Ten Years of Kirby ~Reverie 14~ Kirby's Epic Yarn

Since the barren wasteland of 2008, everyone that hadn't jumped ship more or less came to terms with Nintendo's new direction. As 2009 would entail, new releases for Punch-Out!! and New Super Mario Bros. were accompanied by Wii Sports and Wii Fit. Despite the release of the DSi handheld upgrade and an ever-growing trove of third-party gems, this juxtaposition of "casual" and "core" offerings continued to incite controversy. "Nintendo's too kiddy" may've been a thing of the past, but "Nintendo has no games" echoed everywhere from message boards to comment sections. Of course, that wasn't quite true, but this stigma continued well into the next year.

Up until the buzz of next year, anyway. Springtime of 2010 brought with it an unexpected announcement: the 3DS. Heads were scratched at the prospect of yet another DS, especially since it was just days before the DSi XL model was set for American release. However, Nintendo made it abundantly clear this was not a new iteration, but a successor. After six years, the time seemed ripe for a handheld newcomer to enter the stage, but not even the euphoria of Super Mario Galaxy 2 kept analysts and players alike from wondering how it could top the cultural penetration of DS.

The explosion of news at that year's E3 put those thoughts on hold. Storming right out the gate with a new Zelda, Nintendo's conference tore all heads away from rivals Microsoft and Sony's takes on motion control. Retro Studios was reviving Donkey Kong Country. The first 3DS game revealed was a Kid Icarus sequel courtesy of Masahiro Sakurai. Animal Crossing was set for a big overhaul on the system, and remakes of beloved N64 titles were on the way.

At one moment, NOA president Reggie Fils-Aime sauntered onto the stage and briefly reflected on the past collaborations of Sakurai and Nintendo president Satoru Iwata; in particular, the cuddly softness of Kirby. "Somehow, he's managed to work his way into the hearts of a lot of hardened games," he said as he pointed to his chest, "they know Kirby's got game."

After seven years, Kirby would be returning to home consoles! But what would it be? Thoughts immediately turned to that of the long-lost GameCube title, but as Reggie launched into a tirade of fabric-themed metaphors, hope seemed to slip away...

Entitled Kirby's Epic Yarn, the game would be the first Kirby title not to be developed by series developer HAL Laboratory. Good Feel, the folks behind Wario Land: Shake It!--a 2D platformer released for Wii just two years before--were to helm the title independently of Kirby's creators. With the drastic new changes to gameplay involving yarn whips, bead collecting, and the inability to die, many Kirby fans couldn't help but doubt the title's potential to live up to series standards. Could a Kirby game devoid of Copy Abilities feel like a Kirby game?

My friends, you already know the answer.

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Soon after Kirby's Epic Yarn released, I described the game as something of a "relaxation simulator". Kirby's yarn immortality was the key factor -- everything from the backgrounds to the music to the Meta-Mortex transformations installed a languid calm into the player, and while the game was framed within your typical 2D-sidescroller progression (alongside the bead collection), the game's variety in apartment design, furniture/wallpaper collection, and tenant mini-games introduced a new style of play for the series. A younger, more ambitious Anthony Pelone claimed Kirby's Epic Yarn forged a new road for sidescrollers as we knew them, and looked forward to where the series would take this leisurely direction.

Obviously, that didn't happen. We mustn't forget Kirby's Epic Yarn was handled by a different developer, and while they were certainly given HAL's blessing, Good-Feel's philosophies in gameplay weren't going to overrun those of the original (particularly when Kirby's Return to Dream Land was soon to see the light of day). And yet while I was wrong, I've found it's actually made Epic Yarn's niche even stronger.

Make no mistake: this is easily the biggest Kirby departure barring Mass Attack, with level design and attack mechanics completely different from the works of HAL Laboratory. No longer does Kirby rampage through levels in a sugar rush frenzy, as the game aims to be softer and cuddlier than Dream Land 3. It wishes to be more inspired, however, and as it deviated from the series formula just as Canvas Curse before it, it remains one of the very few Kirby games to capture the gaming public's attention.

There are Kirby fans out there who do not like this game, and they'll likely tell you it's because Epic Yarn is not really a Kirby game. This is a valid opinion; indeed, there's no denying the game is firmly stitched to outlandish outskirts. You're still in control of Kirby and will meet familiar characters, but there's no Copy Abilities or lives or health-restoring food lying around. An argument can certainly be made that the game achieves the "easy to play, tough to 100%" mantra of Kirby games (more on that later), but how it ultimately played was enough to turn those fans off.

The key, then, is to approach it on its own terms. Maybe some couldn't do that, but if I have to raise any voice of objection, it's that I don't know how it's possible your heart cannot melt by the very first level. I daresay Epic Yarn is in possession of one of the best opening levels in 2D sidescrolling history: Fountain Gardens. Okay, maybe that's a little bold, but gosh, I can't express enough how happy it makes me! Be it watching your first enemy encounter (a Yarn Waddle Dee) stumble and fall in his tackle attempt, the bead-propelling waterspouts that have Kirby cheering in ecstasy, latching onto a tree button and having Kirby sway back and forth as a pendulum as he shakes off the tree's beads...

Because we've already done away with the cozy tutorial level, we're left to experiment with Kirby's new Yarn Whip and transformations in a level bursting with life, all accompanied by a wonderful, wonderful music piece courtesy of Tomoya Tomita. Good-Feel's composer helms most of the soundtrack and is a perfect fit for capturing the mellow side of Kirby, and as seen above he can fluctuate the score to a more active mood. It is as grand and joyous as you'd expect a yarn wonderland to be, and the effect it has on the level cannot be stated enough. Without fail, all of the level's set pieces immediately reduce the player into a childlike state of catharsis, and everything from stitching and stretching the landscape to watching Kirby weave his way into the background fabric all grant a genuine sense of wonder.

