Worldly Weekend: Dragon Quest (Dragon Warrior) (NES) 

Yet again we're faced with another NES box art malady. While the box art for Dragon Warrior is hardly as offensive as Mega Man's, it submitted to the all-too-common illusion of making the game seem "cooler" than it actually was (which, to be fair, was present in Japan as well). Whereas the American cover portrays a generic medieval fantasy, the Japanese artwork portrays a more colorful, light-hearted affair.

As it should; after all, it was done by none other than Dragon Ball's Akira Toriyama, whose 80's trademarks of cute, squat protagonists and fleshy, rotund beasts would set the tone for the series (it's no coincidence the dragon is cuddlier than your average Final Fantasy monster: the same would echo across the game's variety of enemies, not the least of which is the famous Slime).

And note the difference in name, too: Dragon Quest became Dragon Warrior for US release. The cause may not be as immediately apparent as that of Rock Man to Mega Man, as a pen-and-paper RPG of the same name held the "Dragon Quest" name. The word "Warrior" also undoubtedly appealed to American boys more than "Quest," and so the series was dubbed as such here until 2005's Dragon Quest VIII.

Just as it does with box art, Leave Luck to Heaven represents games with their American names whenever possible. But as developer Enix (or should I say Square-Enix?) went to the trouble of retconning the Dragon Warrior name, so shall I for the reviews.

At any rate, it's well-known Dragon Quest became a phenomenon in Japan, providing the building blocks for Japanese RPGs: medieval worlds of fantasy, spells obtained upon leveling up, and a hero whose name is up to the player. Such success was not repeated in America, as its late release paved the way for its niche status over here. A 1986 RPG revolving around antiquated menus/commands would hardly light sales-charts in 1989, and while a Nintendo Power subscriber giveaway proved successful, said giveaway was initiated only to empty unsold stock.

Unfortunate, but at least we got an improved product out of it. Much of it boiled down to player convenience; for instance, no longer did the save system rely on tedious passwords, but a battery-pack save. The Famicom menu was far too cumbersome in that you had to choose the direction of the Talk command, but here it's just a simple selection. Even the graphics were adjusted across the board, as NPCs and even the hero himself are now applied directional animations. (Speaking of which, I highly recommend clicking here to witness the Japanese version's unintentional hilarity courtesy of the hero's groovin' trot. Nothing quite like 80's cringe!)

It was an ambitious undertaking directed by none other than the late Satoru Iwata, then a programming prodigy steadily rising within the ranks of HAL Laboratory. As the game that more or less forged what we know today as "JRPGs," playing Dragon Quest was something of a moving experience: to know a part of his legacy was being responsible for bringing what essentially jump-started an entire genre to our shores--and on top of all that, improving it--awakened a melancholic blend of gratitude on more than one occasion.

Alas, it's not enough to salvage the game from old age. It's vital to dispel any claims of mediocrity: Iwata's tweaks ensure Dragon Quest functions okay in a modern age, but an 80's menu-based RPG has much more going against it than the timeless likes of space-shooters and precision-based platformers.

Really, it's crazy just how much of this has to do with the game's overall pacing. There's not a whole lot of meat to Dragon Quest's campaign, so it relies on being one big grindfest from beginning to end. It's not an exaggeration to say over 80% of one's time will be spent fighting monsters, accumulating EXP and leveling up rather than embarking on swashbuckling adventures. Needless to say, tedium can settle rather quickly.

Other trappings of its age are hit or miss -- like other open-ended 80's games, the world of Alefgard is far from linear and expects players to follow vague NPC hints for progression; naturally, this results in players getting lost, and the frustration of unrelenting (not to mention random!) enemy encounters might discourage exploration. Thankfully, Alefgard isn't particularly big in comparison to future 8-bit RPGs (namely its NES sequels and the Final Fantasy games), so it's easy to memorize the lay of the land.

On the other hand, there's just no getting around the clunky menus. At best, they are what they are: an outdated element that falls into every 80's menu trap (can you say, no item stacking? Limited inventory space?), and yet Dragon Quest's execution is particularly archaic. Using commands to talk and search is clumsy enough, but for there to be one for using stairs? 

