I think I’ve mentioned before that I have had a curious relationship with most of Nintendo’s flagship series. A lot of this comes from the systems that I owned: First a Game Boy, then a Sega Genesis, then a Sony Playstation. As a result, I tended to play Nintendo games either at my friends’ houses or in their weird, off-beat, portable incarnations. I had the opportunity to spend time with and appreciate games that nobody else seemed to–but I never really played many of the classics when they first came out.
The common wisdom is that Ocarina of Time is the pinnacle of the Legend of Zelda series, and it has been on my list of “games I ought to play” longer than perhaps any other entry. I knew that, of all of the gaps in my gaming education, Ocarina represented maybe the biggest.
Now, however, having played it, I’m in a heated debate with myself over whether I think that it represents a “must-play” game.
One thing I want to make clear: Ocarina of Time is a brilliantly crafted game, thoroughly engrossing, and difficult to put down. I have never been in doubt that if you decide to sit down and explore this particular version of Hyrule, you’ll have a great time. And really, that’s probably enough–if you want to have fun, play Ocarina.
Part of my consideration for this blog, however, is an examination of what it means to be “well-played,” and what constitutes a sort of baseline knowledge for gaming history. In this respect, the Legend of Zelda series is an interesting case, because the entire series is essentially a variation on one of two templates.
If you have never played a Zelda title, then I would posit that in order to really understand the series you ought to play two games: the original Legend of Zelda for NES and Ocarina of Time. The first is the origin of the formula and the second is the first entry to take that formula and rework it for use in a three-dimensional space (a feat which it accomplishes brilliantly). These two games are the archetypal Legend of Zeldas (“Legends of Zelda?”). They offer the purest, most distilled version of the series.
Unfortunately, they’re also sort of the least interesting. This might be a little heretical, but as someone who doesn’t have an enormous amount of nostalgia wrapped up in the games, the entries that have grabbed me the most are the ones that take the basic theme and do some riffing on it.
Link’s Awakening, Link to the Past, and the Oracle titles (not to mention Four Swords and Minish Cap) are all basically playing around with the same idea: Large, grid-based, open world divided into single screens and filled with several discrete dungeons in which you acquire an ever-increasing set of tools with which to defeat Ganon/Other. In order to separate themselves from the original, they take a new aesthetic and/or gameplay lens and apply it to the formula: Link’s Awakening gives us an actual plot; Link to the Past stuffs itself to the gills with sidequests and adds an entire second world map; Minish Cap… had a hat that made you small? I don’t really know, I never played that one.
When Ocarina came along, it was almost like a reboot of the series, taking all of the essential elements and applying them to an entirely new play space. As I mentioned, it does this very, very well–in fact, between this and Super Mario 64, Nintendo’s record for translating their series into the third dimension flawlessly on the first try is pretty spectacular. It took Konami ten years to give us a 3D Castlevania that wasn’t abominable.
And yet–Wind Waker, Twilight Princess, and Skyward Sword are all riffs on the exact same tune (In this one he’s a wolf! In this one he’s a Powerpuff Girl!), and because these successors all have to do something with themselves stylistically to distinguish themselves from Ocarina, they’re all far more interesting than the original template. (Full disclosure: I haven’t played Skyward Sword yet. I hear it’s pretty neat!) What’s more, the formula at the heart of Zelda doesn’t change as drastically from incarnation to incarnation as, say, the gameplay in each iteration of the Mario franchise (In this one he has a water cannon! In this one he’s in space! …You know what, on second thought…).
I know that being a wolf and sailing the seven seas seem pretty different from hoofing it across Hyrule Field for the eighty millionth time, but you’re still going to elemental dungeons, solving environmental puzzles, collecting keys, and Z-targeting to smack enemies in the face with your Master Sword. I’m not suggesting that Zelda is stale! Not really, anyway. I’m only saying that in order to understand the way the Zelda series works, you don’t have to play every incarnation.
And so, when the time comes to educate yourself as a gamer, when you sit down and try to fill in the gaps in your “gaming education,” you have a question to ask yourself: when it comes to the Legend of Zelda series, what’s important for you to know? If you want The Legend of Zelda at its most basic, then you should play the games that set the tone and offer up the template.
If that’s not important to you, I would suggest that you can come to know and understand Zelda by playing just about any game from each of its two formulae. If all you’ve played is Link’s Awakening and The Wind Waker, then you already know what The Legend of Zelda is all about and you can talk about it intelligently. You can sit down with any game in the series and find a creative, compelling adventure on which to embark–but if you don’t, you’re not missing as much conceptually as you might imagine.
Alright, Kid Icarus. You win.
I don’t want to play you anymore.
I’ve encountered a number of 8-bit titles that are exceptionally difficult. Heck, I just recently spoke about Contra a couple weeks ago–maybe the very pinnacle of difficulty! (Or maybe that’s Ninja Gaiden. Or Bayou Billy. Or Ghosts ‘n’ Goblins. Or that %#$@ dam level in the NES TMNT. Okay, you know what? There are a lot of hard NES games.) In part, this difficulty was a means of extending the longevity and value in an entertainment experience which has always been pricey. In part, it’s an artifact of an era when the whole medium was less accessible, less mainstream, more “hardcore.”
But it has always been the goal of the game developer to balance difficulty with engagement, and the classics of the medium have always succeeded to a large degree at striking this balance. Take the Mega Man series, which combines brilliant level design with tight controls and allows the player to experiment through trial-and-error at finding the correct order in which to defeat the robot masters. Castlevania, similarly, allows players to prepare for difficult segments by knowing which of the sub-weapons will be most useful at dispatching the enemies (or the boss) they’re about to face. Metroid offers an enormous, open world full of dangers, but promises that each power-up a player collects will be forever preserved so that they can fully arm themselves for further exploration.
In structuring its progression, Kid Icarus tries to do something akin to what Metroid offers, but with a much more linear environment, far fewer checkpoints, and, you know, none of the aesthetically pleasing aspects of Metroid.
The game gives you about a dozen checkpoints throughout, one at the end of each of its levels, and all of the progress that you’ve made so far is saved–your items, your hearts (currency), your health, even your experience (and the game does have experience!). The upgrade system, which exists somewhere in between Metroid‘s power-ups and Legend of Zelda’s items, offers you new weapons to purchase as you proceed, as well as means of restoring your health when it’s been depleted. If you’ve killed enough enemies and accrued enough experience, when you begin a new level, you’ll have a larger health bar. There are places mid-level where, if you’ve dispatched enough foes, you can acquire more powerful arrows! It all goes a long way to make you feel like it’s worth it to kill bad guys and be thorough.
And this is where the game runs into its major problem, in my opinion. The great paradox of Kid Icarus is as follows: because the game is linear and you can’t go back to earlier levels in a given playthrough, you are inclined as the player to linger as long as possible, killing all the enemies and accruing as much experience as possible before moving on. You want to be prepared when the game gets more difficult in the later levels, right? Unfortunately, the longer you linger, the higher the chance that you’re going to get dinged by some piddly blue serpent or flying octopus, and the larger the odds that you’re not going to make it through to the end of the level. Playing methodically and carefully is actually a risky strategy, because the levels are long enough that your odds of clearing them are relatively low no matter how careful you are. With each run of a level, you are essentially gambling with your time.
In my experience with Kid Icarus, I tended to lose. The game is difficult, no bones about it, and for every attempt at a level that I played methodically and patiently, more often than not my reward was that I would lose ten minutes instead of five. It doesn’t help that a single missed jump will kill you instantly (unless you spend some of your in-game currency on “bad jump insurance,” in the form of feathers). It doesn’t help that the jumping mechanics feel more like the floaty, non-specific controls of Metroid than the pixel-perfect tightness of Mega Man.
It also doesn’t help that the main character, Pit, sounds suspiciously like Ecco the Dolphin when he takes damage, but that’s sort of beside the point.
I think, perhaps, that much of my complaint against Kid Icarus stems from the fact that the various systems that make it interesting are done more compellingly, and with better aesthetics, in other NES games of the time. Is it, strictly speaking, a bad game? No. Is it a game that you should go back and play?
I’m not going to straight up suggest that you would waste your valuable time playing Kid Icarus, and if you’ve got a childhood affection for it, go crazy! I have a long list of games I love that are of questionable quality, and I certainly wouldn’t let some jerk on the internet disparage my nostalgia. But if you have no previous affection for it, and you feel compelled to do some old-school platforming, might I make some other recommendations?
Do you have a hankering for a game where you jump around a lot and shoot things? In that case, may I suggest Mega Man, a series with six entries on the NES? It has tighter controls, better level design, and far superior music than what you’ll find in Kid Icarus.
Are you in the mood for a difficult platformer that rewards you for being careful and thoughtful, that has enemies flying at you from all directions and jumps which will kill you instantly? There are three Castlevania games for the NES, at least two of which are superb. Even if you’re familiar with the original, if you haven’t tracked down and played through Dracula’s Curse, you’re really missing out.
Do you simply have to have a game that’s exceptionally brutal? You should treat yourself to Ghosts ‘n’ Goblins. You’ll be up against an onslaught of enemies that are near-unavoidable, and you’ll die after only two hits. If you’re lucky, you might even make it to the second level! In my opinion, if you’re going to have your spirit broken, you might as well have it broken by the best.
As someone who aspires to be “well played,” I’m glad that I have gone and finally spent some time trying to wrangle with Kid Icarus. But you know what? Now that this blog post is over, it’s going to go back on my shelf, and there it will probably remain. Your mileage may very, but my advice is to pass this one over for another.
Confession time: I used The Code.
Is it so surprising? The Code is carved into the very heart of Contra. Contra is the reason that most of us know The Code. If it weren’t for The Code, thousands of children would have never seen Contra‘s later levels. Even as an adult gamer with some skill and a fair amount of retro cred, I can’t make it halfway through the game without The Code.
I wanted to really feel like I understood the game before I tried to comment on it, and I didn’t feel like I could do that properly without seeing it through to the end. Hence: The Code.
Contra is such a fascinating dichotomy: brutal, unforgiving, and unbelievably fast-paced; it is a game that chews up players and spits out their tiny pixelated bodies. And yet: The Code. Contra starts you out with three lives, and you’re allowed two continues. That gives you a grand total of nine–count ’em, nine–like a cat. Good luck making it past level three! You’ll need it.
Of course, all it takes is a little up up down down left right left right B A select start and you’ve got yourself a nice deal with the metaphorical devil: Thirty lives! Thirty lives per continue! For those playing along at home, that’s ninety lives. That’s ten cats.
Ninety lives gives you plenty of wiggle room to beat the game. On my first try, without having seen levels five through eight before, I cleared it in somewhere around sixty-seven deaths. It’s still fun, and it still takes a certain modicum of skill and reflexes, but deep down inside you know you’ve used The Code and there are no bragging rights to go along with your accomplishment. You are a Contra Tourist.
Difficulty levels in games have always fascinated me, because when considering the choice of which difficulty to select you necessarily have to ask yourself what you want to get out of the game experience, like an actor calling offstage to the director: “What’s my motivation?” Are you playing primarily for the narrative? For the joy of exploration? Or are you playing for the challenge itself–for the sense of accomplishment that comes from having triumphed over a system that’s trying to kill you?
Speaking from personal experience, I almost always play games on “Normal.” Why? What’s my motivation? Well, when I ask myself what I want out of a game, I ultimately have to admit that a lot of the reason I’m playing is to have a dialogue about the experience with other players. When I talk to other gamers about having played the game, I want to make sure that my experience is in line with theirs–and I assume that most players select “Normal” because this is often the default setting. Very frequently, if I take a second trip through a game, I’ll crank the difficulty up to “Hard” in order to give myself an added challenge.
Nevertheless, this decision has implications. I’ll be honest and admit that I wasn’t all that frightened by the original Dead Space on account of playing it on Normal. (It’s still a super great game! I had fun!) I simply didn’t feel in real danger enough to be frightened (brilliant sound design and direction notwithstanding). I still enjoyed the narrative a great deal, and the exploration–it’s a very atmospheric game–and blasting Necromorphs was a hoot even if they didn’t kill me very often.
I was frankly a little bored during my first playthrough of Kingdom Hearts II because it was simply too easy on Normal. I was mostly in it for the story (yes yes, enjoy your laughs at my expense here), but the game does have a very compelling combat system that’s a great deal of fun to play–if it’s challenging enough for you.
If I’m playing the guitar in Rock Band, I get bored if it’s a difficulty lower than Expert–if I’m playing drums, I’ll fail out almost immediately if it’s on Hard. All of these choices of difficulty can legitimately affect the quality of the entertainment I’m experiencing (and the character of the entertainment as well, in the case of Dead Space).
Which brings me back to Contra. How does the enormous difficulty gap affect this game? More importantly, is this a game you should go back and play?
Ultimately, I think it is. It has a flavor unique among 8-bit games, and because of its arcade roots, it’s immediately accessible–jump, shoot, run. I think the most important thing about it, though, is that there are more than just two Contras: there is, of course, the Contra that will keep you cursing and fumbling with your pitiful mortal thumbs after the fifth time you’ve been shot in the foot and killed. There is the benevolent, forgiving Contra that grants you innumerable chances and reassures you with “There, there, it’s all right–perhaps I made the flame-spewing pipes too numerous. Give it another try.”
But in an environment with such a yawning gulf of stark contrast, there must necessarily emerge player-driven objectives and self-challenges. “Well,” perhaps you’ll say, “I’ll use The Code, but if I bring my buddy along for the ride we’ll see if we can beat the whole thing without having to continue.” “Let’s see who can get the furthest on the nine lives we’re given.” “Whoever dies first buys the beer.” That sort of thing. Could we call them “emergent objectives?” Why not? Who’s to stop us?
The common wisdom is that 8-bit games are monstrously difficult, and this truism isn’t entirely off-base. But through avenues like the Konami Code, they are more diverse than they are often given credit for. Contra is made easier by means of The Code, but it’s not at all cheapened. Rather, it’s made more interesting–the player is given more perspectives from which they can evaluate it. It’s for this reason that I think it’s worth going back and replaying. Well, this, and because shooting everything with a million bullets is somehow fundamentally satisfying. Surely that has something to do with it.
In this modern day and age, when almost everyone has a communication device with access to a global, mostly-unregulated data network, we are confronted with an existential quandary which our forebears could not have even imagined: How to ensure your phone’s ringtone matches your winning personality.
This is a humdinger, make no mistake: Leave your phone on one of the default sounds, and people might think you lack imagination. Select the incorrect pop single, and people will think you shallow. You don’t want your friends and relations to cringe every time you receive a call and Justin Beiber’s “Girl Hair Blues” plays, do you? (Full disclosure: I do not know any Justin Beiber songs.)
With that said, there is a source of simple tunage to which all gamers may turn in this time of need: the Nintendo Entertainment System. NES music is chippy and simple enough to function well as a ringtone, and by necessity the songs’ melodies usually assert themselves quite clearly in the first thirty seconds of play–perfect for using as an alert sound on your futuristic communication devices!
Here, for your consideration, are a sample of some excellent ringtone choices from the 8-bit era, with an explanation of how they might be right for you.
1. Mega Man 2 — Stage Select
Why this is a good choice: Simple, effective, and with a loop no more than a few seconds long, this tune is immediately recognizable to an old-school gamer and won’t make you inclined to let the ringtone play for thirty seconds so you can get to the good part.
What this says about you: “I’m going to check the Caller ID before I pick up to make sure I’m properly equipped for this conversation.”
2. Castlevania — Vampire Killer
Why this is a good choice: The first incarnation of a theme that appears throughout the entire Castlevania series, “Vampire Killer” is the most recognizable of the bunch and will help you to keep your cool in stressful situations.
What this says about you: “I am an unrelenting badass.”
3. The Legend of Zelda — Overworld Theme
Why this is a good choice: Hearing this music coming from your phone will remind you that there is adventure and freedom to be found in all aspects of life, even in the midst of a boring work day.
What this says about you: “I do my best work when I’m at full health.”
4. Ducktales — The Moon
Why this is a good choice: The Ducktales Moon Theme is the pinnacle of all human musical creation.
What this says about you: “You would be impressed by my extensive collection of precious gems.”
5. Ghosts ‘n’ Goblins — Stage One
Why this is a good choice: Another track whose melody is prominent right from the get-go, the main theme from Ghosts ‘n’ Goblins is packed with tension and is up-tempo while still feeling ominous. When your phone rings, you will at once be alert for spooks, spirits, and haints in your immediate vicinity.
What this says about you: “I can get the job done in my underpants.”
6. Final Fantasy — Prelude
Why this is a good choice: The Final Fantasy prelude is possibly the piece of 8-bit music best able to transport the listener to another world, and it can do so in just a few seconds with a handful of simple arpeggios. By putting this on your phone, you will make each call you receive feel magical, mysterious, and possibly even epic. Even if it’s from your Mum.
What this says about you: “I have a close-knit group of friends with whom I have gained a lot of experience.”
7. Ninja Gaiden — Basilisk Mine Field
Why this is a good choice: It’s highly likely that hearing this song coming from your phone will get you so pumped up that you will kick bystanders in the face.
What this says about you: “If I don’t take this call, it’s only because I’m too busy slicing someone in half.”
8. Dr. Mario — Fever Theme
Why this is a good choice: Despite the fact that this piece of music goes through a couple evolutions in a minute or two and you won’t get to hear all of it as a ringtone, the first thirty seconds are still enormously chippy, peppy, and happy. This is the kind of music that gets you going in the morning, like a good cup of coffee or the news that school has been canceled due to snow or chemical leak.
What this says about you: “I’m high on life, or perhaps psychoactive medications.”
9. Super Mario Bros. — Starman Theme
Why this is a good choice: Never has a tune so simple conveyed something so clearly.
What this says about you: “I am invincible.”
10. River City Ransom — Running Around the City
Why this is a good choice: This is a piece of music that clearly suggests that you are on a mission, but that you’re going to take your time getting around to it while you pummel the crap out of anyone who deigns to get in your way. A perfect ringtone for someone who spends a lot of time in malls, someone who likes to twirl a metal chain menacingly, or someone not afraid to throw their best friend’s prone body into a crowd of thugs.
What this says about you: “I am going to spend all my pocket money on a book that will teach me to spin-kick people in the face.”
My Experience So Far: I have a very odd relationship with Nintendo’s flagship series. All of them. It’s a little difficult to pin down the nature of this relationship, but generally stated, I have a tendency to play (and love) all of the oddball entries in Nintendo’s canon while ignoring the biggest, most important games in a series. Consequently, there are many stand-up classics that I have never played (and hopefully, that means I’ll get to them in the course of writing this blog).
I never owned an NES as a child. I got into gaming with a grey-brick Game Boy (and my relatives’ Atari 2600), and when I got a real honest-to-goodness home console, it was a Sega Genesis. This is probably where my awkward relationship with Nintendo originates.
So suffice to say, I had never really spent any quality time with Metroid. If I played games at the house of a friend who had an NES, it was usually a game like Super Mario Bros., in which we could take turns, or World Cup Soccer, in which we could pummel the hell out of each other while pretending to play a sport.
There’s something about Metroid which evokes solitude, and I never had that with an NES.
What makes it a classic? Samus Aran’s original outing on planet Zebes is probably best known for a couple of things: the mood it creates, with its countless subterranean corridors and eerie, machine-like ambient music; encouraging exploration as a primary play aesthetic by populating this world with approximately a hojillion secret passages; the surprising reveal at the end that you’ve been playing as a girl this whole time.
Metroid, just like The Legend of Zelda, was one of the pioneering forays into open-world gaming. You can go almost anywhere on the map right from the outset, with only a handful of areas being cordoned off until you pick up the super jump boots or the morph ball bomb. There are plenty of items that you don’t HAVE to pick up–in fact, one of my few complaints against the game is that the three best powerups–things which I would say are essential to beating Mother Brain–are locked behind secret passages. If you don’t know where to bomb/shoot, you’ll never stumble across the Varia Suit, the Wave Beam, or the iconic Screw Attack.
You can debate amongst yourselves whether this bit of level design was a Dedication to a Pure Core Aesthetic of Play or an Excuse to Sell Strategy Guides, but speaking personally as a man who has lots of games he wants to play in his adult life, I could not be bothered with it. I pulled up GameFAQs without a second thought and figured out where I needed to go to get the items I needed to fill Mother Brain full of missiles.
As a child, I would have gotten a book of graph paper and a pencil, and I would have made a map of Zebes myself, and I would have gotten immense pleasure out of the exercise.
Here’s the thing about Metroid, though–that exploration and discovery may have been the core play aesthetic when it was originally designed, but even if you subvert that by goin’ to the ol’ GameFAQs as I did, it’s still an amazing game. The platforming controls are super-tight, the difficulty curve is pitch-perfect (Castlevania caution in the early levels, Mega Man recklessness once you’ve powered up).
Metroid even feels modern, thanks to the way it handles its checkpoints: Every power-up you grab is an item you’ve earned permanently. If you die, you’re sent back to the beginning of the area you were currently in (of which there are only five), given a meager, meager amount of health, and instructed to claw your way back up to full energy tanks. But–and this is the key–you keep all your stuff. Did you just barely make it to the Ice Beam before dying? That’s cool! As long as you touched it, it’s yours forever.
Metroid is compelling because it lays one rule on the table very clearly from the outset: there is a kind of progress that the game will never take from you.
That one simple concession to the player is something that makes Metroid very easy to play as a gamer used to auto-saves and frequent, generous checkpoints. There are no “continues,” no “lives,” not really–there’s no way to get a permanent game over.
Should you go back and play Metroid if you missed it? Yes. Emphatically yes. The gameplay holds up as well as that of Zelda, Mega Man, or Castlevania, the aesthetics are still remarkably potent (alright, so the 8-bit music can’t creep you out like Dead Space can–turn off all the lights in your living room and play with the sound way up and try and feel like you’re not nine years old again), and it’s a glorious challenge worthy of any retro gamer. Pull up GameFAQs and snag a map like I did, it doesn’t matter. It won’t affect your experience much.
BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE– This, I think, is the best thing about the original Metroid: if you are the kind of person who doesn’t like to kick it old-school, if you wish the 8-bit music were just a trifle more intricate, if you can’t possibly play a Metroid game without a map in the pause menu, if you are FINICKY, geez… There is a game for you!
That’s right, in 2004, when Metroid Fever was sweeping the nation (or… not), Nintendo released Metroid: Zero Mission for the GBA. The game is essentially a retread of the original Metroid with fancy new graphics, updated mechanics (i.e., a map), and a gratuitous sequence in which you play as Zero Suit Samus. I played Zero Mission back when it first came out, and that’s part of the reason I didn’t get around to playing the original until now.
It might be a little harder to get a hold of a GBA game now than it was five years ago, and many of you probably don’t have a GBA anymore (or even a DS), but I can definitely say that Zero Mission is worth your time.
At this point, everyone with aspirations of being a Renaissance Gamer probably owns at least ONE Nintendo system. The original Metroid is available on most of them. I think that most of you will probably find it rewarding and enriching to seek this one out and give it a go.