outside of this game-changing revelation, City Trial isa wonderful enigma in itself. The concept of gradually empowerment through smashing the shit out of boxes lends itself a fulfilling multiplayer addiction (and one that clearly held merit, as Sakurai revisited the idea in Super Smash Bros. for 3DS), but the process is so inspired, begs every ounce of the player's curiosity that their acting on it is rewarded in spades. It's all thanks to the aforementioned bizarre setting, which demands immediate attention in exploring every nook and cranny. Underground mazes and shortcut grind rails permeate the entire city, numerous ramps serving as springboards for gliding and as entryways into aforementioned mazes, and plenty of stuff--trees, giant coral, and junkyard structures--to wreck and crash into. Don't feel too bad about that; in fact, the game encourages and rewards you for clearing the forest and bullying Whispy Woods.
Implemented within the context of multiplayer, it's amazing how City Trial emphasizes isolation from other players and still succeeds as a shared interactive experience. Granted, the mode provides more than enough deadly toys to ruin someone's upgraded star (my personal favorite being the hilariously massive Gordos), but it's not uncommon for players to just disperse across the city and be left to their own devices. In that sense, it could be said City Trial's main appeal is akin the quote "the adventure being the reward", yet I still find joy in proving my vehicle's worth in the Stadium Events ...and occasionally switching gears by beaning someone with a Gordo.
My gosh, I can't stop gushing about this city. Did I mention the events? The events of which involve giant meteors plowing into the city and Dynablade wrecking shit? The easter eggs and pointless interactions just for the sake of easter eggs and pointless interactions (how many pink flowers can you find?). That it's the first and only time Kirby is running around in a full 3D environment? It's nothing more than a necessary novelty (to switch between vehicles, Kirby has to hop off), but did the gravity of that trip anyone else up? HAL Laboratory remains content dwelling within the confines of 2D space, yet for the sole purpose of a two second process, the world's expanses are suddenly open to the pink puffball. Even if he's just limited to a neutered float jump (ala Smash Bros.), many an hour was spent in the mode's Free Run exploring the city sans vehicle.
I wonder if that'd hold the same appeal as an adult.
Ah, forgive me, I haven't even discussed the game's music yet! And what perfect timing: City Trial's score is just as lopsided as the game itself. Not necessarily in song execution, mind you, but rather it's method of selection.
This is not to dismiss the mode's main theme, mind. The perfect combination of inspired mystery and urgency, it correctly functions as a grand panorama for this offbeat city (whatever instrument's playing at 1:02 always takes my breath away). But it and the alternate Backside track are unique, for there's something else at work for the mode's Events and Stadium Matches.
Ah, just listen to how the radio show-inspired beginning transitions into a Disney-esque expression of flight. But...wait a minute, this wasn't composed by the game's sound team! In fact, most of the tracks for City Trial aren't. Indeed, the mode's songs are ripped straight from from the Japanese Kirby of the Stars anime adaption. Composed by one Akira Miyagawa, a total of at least fourteen tracks play not just throughout the mode, but occasionally pop up in other facets of Air Ride as well.
This begs the question: do these serve as a loving nod to the show's incoming conclusion, or just come across as phoned-in laziness? Well, that might depend on where you live. Us foreign players are placed in a peculiar situation with these songs, as 4Kids Entertainment's English dub of the show happened to erase the original Japanese score in favor for in-house works.
Now, I could elaborate on the particular fuck-ups behind that decision, but that's not important. What is important is that holy crap, these songs fit like a glove. I'm serious, just listen to the above selection for the Falling Meteor event and tell me that doesn't perfectly convey tongue-in-cheek pandemonium. Much like the Gordos, the flaming meteors themselves are inflated to the point of absurdity, yet this theme is what truly drives the hilarity levels home. It's truly something that has to be witnessed.
Here's a example better suited for written context, in which the above Castle Lololo arrangement plays for whenever Dyna Blade flies in to wreak havoc. The song's always held an antagonistic tone, but it's cranked up to the max here as the sky turns blood red for the arrival of the rainbow-colored beast. It works quite well (and clearly HAL liked it too, as it was used once more for the actual Dynablade fight in Kirby Super Star's DS remake).
Hell, it even works within the chaos of City Trial's lack of context. There's one event where nightfall hits the city, signalling the activation of the wharf's lighthouse. What it doesn't tell you is that its mysterious light heals any injured Stars, and while that can be quickly discovered when investigating the area, one really does wonder why the alert just jubilantly exclaims "the city's lighthouse has turned on!" all the while the charmingly idyllic tones of Cappy Town's morning-time antics flutter about without a care in the world. Note also the song's title, of which I've always pronounced in the form of a grim movie trailer VO ("The City Lighthouse....Burns").