There's other minor annoyances: for one thing, having NPC villagers walk around towns is a novel 8-bit touch, but it's not so "novel" when they decide to block exits and store counters. This is something hardly exclusive to Dragon Quest, mind you; after all, it's another piece of retro baggage, yet I still found myself shaking my fist at those who dared blocked my inn stops. ("I'm only at 5 HP, dammit! I'm gonna die!")

It's a good thing then that the game's world is so charming. Dragon Quest's localization took the liberty of injecting the script with Elizabethan-styled dialogue, with characters speaking like "Take now whatever thou may find in these treasure chests to aide thee in thy quest" or "Thou hast been promoted to the next level." Before playing, I was immediately apprehensive: wouldn't such an embellishment smother the script with stuffy language, particularly since Dragon Quest games are known for their witty dialogue?

I was surprised to witness that wasn't actually the case. Not only was the script relatively free of errors (a rarity in an era ripe of mistranslations and typos), but such a direction was rather fresh compared to the the dry, passive scripts commonly found in localized RPGs of the time. It's still a direction cheesy enough that I wouldn't want touching a modern localization, but within the context of those equally-cheesy 80's, it somehow fits like a glove.

Speaking of localization, most of the aforementioned graphic changes are for the best; truth be told, not only do the new sprites hue closer to the round, squishy citizens commonly found in 8-bit RPGs, but the Japanese version's NPCs look like what an ill-fated Americanized version would attempt to render it "cooler".

Really, the only aesthetic misstep is the infinitely bland title screen, which doesn't have a patch on iconic Japanese logo. Just look at all that wasted gray space!

But no amount of box art or title screen changes can stop Akira Toriyama's art from shining through. While mainly reserved for the monster designs, creatures like the Slime, Drake and the tongue-protruding, witch hat- wearing Ghost instantly captivate our hearts, whereas we immediately want nothing to do with the Axe Knights, Golems and Werewolves that cross our paths. Not that the hero should underestimate every cute enemy he comes across, mind, but Toriyama's design ensures the enemy hierarchy of power is instantly apparent.

Such moments even extent to the simple story: the rescue of Princess Gwaelin triggers an "aww" moment of the most triumphant kind -- the hero's overworld sprite carrying the princess bridal-style back to her castle. Director Yuji Horii's first attempt at an "emotionally involved" system might be rather barebones today, but that it elicits such emotions thirty years later speaks of fine craftsmenship.

And let's not forget the music by the legendary Kochi Sugiyama which...which...look, I'm sorry, but I can't avoid the elephant in the room. As much as Mr.  Sugiyama is a talented composer, as much as he's contributed to the success and awareness of video game music, he's also kind of a terrible human being. Yes, the very first champion of game music is not just a history revisionist; he's a hardcore nationalist who regularly funds and participates in organizations that fuel such conspiracies.

Having grown up with Dragon Warrior Monsters and only just recently diving into the main series, this was immensely disappointing to learn. That his politics are removed from what is ultimately a playful, light-hearted series is a blessing we can all be thankful for, but knowing that his Dragon Quest proceeds go directly to history-revisionist foundations that suppress elderly rape survivors does not weigh easily on my conscience. While I will continue applauding his efforts in future Dragon Quest reviews, I won't be so neglectful in mentioning his misdeeds.

But since I've already called it out, what is effective about Dragon Quest's score? There's simply no going about reviewing Dragon Quest music without diving into the main theme, which makes its first appearance here. A bright, celebratory march that greets us at the title screen, we're up and ready to enter the game's world upon the first note.

Naturally, Sugiyama's legacy as a classical conductor dwells within every one of his compositions, but it's most apparent in the above battle theme. Creeping and slow, it recalls to mind that of a stalking menace lurking behind us. Just look at how well it translates into orchestra!

The cave theme also engages in, to my knowledge, one of the earlier experimental themes for NES/Famicom. Ignore how the above video is probably two minutes too long and click on the playlist button; see how there's eight different versions? In the game's final dungeon, the song gradually lowers in tempo as you descend deeper and deeper, echoing the apprehension before taking on the Dragonlord. How's that for scaring your pants off?

But as iconic as the main theme is, my favorite track lies in the overworld theme: Unknown World. As Dragon Quest highlights a solitary journey, it's only fitting that its world echoes a theme of loneliness. Laced with uncertainty, that we're left to discover what the game's world holds makes for a palpable effect.