The tree shaking is the perfect example. Catching all the falling beads may be the only purpose, yet I'm always compelled to keep swinging long after the tree's run dry. Maybe it's the innocent smile Kirby holds all the while, or the feel of the swing being so satisfying all the while distorting his bell shape (look at how fat he gets!). Kirby turning into a giant yarn tank at the end is the level's showstopper, but this one moment captivates me above all else.

(Speaking of the irresistible, we cannot gloss over the game's one instance of openly embracing Kirby's dark side: Yarn Waddle Dees sleeping underneath a red bead-shaped heart, who are just begging to be squished under Kirby's weight pound. Rest assured, their romance always ends in tragedy under my watch)

Such moments keep building and building. Flower Fields' take on the gentle piano of the main theme sends me into nostalgic contemplation as I'm swinging on dandelions, swimming in the soft rain and abducting helpless yarn baddies as UFO Kirby. Rainbow Falls etches the biggest smile on my face with the most delightfully adorable music and having Kirby playing in rapids as a surfin' penguin. Big Bean Vine has me going up, up, and up as Yarn Waddle Dees sail on balloons to the chillest of songs.

So much of why Epic Yarn works isn't just because of the wonderful relationship between concept and music, but in that it's purely a joy to play. It wouldn't be as stretch to say the game has the best level design in Kirby history, as the absence of Copy Abilities means they have to flex their imaginative muscles; imagination, you understand, that has to prove these new mechanics have value. And they certainly do. There's the matter of beads, for instance. Since you can't die, the game has to rely on making this whole collection thing fun. Like how any good action platformer handle collectibles, beads are tantalizingly placed above pitfalls and near enemies and the like. By adhering to a medal system, Epic Yarn's difficulty lies in conserving your beads by the end of the level. It's not terribly hard, but it's a painful affront to our dignities when beads are dropped all over the place (especially the large star-shaped crystal beads, ouch!).

Yet it's hard to stay mad when the game's bursting with such imagination, with the Melody Town level being a perfect example in the relation between beads and level design. As the name implies, the level is strewn with instruments of all sorts, all of which reward beads through interactivity. Jumping on drums and cymbals unleashes beads in music notes, swinging on harp strings will nab the beads strewn across, and traveling through music staffs (played by trumpets!) requires careful precision to collect note beads.

It feels natural and organic; not once does the level feel forced in its gimmicks or unearned in its rewarding of beads, and it takes enough advantage of Kirby's yarn transformations (check out how the ground-embedded pianos react to Kirby's car dash). That and it's impossible not to smile with everything going on: Melody Town brims to life with Yarn Waddle Dees bouncing on cymbals, drums functioning as elevators, and the above music instilling nothing but joy.

Really, I can't express enough how much I love the Yarn Whip. The lasso doesn't reach the destructive thrills of the Copy Ability, but it doesn't try to be; it instead chooses to innovate and wow us. With the Yarn Whip controlling the very fabric of Patch Land, Kirby can do anything from fixing up crying teddy bears (who, in return, kindly let the pink ball use their outlines as platforms) to quell raging bead-spewing volcanoes.

And for those seeking Kirby's destructive prowess and aren't satisfied with untangling yarn enemies and throwing yarn drills (although I find much sick pleasure in doing so), you may find your wish in the Metamortex transformations. But while I do rather love the Tankbot and the UFO, my personal favorite lies in the Dolphin. Any concerns regarding swimming controls should be dispelled, for it swims like a dream and twirls with a surging force that rips through enemies (and hoops!) like butter.

This is all just a long way of saying by golly, how much do I love the overall presentation? Saying the yarn aesthetic is beautiful goes without saying, but the real triumph is how it weaves itself into the actual template of gameplay. Take the winter stretches of the Snow Land world: Snowy Fields, the opening level, portrays snowballs big and small as overstuffed balls of wool, and we cannot help but delight in not just how Kirby can ride on top of them, but at his misfortune at getting swallowed up in their paths (particularly at his already-minimalist shape is reduced to his facial features struggling to remove himself).

 

I am also quite fond of the hidden Evergreen Lift, which revolves around a Christmas tree elevator of sorts that Kirby has to constantly spin and maintain while dashing for Christmas-themed beads and collectibles and is under attack from wintry foes. It is not at all easy, yet we are too under the spell of the accompanying track to notice. Shared by the aforementioned Snowy Fields level, it is absolutely the most heartfelt song in the entire soundtrack and will prod at every one of your pleasant Christmas memories into a swirling vertigo of warm sentimentality. (Let us dismiss any similarities to the dismal Yoshi's Island DS theme as an uncanny coincidence).

In that sense, Epic Yarn's other area of success is how it siphons the number one creed of Kirby games: that they make you so goddamn happy just by playing them. That the fuzzy graphics recall just as much gooey nostalgia as Kirby's HAL best is merely a bonus; it's a game that wants to bend the rules of Kirby all the while recalling that creed for the purpose of relaxing the player (and with how a certain world (correctly!) takes inspiration from Kirby Super Star's godly aesthetic, you know Good-Feel had the series's best interests in mind).

And by "bend the rules", I'm especially referring to how this is a Kirby game with honest-to-god voiced cutscenes. No, none of the grating 4Kids accents from the anime dub are present, for the story is presented as a gentle storybook tale told by a warm grandfatherly voice. I'm told the Japanese version is performed by a young woman, but I cannot imagine it any other way, what with the English narrator performing deliberate intonations for all the characters involved (his take on King Dedede being a particular highlight). Regardless, even when the story focused on the idyllic mischief of Kirby and Prince Yarn, I enjoyed the sweet tale all the way to the end.