But wait, did I just describe the one flaw of City Trial? Indeed, there are a couple of events that don't survive the mode's absence of context, including the aforementioned lighthouse scenario and a mysterious fleet of Stars that float majestically in the city skies every now and then. While they possess purpose, their non-consequential effects elicit the most awkward of shrugs. We can be excited or driven away by fear from meteor strikes, fog, and rail station fires, but a lighthouse is a lighthouse no matter how amazing its accompanying score is.
However, a mode that excels this well despite a stumbled introduction deserves nothing but the utmost of praise. It's a wonderful piece of enigmatic game design that continues to captivate me to this very day, and in that I confidently state City Trial is not just one of the greatest multiplayer experiences on the Gamecube, but may very well be up there with Nintendo's best in history.
With its success being so great--to the extent of it rendering the mistakes of the main racing moot---Kirby Air Ride is granted another chance, another fresh outlook. But what ultimately sells the rest of the game to the player? The answer lies in the birth of a new Sakurai trope: checklists. Yes, checklists. Complementing the game's three modes are 360 different objectives, with 120 for each one. Be it time trials, mastering specific vehicles, or just breaking the shit out of stuff in City Trial, Kirby Air Ride rewards the player with green-flavored bragging rights or red-tinted goodies.
What renders this so successful is that it permeates the entire game. It's thoroughly organic, as just fooling around in any mode can yield from anything to the simplest of achievements to unlocking Kirby color alts, music tracks, and even a hidden character or vehicle or the like. With just how unintuitive the game is in general, Sakurai and co. no doubt realized there needed to be a compelling incentive for the player to devote their full investment, and seeing as how it's featured in nearly every game of his since, it obviously worked.
Just take the RC-inspired Top Ride, for instance. Its top-down perspective quirkiness--complete with awkward inverted handling--would normally have been tossed aside in favor of Air Ride's more eye-catching modes. But now with the prize-dangling checklist in hand, we have no choice but to engage in the mode, and we discover that the mode is actually wonderfully chaotic. You know how Baby Park in Mario Kart: Double Dash!! was the most exciting course in that game despite its simplistic, oval appearance? It's the same deal here, only instead expanded upon via constant sharp turns, interactive hazards, and a never-ending barrage of dizzying weaponry.
Even setting the checklist aside, I'm still sucked into how Top Ride fulfills the Smash-esque "just one more" cravings. These compact, bite-sized races call for close-quarters battering through explosions, fire, and gyration, all immensely satisfying and requiring the sharpest quick-on-the-draw senses players can muster. With how best courses (Sky and Metal) taking interactive advantage of Air Ride's one-button control scheme (be it the former's buttons and ramps or the latter's course-shifting machinery), I'm always coming back for more. In that sense, I suppose the mode functions as a bridge between the other two--need a break from City Trial? Settle for some quickfire Top Ride chaos.
And the checklist magic even works on the Air Ride mode. The main racing component is still a bust, but it's that checklist-inspired hook that compels me to better myself in solo. The unlockable gorgeous song arrangements and hidden characters are temporarily forgotten as I'm shaving off record after record in Time Trials, shifting between Star after Star as I strive to improve myself, gliding and grinding and soaring.
But most of all, what's more gratifying than the checklist accomplishments and time trials and Top Ride chaos is the game's possession of something truly precious. The obvious cue would be pointing out the game's stellar soundtrack, yet I've come to realize just how little praise has greeted the game's aesthetics. It's a damn shame Kirby Air Ride's erratic reception has no doubt muffled this, and that no doubt renders my opinion all the more shocking: Kirby Air Ride features one of the most striking, wondrous, downright best art styles featured in any Nintendo game.
Up to this point, Kirby aesthetics have generally drifted between nostalgia echoing baby's blanket prints and glistening fantasy found only in one's dreams, but Air Ride bursts with such imagination that it's hard to peg it down to a specific style. The fantasy tropes are still present, yet Kirby Air Ride thrives on galvanized juxtaposition-- it lifts and blends from everything to light-hearted and medieval fantasy, touches of sci-fi, and some of the most breathtaking examples of surrealism. It shifts and mixes on a dime on such an inspired level that I daresay, on an artistic level, it's Kirby at its most ambitious.
The first two Air Ride courses--Fantasy Meadows and Celestial Valley--represent the purest of outdoors high fantasy. The former provides a gorgeous backdrop complete with physically-manifested wind currents and looming planetoid, but it doesn't forget to segue its imagination into the actual track, as the players race up to an entirely flora-constructed windmill, of which leads into an illuminated underground passage. And the nightfall expanses of Celestial Valley beg to be explored, what with signs of excavation and fossil-embedded walls as pairs of hungry eyes watch racers from cracked eggshells. Just look at these.
And the music! They're accompanied by such sweeping orchestral scores, particularly in the case of Fantasy Meadows, which perfectly represents the beginning of a grand fantasy: small beginnings, with inklings of a grand adventure just waiting to unfold. Meanwhile, the melancholic windy whistles of Celestial Valley are offset by a rushing chase that no doubt echo the course's water rapids. These two songs compel me to thoroughly demand similar usage of their ilk outside of a racing environment, and I continue to be stunned at how they were practically made for an adventure.
And as the ice course, Frozen Hillside isn't satisfied with being a winter wonderland (although its wonderful song presented above might convince you otherwise). It's aerial setting--complete with rails, wind-propelling arches, and rattling bridges--presents a panoramic view of the area, featuring a white-green colored landscape and fantasy-esque constructs we never learn the context of, leaving our minds to fill in the blanks. Our only hint lies in the appearance of one majestic flying whale, the product of the game artist's desire to combine unorthodox elements (in this case, a fantasy wintry tundra and a floating marine lifeform). The end result lets our imaginations soar.
I could justsit here and rave about how aesthetic and music work together in Kirby Air Ride to create a living, breathing fantasy world just outside our reach--just barely outside the realm of context--and it's excruciating, yet downright delicious bait that prods at me every time I race within their worlds. The lava and stone dragons that dwell within the downright-frightening hellfire of Magma Flows (as shown above, note how it combines cinematic fantasy and xylophones complete with a brief cameo from Kirby Super Star's Gourmet Race theme), the flora-carnival heights of Beanstalk Park as its accompanying track gradually builds into aerial splendor, the backwards alien world just outside Machine Passage's dark halls of fast-paced techno and chorus...
Even Top Ride prods at the mind! True to their source of inspiration, the Top Ride courses are veritable top-down recreations of RC car tracks, although adapted to designs of sheer fantasy akin to Fantasy Meadows and Celestial Valley. Much as I adore Grass's country setting and Water's valley waterfalls, Sky is the clear winner. Kirby Air Ride is, after all, a racer emphasizing the air, and I can't help but be charmed by this course's ancient cubic structures and quaint, chess-inspired racing grounds. As expected from its compact origins, it's a far softer aesthetic than the ambitions of the main Air Ride mode, but one that captures my imagination with help from its carousel-esque song track. I'd love to see what lies within the landmasses below.
Again, Kirby has always been enveloped within fantasy, but the games have always stuck to one cohesive theme. And even then they'd never so much as dreamt as plunging so deep into the realms of fantasy, having been so content with sugary-sweet, heart-swelling nostalgia. Of course, not that there's anything wrong with that, but I'm just so taken with this direction into the fusion of artistic motifs. It forces me to dream, compels me to theorize on what lies beyond the race tracks, and I thoroughly demand to see it explored outside the confines of a racing title.
As stated earlier, it's a subject that demands an article of its own, but until that day arrives, I'll conclude with Air Ride's greatest success in the aesthetic department: the masterpiece of juxtaposition that is Checker Knights. Similar to Top Ride's Sky, it emphasizes floating geometric/cubic landmasses and constructs, only this time in the middle of a lake. It's fantasy, but not outright Fantasy Meadows/Celestial Valley fantasy. The backgrounds hint at something of a middle ground behind that and the typical Kirby aesthetic: it's bouncier and more familiar, but is more inspired via abstraction (ala City Trial). From here, the course's theme is apparently set...
Then you railgrind into the lake depths.
Underneath the lake hosting a cubic racing course lies an underwater city. It's not the ancient city of Atlantis, nor a coral-filled city housing merfolk.The complete details are too far to fully make out, but the abundance of neon lights prove that it's not only not the outright abstraction City Trial is, but that it's a living, breathing modern city.
By itself, such a city would have no place within Kirby's realm. The faint traces of smog and the night-time noire would be repulsive enough, and yet I am downright stunned in its symmetry with what lies above the city's waters. We could just chalk it up to the oversized jellybean-esque bubble floating about, but just its mere presence hidden under the surface of a jovial world elicits the most intense curiosity and wonder. I can't think of anything like it, and yet Kirby Air Ride pulls it off as if it's as easy as breathing.
I mentioned earlier how Kirby Air Ride's aesthetic induces a sort of catharsis into the player, of which is no small part due to the game's aerial nature. Every time I play, I'm not just enjoying the game: I'm dreaming. I wonder what's staring at me from Celestial Valley's eggs, I ponder what goes down on the surface of Sky, and most of all, what the aquatic denizens of Checker Knight's underwater city are up to these days. I could just be speaking as the most desperate of Air Ride apologists, but I find the game's dual-layer of chaos and dreams to be no joke.
Indeed, Kirby Air Ride is not a masterpiece, but I imagine it could be one had the core racing been further polished. As it stands, it's a quirky, quirky game born from the most unintuitive of premises--premises that shouldn't by any means actually work, and yet for the most part, actually do. That it not only actually succeeds in doing so, but in that it reaches peripheral ambitions so high within a genre so centered around competition renders it one of my dearest Nintendo treasures.
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