Much like the game itself, actually. While not without its mishaps, Dragon Quest braved new waters for the sake of one goal: to distill the complicated RPG genre for a widespread audience. This could not just be done by simplifying the system; with Dragon Quest's hero being tied to the player's identity, we become invested easily, and so we're willing to leap over any hurdles involving clunky menus and uncertain progression.

Such an admirable achievement became the ever-improved fabric of the series going forward, but its heart still beats within its first effort. It's a relic, but a functioning relic: its age doesn't stop it from being accessible, and that alone makes a quest worth embarking on.

Wordly Weekend: Mega Man (NES)

I'm sorry, I know the hilarious travesty of Mega Man's American box art is probably the most infamous example of packaging in video game history, but Leave Luck to Heaven represents games with NA covers whenever possible, right down to the "Angry Kirby" nonsense. Even so, just look at the contemptible thing: the indistinguishable geography, the structural disaster that is the building on the left (what's with the stairs? The random stone well?), and last but certainly not least, the mess of proportions, colors and physicality that is Mega Man himself. It's the prime example of 80's game boxarts attempting to make their respective games look way more badass than they actually were, and with how Mega Man underperformed in sales, it backfired miserably here. For shame, Capcom!

Not that Japan wasn't guilty of the same practice, you understand, but its respective cover for Mega Man--I'm sorry, Rock Man--was far more in-line with the game's aesthetic: the plush, wide-eyed animation style commonly found in 80's anime. It's clear from the very moment one lays eyes on the select screen line-up of Robot Masters that this isn't a game meant to channel any sort of realism, but the more light-hearted antics of Super Mario Bros. and Pac-Man.

Could it also be said that Mega Man matches the quality of those classics? Capcom's Mega Man games are only challenged by Konami's Castlevania in how they are the most celebrated NES action titles not associated with the Nintendo name, and that's being fairly generous considering Mega Man himself is a more recognizable 8-bit icon than Simon Belmont, what with his blinking doe eyes and squat one-inch stature. Yes, they are classics, although to what extent is debatable considering how much Capcom unabashedly milked the games (of the original series' ten entries, six are on NES).

Many agree the first three are the cream of the NES crop, and I'm included in their ranks. It's funny how all six games are homogenized around the same gameplay and aesthetics, yet it's those first three games that stick in everyone's memory. In this sense, the original we're reviewing today is a curious delight -- to my mind, it doesn't reach the heights of Mega Man 2 (the series masterpiece) or Mega Man 3 (the runner-up), yet it's such a genuinely strong first effort that I consider it a near-crime the former overshadowed its place in gaming history.

Forging the design that would soldier on in countless sequels and spin-offs, Mega Man revolves around six levels that culminate into their respective "Robot Master" bosses. Each is defined by a singular trait (Fire Man, for example, wielding the power of, well, fire) that also houses a weakness. as defeating any one Robot Master absorbs their power into Mega Man's own (which lets player experiment with Robot Master weaknesses). Each Robot Master can be tackled in any order, and once all are defeated, you head to the castle of dastardly Dr. Wily to halt his evil schemes.

Needless to say, it's a non-linear action take on rock-paper-scissors. As opposed to the physics-bound goofiness of Super Mario Bros., Mega Man relies on a level of strategy and planning not commonly found in action platformers. While thankfully this doesn't seep into the actual gameplay, it allows for nearly every run as divergent as you want it to be; for instance, do you proceed in the order of Robot Master weaknesses, or just go about any which route you wish?

As mentioned earlier, this level progression system hardly renders the original unique in retrospect, but its superiority lies in that very same retrospection. Yes, it lacks the fanciful features including Rush the robot dog and the Mega Buster and the like, but that it's forged only around three mechanics --Mega Man's arm cannon, the Robot Master abilities and good ol' fashioned jumping--ensures it's not bloated with unnecessarily flashy features, instead relying on pure grit to overcome its trials.