By the way, Kirby lives in an apartment in this game, one you can decorate with furniture and wallpaper and carpets and the like that you can purchase with beads. Upon first glance, it's a wholly pointless feature until you realize the game grants free reign over object placement and you can have Kirby snooze on any bed of your choosing. Oh, and there's pancakes. Needless to say, anyone who's sunk time into Animal Crossing will undoubtedly unleash their inner Feng Shui here. Be it guitars or rock gardens or dinosaur slides or sci-fi walls, anything and everything goes here alongside a bare minimum of interactivity (my room always features some sort of strumming guitar). I often find myself leaning towards cloud-based motifs, but in my last playthrough I attempted a sky pirate ship of sorts. What about you?

I may or may not have publicly expressed my desire for a similar feature in future Kirby title, a wish that did not come true. Kirby games have always been meaty in their accompanying sub-games and whatnot, but here we have a fun distraction that runs parallel to the main game. You could dismiss it as a worthless distraction, yet there's the presence of Kirby's flatmates, who require the presence of specific furniture for them to move in; that, and they visit Kirby's apartment and challenge him to various mini-games. All of these games are great, and I was surprised at not just how many there were, but how brutal they could get.

I found that in both instances of my post-game play, much of my time surrounded around the apartment building. You could say that's to be expected in achieving 100% completion, and yet both times I found myself completely absorbed in this trivial feature. Not that I didn't have fun revisiting and fully completing the game's levels, mind, but it became something of a pattern: start up the game, spend time rearranging my apartment, go earn beads in levels and whatever collectibles I missed, splurge on my earnings and then rearrange some more. (Actually, thanks to Kirby's dash animation turning him into a Yarn Car, I always pretend he's going off to work to earn beads.)

When analyzing the fruits of my fabric-inspired labor, it's hard for me to handwave the apartment business as a simple distraction. It's an organic component of a game I can already lose myself in by itself, and I find it an adorable fit for the series. I'm not exactly sure how it could work within the main Copy Ability template, but my goodness, there is potential here for HAL to mine. 

Much as I've sung the game's praises, I cannot label Epic Yarn as a complete masterpiece. As inventive as the boss battles are, they're the one instance where the inability to die comes across as rather jarring. Yes, the "don't get hit" objective has its challenge, yet that Kirby is placed in direct conflict with oversized enemies undermines his immortal status (barring the magician Squashini, whose clever magic tricks are enough to distract me). There are other missteps, like how the Train Metamortex attempts to channel Canvas Curse's draw direction, but ends up being a frustrating chore to control.

But such niggles hardly weigh down Epic Yarn's direction. To me, the game's crowning achievement lies in how much it channels and even celebrates the beating heart of what makes Kirby "Kirby" while trying not to be Kirby, and somehow we ended up with the best Kirby game that doesn't have the words "Adventure" or "Super Star" in its name. That this was accomplished by an outside developer that wasn't HAL only renders Epic Yarn even more magical in its status as one of the best Wii games.

On the title screen, I still see my childhood hero waving to me. Just as it was back in 2010, I'm transported without fail into another era; one far more innocent and defined by self-aware nostalgia. But now, there's another time mixed in, where I had to face one of the hardest tragedies imaginable, and didn't know where life would take me from then on. He was there ready to pick me back up soon after, and he's since never let go.

And he will always do so forevermore.

Biweekly Music Wednesday! No. 33 ~Pallet Town~ (Pokemon Red and Blue)

 

Origin: Pokemon Red and Blue
Plays In: Pallet Town
Status: Original Composition
Composed by: Junichi Masuda

Where it all began.

Pokemon was an overnight success in America, and I was certainly no exception to its clutches. I followed its Nintendo Power previews with some mild interest, watched as it absorbed the lives of my cousins, and eventually received my own copy of Pokemon Red not too long after it initially came out.

As someone with a strong memory, it's spotty in certain places for this game. I was naturally inclined towards Charmander, but Brock''s Rock-types were a harsh counter, so I found myself drifting towards Squirtle. Other than those two, I can't tell you who else I used in my party. I had one of my cousins play through the game for me after getting stuck at Lt. Surge's puzzle, but I vaguely recall playing through it myself more than once; in fact, I remember one time being shocked I skipped a route after completing the game, full of trainers waiting to fight me. I captured a Golduck in Seafoam Islands. I abused the hell out of the Rare Candy trick, among other glitches (fishing in statues!). I taught my Blastoise Earthquake, which always felled Gary's Venasaur. I always named the main character after my best friend in 1st Grade. There are many other scattered memories...but hardly any connect to a single thread.

Childhood memories are chock-full of gaping holes like that, but I've found that's part of the appeal. They're puzzles that'll never be solved, but each has their own involved story. The Golduck one, for instance; my Mom and I were just driving into an OT session, and I pumped my fist at the thrill of obtaining a Golduck for the first time. The big mystery, of course, is why I hadn't bothered raising a Psyduck into evolving one beforehand, but that aforementioned thrill is the only memory I have of capturing a rare Pokemon. You don't need logic to understand that.

Now that I think about it, I realize the Pokemon phenomenon was bigger to me than the game. I still loved playing it, of course, but my life was practically captivated by everything Pokemon. I watched the cartoon religiously every morning and after school. I rocked out to the full version of the opening theme on CD. I had a behemoth collection of Pokemon cards, courtesy of my mother buying them for me as a reward for being good at school. I obtained practically every Pokemon book and magazine out there--the first issues of Pojo and Beckett, various manga published by Viz, the excellent Versus Book guides, and both editions of the Official Pokemon Handbook. I ate the cereal. I counted down the days to the movie, which was originally scheduled to come out on my birthday. I fell for that fake secret in Expert Gamer about capturing a Yoshi. I had the plushies, the Burger King toys, the pinball game, the Pokedex replicas, everything.

I'm not particularly into any of that anymore (barring my shrine of ancient Pokemon cards), but I remember what was most important of all: there was a time when Pokemon ruled the world. And at the beating heart of that nostalgia is where it all began for every Pokemon fan: the theme of Pallet Town. It's that rare beginning theme that etches every moment of context into a young gamer's heart: the protagonist's SNES console, the Stand by Me reference on his TV, the fat guy marveling at technology in front of Prof. Oak's laboratory., being stopped by the professor himself and receiving your very first Pokemon. The first of many fated battles with your rival, who you've known since you were babies.

It's a mirror of tear-inducing nostalgia in and out of itself, and many cannot listen to it without crying. I still haven't yet, but listening to the orchestrated version at Symphonic Evolutions made me come close. Actually, writing this now is almost pushing me off the edge.

But nostalgia is nostalgia, and memories are memories. What's most important of all is that twenty years later, Pokemon is still around. New fans are still cropping up everywhere, and have their own Pallet Towns in Littleroot and Vaniville. And now, thanks to Red, Blue, and Yellow finally releasing on the 3DS Virtual Console, they can finally experience what defined our lives eighteen, perhaps twenty years ago. That the monochrome corners of Pallet Town will give birth to new childhoods excites me more than anything else

Here's to twenty, forty, and an eternity of more Pokemon. It truly deserves it.

Final Thoughts: Man, does anyone else hate those official "echo" versions of the R/B/Y soundtrack? Totally ruins the feel for me.

Worldly Weekend: Tales of Zestiria (PS3)

The gradual decline of Tales over the past decade has been heavily disputed, with its journey into HD at the heart of the matter. Any potential brought forward by Vesperia was quickly snuffed in favor of rushed products and randomly adapting to AAA-standards. Namco clearly didn't have the budget to elevate Tales to Final Fantasy production values, and it showed in the mediocrity that were the Xillia games, what with the banal fields that stretched on forever and various cut corners (not the least of which were the limitless assets reuse; how many identical, music-less port towns were in the game, again?). Aimless stories and Motoi Sakuraba's homogenized score only cemented the notion that Tales games had grown creatively bankrupt.

When I reviewed Tales of Xillia 2, I dismissed the game as being the latest in a series of JRPG junk food because, really, that's what the series had become: an assembly line of fast food that barely scratch that RPG itch. That analogy is inapplicable as of Tales of Zestiria, a complete failure in everything from level design, pacing and progression, modern graphical standards and proper storytelling. I can't claim to have played every Tales game of the past nine years, but I remain confident in stating it's the absolute worst since the abominable Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of the New World (and what a coincidence that they're from the same series; I can't think of any game I've hated as much since).

I mean, Jesus Christ. I knew during pre-release the game was likely to continue the series stagnation, as the previews showed little evidence of Namco learning from Xillia's missteps. It's not that I believed such a tone-deaf game would reinvigorate the series (not to mention the controversy surrounding the Alisha character, which signaled alarm bells rivaling that of Xillia 2's debt system), so I walked into Zestiria thinking it'd be the latest batch of sub-par takeout that I'd maybe write about.

Boy, oh boy, was I not ready. I wish I could say the game's return to swords and sorcery was as base as its overall presentation; in particular, the latter is just a stunning display of laziness and inadequacy. I mean, where do I even begin? The inconsistent character framerate? The empty dungeon design? The terrible facial animation? The pathetic pop-in and draw distance? The pixelated tree shadows? The sound glitches that plagued the PC release? That one scene where two characters not only talked over each other when they were clearly not supposed to, but the dialogue didn't even match the subtitles? How some of the anime cutscenes output sound with all the glory of a 240p stream video, including the very first one you see?

Needless to say, I'm beyond shocked production values have fallen below even that of the Xillia games. The framerate particularly caught my attention; it's not like Zestiria looks even that different from those games, but apparently Namco spent a couple years developing a new graphics engine that can't produce 60 FPS for an overworld monster unless you're standing less than five feet away from it. With how ghastly their movements carry even into battle, I wonder if 30 FPS would be pushing it.

Not even the in-game cutscenes are exempt from this, as it's not rare for characters to fluctuate in frame animation and slowdown from the most minor of movement. On top of how the rocky character animation itself, you can hardly take them seriously regardless of context. Above is an example of the blank facial animation: here, the character is supposed to be shellshocked at a betrayal, but the way her mouth morphs into a near-smile renders the scene almost comical. Oh, and just to clarify, that GIF is from the Playstation 4 version. Let that sink in for a moment.

To top it off even further, Xillia's dry color scheme and static field designs are alive and well. I mean, the former was at least kinda acceptable before considering the new setting, but there's just no excuse for the latter anymore. The Tales team is clearly ill-equipped in adapting the series to an "open-world" environment and it shows in everything from the needlessly broad overworld maps to the boring mazes. It's gotten to the point where I have to ask what's the point in suddenly pretending Tales an AAA effort when all the obvious cut corners immediately dispel such fantasy.

The dungeons are the perfect example here. No matter how bombastic Go Shiina's music may be, the level design never lives up to any such standard no matter how much the context wills it to be. Rooms are designed with bare minimum effort, devoid of any aesthetic value or interesting features besides enemy/treasure chest placement and whatever half-baked gimmick each respective dungeon decides to throw at you (the most torturous of all being the water dungeon, a convoluted maze which zaps you back to the entrance whenever you come across a sentry's line of sight.)

So how on earth did Zestiria end up being this cheap? With the Tales Studio being laid-off/absorbed into Namco and other huge internal projects developed within the same timeframe (notably Super Smash Bros. for 3DS and Wii U, which borrowed a portion of Tales staff), Namco had no choice but to rely on heavy outsourcing; more than any Tales game before, in fact. While it's unfair to say outsourcing is solely for conserving money, that the game required such a ridiculous extent and still looked this terrible proves just how limited the game's budget was (the convoluted web of external assets likely contributed to the mess).

And what was it all for, really? It only serves as a detriment to the actual gameplay, as already seen in the worthless dungeon and field design, but what about the combat? For the first time in Tales, Zestiria opts for seguing battles into the overworld rather than transitioning to specialized battlefields. See, there's a neat idea for evolving the series...had the overworld been competently designed and the characters/battle camera didn't get stuck behind walls and pillars (seriously, just watch this).

It's actually pretty funny how much it falls into the pitfalls as Xillia 2. Just like Xillia 2, the impact of attacking monsters feels as dull as pounding on a wet paper bag. And just like Xillia 2, it's only worth using the characters gifted with super cool awesome Plot Powers (in this case, Sorey and Rose's Armatization, where they combine with one of their element-coded Seraph friends). And hey, just like Xillia 2, they try to make you work for those via combos, but unlike Xillia 2, there's no limit or penalty to how long you can use Armatization. Consequently, battles just boil down to pounding down on enemy weaknesses, and the inclusion of Graces' CC combo system does little to ease the tedium.

The second point is particularly interesting, considering how just like Xillia 2, the whole game is a vehicle for a plot not worth a damn. Of course, that's how JRPGs work, but everything from the overworld to the combat just renders Zestiria a slow, terrible slog to wade through, one that not even the fast travel option can fix (something you actually have to pay Gald for!). That, and...well, JUST LIKE XILLIA 2, it decides to piss me off with horrible, horrible padding. I was not at all happy to discover I was being gated off from continuing at one point until I gathered all the Iris Gems, which magically project the disposable backstory of the generic villain.

Rare is the Tales game that actually has a well-rounded story (that would be Tales of the Abyss), but it's especially bad here since in recent years, Tales has fallen into a bad rut with goody two-shoes protagonists and characters who join your party just because. Not once am I given a reason to care about Sorey (who falls squarely into the "Chosen One" trope right down to pulling the generic sword from the generic stone) and his band of Seraphs and squires, as Zestiria frequently screws around with natural foreshadowing and player expectations.

Just take the character Edna. The diminutive, snarky Seraph only joins Sorey's gang in the faint hopes of reverting her brother back from being a dragon, yet apparently the developers had the bright idea of relegating that subplot to a sidequest. As far as the main plot is concerned, not once do Sorey's idealistic dreams of curing dragons from malevolence ever become important, and not once does Edna ever embark on a character arc, remaining static in her snarky ways of harassing party members. Other party members fall in similar traps, but she's the most striking example.

On top of out-of-whack story beats and base "twists", there is no reason for investment in anything that goes on. A character turns into a monster? That other one betrays me? Someone dies? I don't care because the game won't let me care, because it refuses to properly foreshadow, engage in proper pacing or, y'know, develop its characters. As to why, a good chunk of this can be chalked up to the elephant in the room: a shift in party members so nonsensical in concept I'm beyond baffled it was actually executed.

I'm talking, of course, about the Alisha bait-and-switch. Yes, we can bring up her gradual absence in pre-release material or producer Hideo Baba claiming they never said she was the heroine despite her being the very first female character they introduced, but how it happens in-game is ultimately what's important. There's just no getting around how jarring it is, as the character is the catalyst for Sorey leaving his village of Seraphim and fulfilling his destiny of becoming The Shepard. While there's nothing particularly nuanced about her character, her role as Sorey's squire sets one of the game's few fathomable themes in stone: two people with entirely separate backgrounds helping the world in ways the other cannot (in this case, an idealistic country orphan and a troubled princess knight).

That is, until said role randomly causes Sorey to temporarily grow blind and she decides to up and leave six, maybe seven hours in. It's as random as it sounds, and what makes it even worse is that her replacement (Rose) is later thrust into the role despite being casually introduced as a NPC (some have defended this saying it plays into the revelation of her spoiler-related job, but, well, she's right on the box. Every other Tales party member has had an elaborate introduction).

I'll refrain from citing any of the vague *conspiracy theories regarding the situation, but regardless, it's just so easy to frame the contextual reason as "well, Alisha wasn't working out for whatever reason, so here's another character that works better just because!" It's not even as if Rose brings anything to the party that Alisha couldn't aside from having a foul mouth and her relationship with Dezel, a Seraph whose endearing traits are being reclusive and getting pissed off at everybody. (This isn't even getting into how poorly Rose takes over Alisha's role; heck, her fellow guildmates don't even acknowledge her absence!)

In attempting to have Alisha take care of Zestiria's events by holding the fort back at her kingdom, all it does is invalidate her character. Rather than sharing a dual role, any appearances from then on are fleeting, and she possesses absolutely zero involvement with the climax. As it is, it's the biggest screw-up in an indecisive tale right down to the context of the "surprised" GIF: a delayed reaction to a twist we already knew and don't care about since she's become superfluous; at that point, we've gotten so used to Rose cementing over her role that Alisha may as well have been that background character.

Can I say anything positive about Zestiria? It has a solid localization with solid voice acting (despite that aforementioned "speaking over each other" goof-up), and there's some sidequest meat to chew on. Sidequests I chose not to partake, but they exist in case you enjoy the contemptible thing. Oh, and being able to customize flair and costumes for characters. Having Sorey wearing giant sunglasses and Mikleo being stalked by a floating Yuri Lowell doll was the only thing that dulled my pain (aside from South Park episodes playing on my tablet. "Suck my b-b-balls, PC Principal!").

Is that it? I don't know, and honestly, I don't care anymore. Between this, the fiasco that was the Tales of Symphonia Steam port (and to a lesser extent, its PS3 "remaster"), a separate Namco development team being unable to tell who Zestiria's main heroine is (look up the controversy surrounding the Tales of Asteria mobile game), and the upcoming Tales of Berseria being a prequel to this game, I've given up hope Namco and the Tales team can provide a quality experience for the series in this age. They're clearly unable to manage quality control across the board, and so any aspirations for evolving a niche RPG series remain futile.

The days of relatable characters and fun battle systems are over. Tales is dead.

*Which reminds me, there's nothing in the main plot that even remotely hints at a homosexual relationship between Sorey and his BFF Mikleo. Sorry, Fanfiction.net!

Evaluating "Tone Deafness": Metroid Prime: Federation Forces and Paper Mario: Color Splash (Nintendojo)

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Funny how quickly I wrote this despite being a tough subject. Did my point come across clearly here? While I certainly agree there's some qualities of tone-deafness in these games, I think the worst part is how they were ultimately announced. Did you notice how there was no fanfare for their respective revelations?  

Anyway, sorry things have been a bit slow here. To make up for it, we'll have some fun content this weekend and the coming week. By the way, rumor has it that exciting news I mentioned a few months ago might finally be announced within the coming weeks...

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?

Worldly Weekend: Dragon Ball Z: Budokai (PS2)

And now, to geek out even more.

While Pokémon was what cultivated my interest in anime and manga, Dragon Ball was what captivated that interest and promptly skyrocketed it into a permanent hobby. Akira Toriyama's tales of monkey-tailed boys, alien combat and musclemen protruding golden hair three times their size captured my heart like every other young male living in early 2000's America, and I celebrated my fandom in every way possible. My friends and I constantly invented new adventures for our DBZ action figures. I dressed up as Vegeta for Halloween (I think the wig my mom made is still lying around somewhere!). I memorized the power levels of every character as I frequented the web for plot summaries and pictures. I downloaded translated ROMs of the Japan-exclusive games. I even discovered that, gasp, the show was being censored for American television!

That all began fifteen years ago, and after all these years, my Dragon Ball dorkiness is still alive...if not a tad more latent. Episodes from the fabled Dragon Box sets frequently serve as nostalgic background noise within my basement. I'm quite behind on the new animated adventures, having only seen the first two episodes of Dragon Ball Super and the Battle of Gods movie (for the record, I loved both). Every now and then, I take one of my old manga volumes and take a whiff of that familiar smell; once upon a time, I was convinced Japanese children reveled in that holy scent twenty years before I did.

While still regarded as an action masterpiece, it's easier to discern the flaws of something I once deemed as perfect. The childhood and adulthood periods of protagonist Goku's life--marketed outside of the original Japanese manga as Dragon Ball and Dragon Ball Z, respectively--are too thematically dissonant (if anything, I prefer the whimsy of Dragon Ball). Non-Saiyan characters are frequently shoved into the sidelines, no matter how much time had been invested into them prior. Yet no matter how much I could go on, none of it matters whether I'm reading or watching it. I could say it's just my childhood speaking, yet every story beat, every character moment have become so ingrained into shonen manga that it's little wonder it remains the cornerstone of Weekly Shonen Jump (to provide an American equivalent, I suspect many feel the same about the original Star Wars trilogy and how it impacted cinema). Needless to say, it's a series I still deeply respect and adore.

With all that said, Dragon Ball Z: Budokai requires some context. See, Japan had been living it up with Dragon Ball video games since the 80's, yet we Americans never got in on that action (not including the infamous Dragon Ball GT: Final Bout). It wasn't until 2002 when animation company Toei, American anime licenser/localizer FUNimation and game publisher Infogrames finally got off their sorry keesters and began distributing DB games across the West. While we were initially gifted with a spectacularly shitty duo of Game Boy Advance games in The Legacy of Goku and Collectible Card Game, everyone's eyes were on what was to be the first 3D DBZ fighter for PS2: Budokai.

That's a pretty big deal, as evidenced from the above intro animation. Mute the rancid (yet catchy) 90's rap song and merely observe the video. Yes, you're watching a replica of the Cha-La Head-Cha-La opening from the Japanese version. For the first time, every scene from this iconic 1989 animation had been rendered in beautiful, luscious 3D. That America was not only treated to a butchered version of the opening for the show but that the original song was axed in favor of Rock the Dragon dilutes the nostalgic impact somewhat. Thankfully, we were too distracted by the shiny PS2 graphics to really notice.

What made Budokai so special is that it framed itself as a genuine celebration of Dragon Ball. It didn't cover every chapter of the saga, but the game sprung to life from the get-go with winks and nods everywhere (just look at all the little character icons up there!). Menus were peppered with animations and stills that perfectly matched the style of Toei Animation (with how the company handled the opening sequences for the sequels, I'm convinced they at least provided the latter for this title). The voices were the same as the show, and the soundtrack--composed by series veteran Kenji Yamamoto in a collaboration with Tower of Power--was so good it had practically defined the game by itself.

And how my heart aches knowing I can no longer appreciate all that.

