Worldly Weekend: Final Fantasy (NES)

Have you ever stopped to think about the name Final Fantasy? It's something so highly prestigious that the game would have to be as grand as the name implies--and make no mistake; for its time, it certainly was--but it hardly makes a lick of sense when regarding the actual context. The answer lies within its development: as developer Square was in the throes of near-bankruptcy, creator Hironobu Sakaguchi wanted a title that would not only close the book on the company, but on the seemingly-inevitable end of his game-making career.

As history would have it, that wasn't the case. Final Fantasy has since gone on to produce over 15 beloved titles (not to mention countless spin-offs and ports/remakes) and became the worldwide representation--perhaps even standard--for the Japanese RPG. The "Gil" currency, the famous victory fanfare and the Chocobo/Moogle mascots have become synonymous with the genre, and continue to be associated with the series to this day.

However, not all of the them debut in the series' first game, which is often cited alongside the original Dragon Quest as kickstarting JRPGs. There is a distinct difference between the two games, however: Dragon Quest is, more or less, a grindfest for its entire duration. Final Fantasy is not.

That's not to say there isn't any level-grinding within Square's debut RPG, but there's more of a leniency in its pacing. Over a year had passed since Dragon Quest, so it only makes sense they'd arrange for the necessary improvements. The interface is simpler and less clunky; no "stairs" button in sight. There's an active, ongoing story-arc that, while not deep, breaks free of the "save the princess!" model. Western RPG tropes are brought in to enhance the battle system, such as enemy weaknesses (fire beats ice, duh)

The end result is a game still approachable today. You will grind, but there's enough player conveniences and innovations to keep thing interesting. JRPG conventions like overworld vehicles got their start here, but they weren't just 80's visual stunners; the thrilling swiftness of the Airship is just as much of a marvel as it is an effective tool for speedy progress.

Yet what's perhaps most impressive is the Class System. As opposed to the Final Fantasy games of today, you create your four-man party out of six different classes (Warrior, Thief, Black Belt, Red Mage, White Mage and Black Mage), each with their own strengths and weaknesses. White Mages don't really engage in physical combat, for instance, but are invaluable for any team thanks to their healing magic.

It's a wonderful, flexible system that ensures no two playthroughs will be the same: that there's over 60 spells to master ensures a deep, flexible variety within each party member's moveset. Citing a personal example, I initially thought I made a mistake in choosing a Thief class as my 2nd physical class(Warrior was my first, main choice), as he died quickly and possessed the strength of a mewling kitten. It wasn't until his eventual promoted to a full-blown Ninja that his usefulness was discovered: not only could he actually deal damage, but Black Magic was now at his disposal, so he'd be able to back up my Black Mage.

Moreover, it's just fresh, which is saying a lot for a game that came out in 1987. Having been acquainted with set parties in JRPGs for such a long time, it's amazing to me a game celebrating its 30th anniversary can deliver such a customization experience. Right from the beginning, Final Fantasy encourages you to forge your adventures rather than the one explicitly set by the developers, and I find it rather special that uniqueness has only grown over the years.

The class system alone should render it accessible to most, but Final Fantasy's unusual magic system is what often drives today's players away. As opposed to the multi-digit Magic Points commonly found today, spells are deducted by a single-digit "charge" system. This renders their use in dungeons and the like incredibly precious; the only method of restoration are overworld-exclusive tents, so the balance between offense and defense is vital.

One's mileage will vary; personally, I adored it for the different sort of challenge it brought. Old JRPGs often involve being trapped in dungeons and the like, so this brings a different level of challenge in choosing your battles. There's always the option of running away, of course, but the frustrating JRPG penalty for escape failure (free damage courtesy of monsters!) is a constant, lurking risk, so you'll only want to pick that as a last resort.