Which means that as fun as it is shoot things, it's also undeniably difficult. Like any other 8-bit action game, Mega Man is actively punishing in its damage-sponge robots, leaps of faith, touch of death hazards (watch out for spikes!) and grueling boss patterns. The Robot Masters in particular give Super Mario Bros. games a run for their money in that their toughness matches the rest of the level, and even memorizing their attack patterns and weaknesses won't ensure you'll make it out alive (as seen with the countless close shaves endured with Ice Man).

Could it perhaps be too difficult? Some Robot Master weaknesses aren't very apparent, so the game has to rely on certain context clues within the levels; for example, Cut Man is weak to Guts Man's Super Arm, used to pick up heavy blocks littered across the former's stage and boss room. There is some decent balance across the board, my favorite example being how anyone can memorize Ice Man's disappearing rock platforms with some careful observation.

It falls apart in other places; the game's non-linearity comes to a halt with Elec Man, who hides the vital Magnet Beam necessary for Wily's Castle. This tool can only be uncovered with the aforementioned Super Arm, and this only becomes apparent more than halfway through the level. Mega Man simply isn't the game for this kind of foreshadowing, and with the Magnet Beam being the only way to fully circumvent certain obstacles (such as Ice Man's flying Foot Holders, which by themselves are a tad too random in their placement and tend to frustrate with their mid-air laser blasting), it's a problem.

By and large though, there's hardly any missteps in foe placement and the like; in fact, the game takes steps for the player to navigate around the stage's intricacies. Take the spiky Gabyoalls (try saying that three times fast!), which patrol about on platforms and attempt to shove off Mega Man when he intrudes upon their territory. They rank among the game's most annoying enemies, but they're momentarily paralyzed by a single shot, so they're easily neutralized.

And if you have the Rolling Cutter, all the better: they're destroyed immediately. The fun of Mega Man lies in its replayability and figuring out how the game works. While the Elec Man/Magnet Beam thing limits the potential for experimentation, it's impressive how many quirks and enemy weaknesses can be perceived and utilized through the Robot Master powers. This is further perfected in Mega Man 2 and 3, but that the first title can be this experimental in spite of its flaws is worth noting.

All the better that it's so pleasing to look at. As mentioned previously, the graphics are overtly clean with a bright aesthetic. It's as much of a sci-fi adventure as it is the home of a Saturday Morning Cartoon; not too goofy, but with enough light-heartedness to win anyone over with the likes of beady-eyed blue robots and flying robot penguins.

Hammering this balance down is the wondrous music by Manami Matsumae, which is the perfect complement for such a world. Level themes dip into either motif in accordance to not merely the Robot Masters involved, but the overall motif for their respective stages. With the Cut Man Stage often being the first stage players tackle, it's only natural its theme would thrust us into action. Like the majority of the soundtrack, it's 8-bit catchiness at its finest.

On the other side of the spectrum lies the Elec Man Stage music. Apparently designed with electricity in mind, it's another song that accompanies not the character, but of the level itself. The stage is constructed vertically, with tricky ladders, vigilant Gabyoalls and electric currents seeking to knock you down. The ensuing frustration is only natural, so an upbeat theme is necessary for encouragement.

None of which we find in Wily's Castle. For the record, this is not the beloved action masterpiece found in Mega Man 2, and yet I consider this a distinctive runner-up. Ominous and foreboding, it compels us further down Wily's lair and overcome his traps one by one. Only the Guts Man Stage rivals this theme in their apprehension, which are executed not with darkness but a building degree of menace.

Any and all praising of Mega Man's sound design typically revolves around the music--and deservedly so!--but there is one sound effect I must elaborate upon. Every time Mega Man lands after jumping, a distinguished "plink!" noise always greets his impact. It is absolutely, unabashedly sci-fi; the one detail that defines Mega Man's character as a robot. That we, as the players, are the ones initiating the sound further links us into the game, and furthermore its world. Being a recurring theme throughout the series, I can't help but imagine it as the primary source of Mega Man nostalgia.

Mega Man is not a clumsy, forgotten progenitor, but is instead the treasured 8-bit example of how to initiate a long-running series. It stumbles into traps common of the era, but they're never anything fatal; not anything to the extent of how Capcom dragged the series into tedium, anyway. It's an overtly-solid action game that entertains with its creative non-linearity and thrills with its engaging Wily Castle set pieces/big boss sequences, all foreshadowing what was to come with its famous sequel.