I say this knowing full well Dragon Ball Z: Budokai never had the deepest battle system; even back then, I was able to discern the more homogenized attacks between most characters in the first two games (the most baffling case being in this title, where one particular combo is literally just a couple kicks. Bear in mind there's a dynamic camera involved). But it was good enough...and cool-looking. Like, really cool. The game's emphasis on arena-destroying supernovas (the best being Mr. Satan-er, Hercule's, where, in a fake plea for mercy, he hands over a remote-controlled bomb to the enemy), emulating the super-fast flurries of punches/kicks through button-mashing sequences, and delivering attacks so hard they send your opponents careening into alternate arenas all authentically matched the show.

Except now it's not. Unlike most games ravaged by time, Budokai's in a...peculiar predicament. For one thing, it's the forerunner in a series that shifted over to cel-shaded graphics just the next year. The awkward graphical look would be bad enough, but there's also the matter of just about everything else. You have the voice acting, which is the same as the show but FUNimation's dubbing for DBZ has always been a mixed bag, to say the least. Then you have the music, which was...no, I don't have the heart to say it yet.

Needless to say, a "just good-enough" battle system can't support all that, no matter how flashy it is. It'd be easy to dismiss it a static relic of its time, yet somehow it's preserved its spot as the fondly-remembered DBZ game by American fans. We could just chalk it up to it being a runaway sales success over here, yet there's other matters to consider, namely that Budokai was the only Dragon Ball Z game for years to host a fully-animated Story Mode that reenacted the original series.

Not that the subsequent games up to 2008's Burst Limit didn't have a Story Mode, but they were all propped up through board games (Budokai 2), 2D "still" images (Budokai 3, although Dragon Universe was mighty cool for what it was), or the models just standing there talking (the entire Sparking!/Budokai Tenkaichi trilogy). Subsequently, Budokai's first stab at retelling the story we all know and love in 3D won by default for most folks.

And it's not like it did so through laziness. For one thing, the cinematics are well-animated for their time. Yes, we can nitpick the grainy textures (look no further than the bleached green of King Kai's planet) or that fart sound that comes out of Yamcha's clenched fist in that one cutscene, but god damn did they look cool. Take how it adapts Goku's iconic transformation into Super Saiyan, where the screen quakes with such intensity every time he screams. It was electrifying to watch as a kid, and even now it's one of the legitimate pieces of direction that holds up.

But wait, I thought I just said the game didn't age well graphically? Yes, well, note how I said it's well-animated, and even then that only applies to the cinematics. While the cutscenes may be of adequate quality, it's shocking how that all falls apart when the fighting comes down. The characters lack breathing animations, and everyone's beefcake designs renders it even more awkward, particularly when a good chunk of victory animations consist of character crossing their arms and grinning smugly into the camera (the winner goes to Piccolo, who hangs his mouth open in stupefied wonder at his endlessly-wiggling antennas).

Needless to say, it's really easy to see why they moved into cel-shading. For instance, there is nothing natural about the power-up animation: as opposed to lifting the iconic stances from the show, characters statically scrunch up into a position quite akin to that of taking a dump. Despite the beefcake designs, there's a real lifeless look to everything that was never going to hold up. While the GameCube version added in a unique cel-shaded look of its own, the animation problems persist.

Honestly, I think I'm even being generous with the cutscenes in regards to modeling. Just look how ghastly Karin (Korin) the cat looks up there. That's actually a shot from the HD version, and apparently whoever was in charge of that remaster couldn't fix such a monstrosity.

Anyway, there's also the matter of VAs. Look, let's be honest: while FUNimation may be the best anime dubbing company in America now, that'd be a difficult case to make in 2002 (let alone when they first started out). While Dragon Ball Z was what got them on the map, it fell victim to about every bad dubbing trope from the late 90's: stilted VA direction, corny scripts, a never-ending replacement BGM, and embarrassing opening songs. You cannot sit here and tell me that a dub host to a character singing "CAT LOVES FOOOOOOD YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAAAH" (if you pay attention, the dialogue exchange doesn't even match the context of the scene) or a villain randomly making homosexual advances is better than the original Japanese, a thing of beauty host to the best seiyuu in the anime industry.

But hey, don't take it from me. Why, who is that handsome young man grilling voice actors Sean Schemmel and Christopher Sabat? That would be me, at last year's Otakon! And I gotta say, while I don't entirely buy the "old equipment" answer, I'm quite impressed with their opinion on nostalgia. After all, it's not like Dragon Ball is some holy grail many of us superfans treat it as such. To some people, it's just their favorite goofy Japanese cartoon they grew up, and the meaning of "dubs vs. subs" hold little meaning to them, and that's quite alright.

With all that in mind, Budokai is a pivotal moment in researching the history of DBZ dubbing. Not only was the show coming to an end in America, but this was the first time the cast was brought together for an extensively-voiced video game. For starters, there's Chris Sabat and his dozen roles: his stern direction for Piccolo had evolved just fine, yet he still hadn't figured out how to make Vegeta sound anything other than, as Kanzenshuu once put it, a guy in a booth doing a gruff voice. Meanwhile, Sonny Strait has come a long way in his voicing Kuririn (Krillin): no longer has his direction for the character rendered him an annoying squeaky-voiced punk, but as a genuine sidekick that immediately grows on you.

And then there's voices that continue to, well, flat-out suck. Like Ocean's Pauline Newstone before her, Linda Young's Freeza remains the most notorious miscast in anime dubbing history. Don't let the lipstick fool you; the character has absolutely zero business sounding like an old woman who's had far too many smokes. Despite being the series' most infamous villain, it's hard to believe that in context when you cannot take anything he says seriously. It goes to show FUNimation's worst casting weakness lied in body type: the less said about Philip Wilburn's squeaky Android #19 and Sean Schemmel's "marble-mouth" Kaio (King Kai), the happier I'll be.

In context of the game, it's interesting to witness the juxtaposition of direction. Rumor has it that Toei representatives oversaw the localization, and it'd definitely show in the Story Mode. Regardless of any voice mismatches, there's not a single instance of dry delivery, further granting the impact these cutscenes had back in the day. And then, once again, it falls apart a bit in actual battles. Characters announce attack names super quickly to accommodate the quick frame executions (check out Gohan's take on Kamehameha), and there's an obvious glitch regarding the Cell character: no matter how much he transforms in battle, he's always stuck with the nasal "bug" voice of his first form. It's something they never actually fixed for the sequels, and it's especially odd when contrasted with the normally-dignified countenance of his Perfect Form.

Add in how the voice clips' muffledness has grown more distinct over the years, and the delivery of the bad voices are amplified. Of course, Freeza is absolutely terrible, but the most egregious cases lie in the representatives of the Ginyu Force. Chris Sabat's Arnold Schwarzenegger impression for Recoome borders on incomprehensible and obnoxious, as is also the case for Captain Ginyu himself. The elderly Brice Armstrong is a baffling replacement for the adequate Dale Kelly; he's clearly too old for the flamboyant character and it shows in his nasal delivery.

Speaking of baffling, we now arrive at the most heartbreaking case of all: Kenji Yamamoto, the soundtrack's composer. No, not the same Kenji Yamamoto who composed the Metroid Prime trilogy; the Kenji Yamamoto who's not only been involved with composing songs for DBZ since its inception, but for all the video games dating back to the Super Famicom era.

As mentioned before, Budokai's score is so damn good that it's practically impossible to discuss the game without bringing it up. What made it excel was that it struck that perfect balance between Dragon Ball's lighthearted humor and adrenaline-rushing action. The above themes, which respectively accompany the menu and character select themes, represent the former and dress up the overall presentation; they're so fun that you can't wait to dive into the action.

And what action it is! Kenji Yamamoto's collaboration with Tower of Power definitely bore fruit; yes, those are real instruments you're hearing, all accompanied through some kickass synth. Raging guitars rev up the familiar locales that are Budokai's battlefields, and they're all the better for it. Combined with the arena-shifting mechanics, one could even say they heighten the glory of a shallow combat system.

The Story Mode isn't neglected, either. They emphasize more on synth, but Yamamoto ensures they inject blood-pumping adrenaline and appropriate drama when needed. The above example is actually spliced into three different components for varying cinematics: quiet anger (when Goku observes his dead friends slain by Nappa), anticipation and encouragement (Goku convincing Gohan to take on Cell), and awesome kickassery (Goku's Super Saiyan form scaring the shit out of Freeza).

Heck, he even goes out of his way to pay homage to the original DBZ recap theme! You see what I mean when I said this game celebrates Dragon Ball? In fact, rumor has it there's a cameo from Super Famicom fighter Super Butoden 2 somewhere...

So, wait, I just spent the past four paragraphs singing the soundtrack's praises. If the music's so good, what's the problem?

Well, it's plagiarized.

Yeah, how's that for a kick in the balls?

Kenji Yamamoto's plagiarism scandal has been well-documented, and while I was careful enough to cite the tracks that (as far as we know) weren't "inspired" from other sources, therein lies the rub. It's immensely disappointing that someone who clearly had talent fell to thievery, let alone the fact that he strung along his none-the-wiser collaborators for the ride. And even in the case of my cited tracks, I'll always be asking myself if they were truly born from his "talent."

Perhaps my memories of how much I enjoyed the game are what's most important, but that they won't live on to future generations is the most heartbreaking factor of this ordeal. Just like how Dragon Ball Kai's soundtrack was swiftly replaced across the world following the scandal, any games currently on the market that had Yamamoto's involvement had their scores replaced with recycled tracks from the Tenkaichi brand of games (which, in themselves, were actually replacements of the original Japanese score).

 

The Budokai HD Collection for PS3/X360 was no exception to the rule. Let it be known the dance music of the Tenkaichi series is not at all like the grounded guitars of Budokai, as evident in this collection of cinematics. It's too blatant how the cutscenes were built around the original score, and all these overly-peppy tracks induce emotional cues so differently that you may as well be watching/playing a whole different game altogether.

And therein lies the real problem: I actually prefer the plagiarized score because it functions better within the game's context. Isn't that messed up? It's too ingrained into me, too loved to accept any morally-correct replacement, and that's all because some jackass in Japan decided it was okay to steal. Maybe I'm at fault, too, but to dismiss it as "it is what it is" feels so wrong.

I love everything else Budokai brings to the table. I love that the Tournament is framed within the World Tournament/Tenkaichi Budokai from the original series (complete with the lovable announcer guy!). I love the concept of custom fighters and collecting abilities through Hoi-Poi Capsules. I love the "what-if" scenarios, particularly the scenarios involving Cell's "nightmare" and The Legend of Hercule, where the big faker actually ends not up being a faker and beats up everyone attending the Cell Game.

But I love that all with a broken heart, and I can no longer call Budokai one of the truly great Dragon Ball games. It doesn't fall nearly into the "so bad it's good" rabbit hole I rediscovered last summer with Sonic Adventure DX, but the polish found in everything else can't save how it's a victim of circumstance. The combination of flash over substance, Toei-blessed presentation vs. generic models, and an amazing soundtrack tainted with plagiarism blend together to create a product with big, gaping cracks gradually rising to the surface.

I suppose it'd be a bit mean to label Budokai mediocre; I mean, I love what it tries to do too much to label it as such, but as it stands, it truly is a relic meant for study and getting one's nostalgic kicks, not entertainment.

(I blame Yamamoto; seriously, fuck you, man.)