Needless to say, Final Fantasy is pretty hard, but that doesn't mean it's not fun. The battle system itself mostly works; whereas Dragon Quest relied on imagination, Final Fantasy displays your party and all their spell-casting glory. This is especially vital since it highlights your chosen party members, so their eventual transformation when promoted feels like much more of an accomplishment. It's even great to see Square taking advantage regarding attention to detail, as your weapon visually changes every time you switch equipment. Like every other pre-SNES RPG, unfortunately, it does fall into the archaic lack of auto-target (as in, you'll miss an attack if the enemy's already defeated, as opposed to simply switching targets).

There are other flaws common in 80's JRPGS. For all the improvements upon Dragon Quest, Square didn't take the time to adjust NPC antics and not have them block doors and counters. An endearing flaw, yes, but not all a practical one. And yes, you will receive vague directions and be at the mercy of townspeople hints, so don't feel guilty about using an online guide like I did.

There are, however, no flaws in the score. Series composer Nobuo Uematsu made his big break as an industry icon thanks to Final Fantasy, and know we're in for something special when the 8-bit harp introduces the famous Prelude opening. Soon to grace the prologues of future Final Fantasy titles, it instills a deep mystique that successfully frames the games as the otherworldly fantasies they're intended be.

Meanwhile, the Overworld Theme takes on not a somber tune, but of an upbeat one emphasizing adventure. Fitting quite well within the familiarly cheesy 8-bit range of the NES, as grand as the aforementioned "somber" themes we'd see in later Final Fantasy titles are, I find this sort of brightness to be far more welcoming. You could argue it may undermine its' serious attempt to tell a story, but let us not pretend it is a deep story by any measure; what matters it motivates us to keep going in the face of random encounters, rather than discouraging us by feeling isolated and alone (which in itself would betray the concept of a multi-man party).

Not that any "undermining" takes place considering the presence of the battle theme; while also an exercise of activity, it's a more serious one that expertly remembers the 8-bit rule of being infectiously catchy. It instantly recalls the wickedness of the fiends and monsters we slay not merely in appearance, but their rage-inducing usage of Paralysis.

I've had the pleasure of completing three NES RPGs over the past two years (EarthBound Beginnings, Dragon Quest, and this), and out of that trio, Final Fantasy is probably the best. This is especially shocking to me given my intense love for the EarthBound (Mother) franchise, yet Final Fantasy is perhaps the best realized JRPG of the 80's. There's no awkward skips in the scenario nor an overt emphasis on endless grinding; it is competently paced, living up to every one of its grand ambitions alongside a rigid difficulty set to be tackled any which way by the player.

It's the class system that keeps it alive thirty years later. I know it's not the last Final Fantasy to use them, but there's a distinct appeal in the first entry employing such depth in its design. And with the number of remakes and ports out there, I have plenty of excuses to take another go and shake up my selection. Final Fantasy is the rare NES game that matches up to Nintendo's own efforts like The Legend of Zelda and Metroid not merely in quality, but in successfully still channeling that engaging sense of hugeness, an even rarer 80's value I cherish as evidence of fine craftsmanship. It is not the complete masterpiece I imagine its SNES and PS1 successors are claimed to be, but such an accomplishment renders it a timeless classic all the same.

Super Mario Bros.

Gaming before Super Mario Bros. was not exclusive to dark backdrops accompanied by blinding neon or an absence of jumping maneuvers, but they were certainly pervasive enough to define what we call the third generation of video games. Games had only begun to invent the likes of parallax scrolling and side-scrolling movement, but to one Shigeru Miyamoto, gaming began to settle a little too comfortably into dark screens and arena-based repetition.

While Nintendo was hardly exempt from these styles of games--look no further than the famous likes of Donkey Kong and Balloon Fight -- Miyamoto refused to be outdone by imitators encroaching upon what he envisioned as his pioneering work; that is, jumping games. His answer was to develop an ultimate swan song to the Japanese Famicom--about to be superseded by the Famicom Disk System-- by combining the philosophies behind Donkey Kong and Mario Bros. (jumping), Excitebike (side-scrolling), Balloon Fight (floating in the air; or in this case, the sea) and Devil World (control of a larger character).

What's ordinary and by-the-book today was set to be revolutionary in 1985: an open, side-scrolling game bursting with color and crossed land, air and sea. Us Americans probably wouldn't know it from the cover -- whereas the original Japanese box art (seen above) was illustrated by Miyamoto himself, the American release disguised its glorious setting via yet another black-themed package (its odd composition also became something of an in-joke: ever stop to think about how Mario's about to fall in lava?)

Perhaps it was for the best; I mean, who could've expected such an explosion of color with a cover like that? Even better, it merely frames how Super Mario Bros.'s innate design resonated immediately with the world at large. The presence of player empowerment and visual feedback is the very same design philosophy that illuminated proto-open world in The Legend of Zelda, or when 1996's Super Mario 64 stunned 2D veterans with the realization that, yes, you can climb that mountain in the distance.

Over thirty years later, Super Mario Bros. remains as much of a masterpiece. We've since seen its ideas improved and expanded upon by the likes of Super Mario Bros. 3, World, and the New Super Mario Bros. series, but its innate sense of pick-up-and-play still enchants newcomers to this day. It's all about the jumping, really; whereas arcade heavy-hitters like Donkey Kong and Mario Bros. may feel clunky today, it's amazing how Super Mario Bros. runs as fluid as it did back in 1985.

Look no further than level 1-1--the famous standard for all opening levels in gaming-- to see why. It's evident from the very first question block you see that Super Mario Bros. is a game that rewards via jumping: you will hit that block, because it's gold and shiny and everything attractive. Out pops a coin; you want more, but a stray Goomba is honing in on you. Jump over that guy (or stomp it flat!) and pop another block; out comes not a coin, but a mushroom, which is meticulously designed to reach you....yet it grants not death, but growth. You can jump higher, and can take one additional hit before reverting back to Small Mario.

Unlike the army of platforming clones that would follow after its release, jumping in Mario feels sublime not because it follows preordained path or is at the mercy of wonky physics, but because it takes everything from acceleration, momentum and weight into account. Jumping after holding the dash button, for example, will send Mario flying into an soaring arc. Tapping the jump button lightly will make him hop an inch. Observant players recognize a necessary balance: you know you won't succeed without the big jump, but you shouldn't use it all the time lest you careless fall into a bottomless pit.

Because the controls feel so perfect, experimentation is inevitable. The player's habit of jumping everywhere may unearth a hidden 1-Up Mushroom. Landing on a Koopa Troopa's shell bowls over enemies. Careful precision and timing with dashing/jumping will land Mario on the flagpole goalpost's very top (and, with very careful consideration to the timer, lead to bonus fireworks!). All of are varying difficulty, but Nintendo's subtle education for what's actually essential is vital. Just look at the block formations below: the first leads leads nowhere so players learn to dash and jump over its ilk, which prepares them for its fatal twin.

This isn't even getting into the other mechanics introduced via the first level: the Warp Pipe, which leads to underground coin-filled hideaways and let you skip half the level; the Fire Flower, which again transforms Mario, but this time into a fireball-spewing visage of orange; the Starman, which renders Mario invincible and demolishes any enemy that dares touch him (not to the mention introducing the famous samba theme).

And underneath all that lies the ultimate question: how do I utilize all this? Will diving underground and skipping half the level just to nab coins really lead to the most points? Will grabbing the Starman interfere with my Koopa Shell-kickin' skills? How do I trigger the fireworks at the end of the level via flagpole? Why not ignore the Super Mushroom and play through the entire level as Small Mario for a challenge? Or, heck, why not the whole game?

Now, such freedom in play and player choice are hardly unique to Super Mario Bros. itself: the likes of open-world games, fighters, shooters, horror survival, life simulators, and strategy games all possesses their unique traits of flexibility and the like. But how many of those are accessible as just running and jumping? What renders Super Mario Bros. so special is its accessibility, and that the first level is this inviting is no coincidence: it was one of the very last made in development, constructed with all the knowledge obtained throughout development.

It's a seamless transition from discovery to play, as echoed in 1-2 (the first Underground Level), yet another captivating case of flexibility via the importance of brick-breaking. We already learned that bricks were breakable via Super Mario's jumps, but now here's a level essentially composed of bricks hiding coins, 1-Up Mushrooms, and even shortcuts leading to the Warp Zone. But moderation is key here; smashing bricks may be fun, but with the timer ticking down, you shouldn't dawdle for long.

And from there it becomes more of a subtle tutorial. Floating, interconnected platforms that respond to your weight are initially placed over towering cliffs, but eventually suspend over no landing points. Castles are armed with spinning firebars that gradually grow in size, complete with perilous mazes. Bullet Bill Cannons are visually introduced before they learn to fire off-screen, the first Hammer Bros. strategically hop up and down from floating brick blocks (could that be used to our advantage?), and yes, it's possible to knock out Lakitu from his cloud the moment he's spotted.

Note how many of the above involve enemies. What's beautiful about Super Mario Bros.'s cast of minions is how they aren't merely obstacles to be dodged, but tools for success. Koopa Troopas and their shells are a favorite secret weapon, but how about stomping on Goombas propelling us to greater heights? Could other enemies be used the same way? And who's to say Bowser's invulnerable to fireballs?

How we tackle all this is up to us. Miyamoto once described as Super Mario Bros. eventually becoming "our game": as muscle memory settles in, we opt for the best routes available for us. We
grow the courage to try new things; accordingly, the game becomes comfortable enough to throw new surprises once the shock of the first level wears off, and so it becomes an engaging learning process for the game's duration.

Easy to learn, hard to master: the creed of difficulty that defines the best of games. As it's an 80's game, it should come as no surprise that Super Mario Bros. is rather tough. The game's experimentation and discovery arises as a response to the game's difficulty, which can't be surmounted easily. There's the underwater levels with bastard Bloopers, for instance, and whereas  there is a way to rid of them and their Cheep Cheep cohorts (a certain power-up, perhaps?), that you're at the mercy of swimming physics not only restricts your movement options, but renders Mario all the more vulnerable to losing his only means of defense. Hammer Bros. and the castle mazes are also beatable nightmares, yet they, too, will likely give players a thrashing before a solid, formulated strategy is developed.

But that's okay, because Koji Kondo's music keeps us coming back for more. Perhaps the first famous songs in gaming, Kondo was conscious of the limited sound options for the Famicom/NES--only five channels!--and labored over songs that wouldn't irritate the player. Such songs would not be action-packed techno, but instead colorful songs that would encourage the player and never grow old.



And what gaming song is more immortal than the Main Theme (less commonly known as the Ground Theme)? Infectious from the very first 8-bit note, the Latin-based theme conveys an instinctive rhythm that can't be anything but an explosion of exuberant, light-hearted activity. That it never wracks on our nerves is vital: we're driven to action immediately after Game Over.

But why exactly is that? Perhaps the secret lies in how Kondo actually based the song on Mario's movement. Through the rhythm of player control, the music is the ultimate mastermind behind our enjoyment. From the moment Super Mario Bros. starts, it becomes a song that sets into your bones. 



In contrast, the Underground Theme doesn't inspire the same sense of wonder, but its short repetition and comparatively muted nature belies an instant earworm. (That, and, well, it's not as if a dreary underground is supposed to sound all that lively, anyway) While future iterations would install percussion-filled back-beats and the like, the original steady beat hollowed by silent intervals is somehow just as fun to hum along as its jolly counterparts.



Jolly as in the lovely Underwater Theme above. A wondrous waltz that, while perhaps betraying the treacherous waters which it accompanies, frame Mario's underwater movement as if echoing an actual dance. It too channels its Ground Theme counterpart in how they instill that very same player-moving rhythm.

All this grants it an all-too vital identity: that everything is fun. Obviously, this is not to say that previous arcade/video game efforts weren't such, Super Mario Bros. ups the ante by having "fun" be the theme of everything in it. Even putting the controls and gameplay aside, the colors and setting are fun to watch and absorb. The scenario of two plumbers rescuing a princess and her entourage of mushroom-capped retainers from evil turtles is as delightful as it is bizarre. The music is meticulously crafted to keep us engaged and hum along.

There's a reason why Super Mario Bros. saved the industry from the market crash: it's a game about inviting people. There's no barriers: only a prevailing sense of "I can do it, too," that can be applied any which way you want. Yes, it's challenging, but it possesses a power that makes you want to try one more time. That it would introduce the world to the denizens and world of the Mushroom Kingdom is only secondary to its revolution of bringing people back into the world of gaming.

Even now, I still feel bound to my own direction of playing it. I only grab the first Starman if I time the first Koopa Shell kick just right. The secret coins and 1-Ups in the first underground level are never missed. I never bother with the Warp Zones, choosing to instead gradually accumulate all the coins and 1-Ups coming my way. I still roar in exhilaration as I plow through my favorite level: 2-3, where Mario dashes across a series of bridges while avoiding leaping Cheep Cheeps.

I've only beaten Super Mario Bros. twice in my lifetime, but in all the countless attempts I've made to do so, I've more or less tackled it the same exact way. Perhaps it's time for a change? Even now, when I skip by it on the NES Classic Mini menu, I think to myself, "maybe I can." If only I had the time, I say, but I still hear it calling.

Like its NES counterpart The Legend of Zelda, that I can still find new ways to play more than thirty years after release is nothing less than sheer wizardry. What makes Super Mario Bros. gaming's most well-known masterpiece is not merely for what it defined, not merely because it revived the industry: it's because even after this time, we can still approach it and go, "I can do that."

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.

Pikmin

It goes without saying that Shigeru Miyamoto is a genius. After all, he's the creator of Super Mario Bros. and The Legend of Zelda, two video games that revolutionized the game industry. They grew into multi-million selling series that forged countless childhoods over the course of three decades; in particular, Super Mario has sold more than any other video game franchise in the world at over 300 million (and that's not including the dozens of spin-offs). The names "Mario" and "Zelda" are practically synonymous with the term "video game", proving how successfully they've penetrated into culture and the public at large.

Pikmin, Miyamoto's pet project for Nintendo GameCube, never achieved those same accolades. But I'll be damned if it's not his most inspired concept. This isn't to say it's his best, yet that one could make compelling cases for its masterpiece sequels shows the series can stand proudly with his most famous titles. And yet that they were both born from this experimental little oddball fascinates me to no end. After all, Miyamoto himself said Pikmin 3, undoubtedly the finest game you can play on Wii U, was the finalization of what he set out to accomplish with this title.

The game is the little survival tale of a diminutive astronaut, who crash-lands onto an alien world. His beloved Dolphin a mess, Captain Olimar must recover the spaceship parts with the help of plant-endowed critters, who share the game's title. Divided into three separate colors for their respective strengths (reds are immune to fire, yellows are light and can be tossed high, and blues can wade through water), the Pikmin are inquisitive, adorable lifeforms who require a capable leader for their own survival. Through commanding and propagating the Pikmin, Olimar must brave the dangers of the planet within thirty days before his life support system runs out. But the team can only brave the planet's surface during daytime, as the nightlife is far too dangerous for expeditions.

Needless to say, it's a game that requires a different sort of dedicated commitment than Zelda; a far cry from the pick-up-and-play familiarity of Mario. There were those who couldn't handle the pressure of completing the game under the 30-day time limit; others didn't "get" the premise's replayability and thought it was too short. And that's fine; while we could cite shortcomings on behalf of the developers, not every good idea will penetrate the mainstream market.

Personally, I suspect another reason, which relates to the "pressure" factor, is probably what I love so much about it; mainly, there's a stark sense of humanity present, more so than its two sequels. There's as much whimsy as any other Miyamoto title, but it hits home. There's the impending threat of Olimar's demise, for one: we learn from his nocturnal logbook that as excited as he is to learn about the Pikmin and their strange world, he always reverts to thoughts of his family back home.

Then there's the Pikmin themselves. Playful as children and fierce as beasts, we delight in discovering the nuances of their life cycles. We watch with wonder as they carry Pikmin-producing pellets back to their Onion nests, or start whacking away at mysterious holes in the ground. Our hearts melt at their puppy cries when attempting to lift heavy objects, and we feel like a proud parent when they return to the sound of Olimar's whistle. Our hearts break when a plan to slay a beast goes wrong and gasp in horror at their various methods of demise, be it getting munched, crushed to death, drowning, burned alive, or, as everyone is bound to do at least once, accidently leave one or two behind at the end of the day and watch helplessly as they're devoured by nocturnal monsters.

That's right: Pikmin decides to punish you for your failures by killing off your new pets. To further rub it in, they emit one last mournful cry before they dissipate into ghostly silhouettes, rising up to the great beyond.

I'll be honest in admitting I've since enjoyed a dark humor in that as I've grown older (particularly in the sequels, as they lean more towards comedy), but that you constantly have to manage and weigh the lives of adorable little critters under a ticking clock was probably too much for some. I know it was for me as a kid, no matter how much I enjoyed it.

I cannot claim this is entirely a matter of "git gud", either. Just the year before Pikmin, there were players who couldn't accustom to the three-day apocalypse of Zelda: Majora's Mask, which coincidentally also featured oddball humor and poignant themes. However, there's a rather big difference between the two: not only would the player have to purposefully encounter Majora's Mask's hour of doomsday given how the game incorporates time travel, but the player can actually work around the game's rules through slowing time. In Pikmin, either you play ball with the rules given, or you don't. In that sense, I understand Miyamoto's regret.

But why was I so captivated by it then? Why did I try to succeed over and over? Because of the very same reason it may've turned people off: its presentation of "stark reality." The sunbaked forests and desolate springs bear eerily Earthen roots, yet are framed in a style so alien we cannot help but discover its depths. There's all the indigenous life-forms, for starters: you have the bird-serpent hybrids, mind-controlling toadstools, fire-breathing warthogs, and, my personal favorite, a bread loaf-shaped scavenger that frequently engages in tug-of-war with Pikmin for goodies.

That these creatures sound just as cartoony as the Pikmin themselves would imply the game's world is just as cartoonish, but we're instead left to traverse one of the most beautiful worlds the GameCube has to offer. A cartoonish setting would entirely defeat the game's purpose; in the end, the Pikmin's world is that of survival, and Olimar's plight is no different. The realistic setting ensures the dangers of carnivorous beasts and environmental hazards come alive.

What really drives this point home is the great music provided by Hajime Wakai. Listen how the above example, the lullaby that is Forest of Hope, fluctuates according to time and tension. The way it initially captures a languid sunny morning is a perfect complement to how the area starts off. With the landing site block off by a dirt wall, Pikmin are divided into groups of either breaking it down or securing Pellets to grow more Pikmin. The ensuing work is long and hard, but it's ultimately an eye-opener into the game's circle of life: newborn Pikmin who remain planted in the ground gradually grow from leaf, to bud, and finally flower.

But who knows how long they'll live? The Forest of Hope is the first time Olimar and his troops will engage ravenous beasts (none the least of which are the spotty Bulborbs) and hazards of the watery and explosive kind. Whether accompanied by simple percussion or sleepy xylophones, it's downright raw to hear the dying cries of Pikmin drowned out by such gentle croons. And yet, life goes on.

On the opposite side of the spectrum lies The Distant Spring. It's a flooded marsh host to both infinite beauty and certain death, as the aquatic grounds are home to most of Pikmin's deadliest creatures. As echoed by the song, it represents the number one creed of nature: survival of the fittest, and so the cries of dead Pikmin naturally blend in. Despite being succeeded by one more area, visiting The Distant Spring truly feels like reaching the ends of the world.

 It's here the player realizes Olimar is our link to the world. For as much as he's in wonder of the alien world, his fight for survival is a lonely one the Pikmin can't entirely cure. We are just as in the dark as he is, and so we share his feelings of discovery, his confusion, his loneliness. By the time The Distant Spring rolls around, enough days have certainly passed for the explorer to feel more than a little homesick. But the harsh environment cares little for his plight, and so like Olimar, we must shoulder the burden of survival and sacrifice.

The roots for this process takes place from the very beginning, although with how the game starts at The Impact Site, you'd hardly think things would take such a dark turn. The song frames Olimar's plight as an adorable intrigue; a playroom mess rather than a struggle for survival, and given the oversized flora and cardboard boxes, you wouldn't be at fault for mistaking it as such.

But given the size chart in the game's manual (Olimar is only the size of a quarter), perhaps that's the point. It's a game designed for all ages, and so the game's darkness has to be balanced out by the whimsy of the Pikmin. Like the song and Olimar themselves, we delight in discovering what they're capable of.

Which brings us to the joy of the game's greatest song. No matter what point you're at in the game--be it having just met the Pikmin or have emerged from the depressing throes of The Distant Spring---the World Map theme will be there waiting for you. Opening with a light-hearted sunrise, the World Map theme is as adventurous as it is encouraging. It'll play even when time is running out, or if Olimar's army of Pikmin has been mercilessly slaughtered.

And that's because its job is in telling you to keep trying. It implores you to explore, to persevere.  You may've had one bad day, but why not persevere and come up with new strategies for next time? Time run out and you still haven't found all the necessary ship pieces? Hey, life goes on, so why not try again? The song matches Nintendo's objective in always looking out for the player, and even if Pikmin doesn't hit all the bases for that, this one moment holds that one creed above all else.

But suppose you do succeed, and are thusly rewarded with the heartfelt ending...do you play again? After all, this sort of game is supposed to reward creativity. To achieve one goal in different ways and discover new shortcuts and tricks. Such a game begs for replayability, yet as mentioned before, Miyamoto and co. observed not many chose to do so.

Does the reason go beyond the stressful time limit? We can offer the argument that Pikmin and fellow GameCube launch title Luigi's Mansion offered a style of gameplay that flew over the mainstream's heads, yet I can't help but shake the feeling both games stuck too closely to their experimental roots. Of course, not every inspired concept will come barreling out the gate with heaps upon heaps of polish and content, but their respective setpieces never "wow" us as the N64 and SNES launch efforts did prior. We're drawn into their creativity, but leave considering them appetizers to the main course (in this specific context, Super Smash Bros. Melee).

 Pikmin is a step above Luigi's Mansion in that there's more nuance to its gameplay; namely, you don't have to tackle every single enemy with the exact same strategy. And yet, it never quite breaks out of the "glorified tech demo" label Luigi's Mansion was also branded with. It's not that there's ideas left unfinished or anything resembling sloppy design, but there's a notable incongruity in how inspired the game's objectives can be. Take The Final Trial: the final boss is as difficult as they come, but barring the bit with the isolated bomb rocks, the "trials" preceding it are painfully simple and short. That's not to say the game doesn't get creative--look no further than The Forest Navel--but such moments aren't uncommon. In the end, Pikmin's concept ends up being more creative than the final product.

It's why I label the game as experimental, but that doesn't mean I don't think the game's a beautiful rough draft. Just because the general public may've been done with it after one go doesn't mean I wasn't, and the aforementioned nuance is enough to keep me coming back on lazy afternoons. What propels Pikmin from "good" to "great" mainly boils down to two things: a) the character and presentation involved and b) the presence of an addictive Challenge Mode. The latter has been undeniably outstripped in the sequels, but the former possesses a unique niche even those masterpieces may have yet to surpass.

In the end, while Pikmin doesn't reach the awesome heights of Miyamoto's more famous works, it nurtured enough love and passion to blossom into one of Nintendo's finest franchises. In that respect, such humble beginnings are rendered just as stunning. Hmm, I wonder what that reminds me of?