A Lesson in Patience

Wh..what is that?

It couldn't possibly be..!

It is! My very own Famicom. Wow.

Easily my most expensive purchase at Otakon (about $99, plus tax), obtaining the Japanese NES has been a goal of mine for a while. As an aspiring Nintendo archivist, it's a dream of mine to obtain every piece of Nintendo hardware and software out there, and what better place to start than the original home console that started it all? Having studied Japanese over the past year, I was also eager to put my studies to the test.

Alas, but I've already hit a snag. While the Otakon vendor was kind enough to include the required power adapter/AV cable, I'd forgotten the Famicom requires certain channel frequencies to display the game on American televisions...all of which aren't available on the only CRT in the house! Agh!

To make matters worse...well, take a look below.

What? Is that a crack?!? And is the red casing loose? Was I sold a faulty Famicom?!? Bring me the one responsible, now!

...actually, I'm pretty sure it was an accident on my part. While carrying it around in a bag at the convention, the console's weight was too much and it ripped through, slamming onto the floor with a loud CLACK! Naturally, I was scared, but a quick inspection showed nothing wrong...so I shoved it in my backpack.

"Well, why didn't you put it in your backpack in the first place," you may ask. Well, a while back I learned that filling backpacks with game cases isn't a swell idea, as they get punctured with holes and the like, so I guess that fear spread to any and all valuable game merch. Anyway, it wasn't until I got home that I noticed the crack, and the casing was actually a lot looser; in fact, you actually see the wires inside. Thankfully, I shifted it around the above plug's casing insert, and it's currently as you see it now.

The question is...does it work? In my inspection and testing, I've noticed the Famicom has two flaws in comparison to the NES, bhe first one being there is no LED light to signal whether it's off or on. I was frequently shifting through channels to see whether or not it'd come on, but due to the lack of an LED, I had no idea whether or not it was actually, well, on.

The other flaw? Well, both of the console's controllers are hooked to the console, meaning you can't replace them. When considering my bad luck, take a closer look at my two controllers and guess which one is Player One.

Why, the scratched-up one with the rough surface, of course! Boy, am I screwed.

Scuffs, scratches and cracks are the shame of any collector, and it seems I'm inexorably drawn to such blemishes. My game cases keep getting punctures, my Nendoroid stands break with little to no hope of replacement, my cats like knocking down my One Piece statues...as I'm clumsy by nature, it weighs heavily on me, and I beat myself up for it constantly.

In regards to the actual games, it's an even tougher subject. It's not like they're making anymore Famicoms, y'know? Forget the possibility of wasted money: a broken Famicom would mean one less functioning legend in the world that someone else could've enjoyed...and yet, don't all physical products break down eventually? Just ask my SNES and N64 cartrdiges: in a phenomenon that, to my surprise, has yet to be cataloged over the internet, they're riddled with graphical glitches from meshed-together 3D polygons to a morphing white square in the corner of Kirby Super Star. If it sounds confusing, I'm honestly just as much at a loss as you are. Regardless, it's a very cynical outlook, especially when considering Nintendo's Virtual Console filters.

It extends outside my hobbies, too. I frequently miss cues to do chores around the house,, I speak too fast when I don't mean to...it's something I can't escape. Just another trait of being an Aspie, I suppose.

I do wonder if it's a sign not to rush into things too fast? Maybe my Japanese just isn't ready yet, and I lack a steady job, so I need to discipline myself and save money. Furthermore, my computer is quite outdated, and I'm starting to lack space for display and archive purposes: as I'm branching out to study books for future writing endeavors, I lack a proper bookcase to store them all in, as well as a table and containers for future statues, Nendoroids. and the like. Should I hold off on that all until I move out into my dream home?

Probably, but I wonder how long I'll be able to hold out. The Otakon vendor I purchased the Famicom from happens to be based in New York City, and I just so happen to be heading down down there this November for my birthday, so maybe they can help me with my Famicom (and provide some more info on hooking it up).

Regardless, what's most important is that I further work on pushing myself forward with my writing and Leave Luck to Heaven's future. If it takes broken products and a lesson in patience to express that, so be it.

Oh, and on a semi-related note: the Detective Conan figure I also purchased got a weird scuff on his hat, too.

why does this keep happening to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee