Monthly Archives: April 2012

The Gauntlet Gift of Always-Full Health

Every gamer recognizes the healing room signal: a showdown awaits. No excuses, only battle. What if every room heals the characters? Despite their many differences, Xenoblade and Ys feature automatic health regeneration anywhere in the world, shaping their every enemy. When developers expect that a player will generally be at about 40% HP, they’re more likely to design enemies who can be defeated by characters at about 40% HP. Guess how this works when a player will generally be at 100%!

When heroes always have their full health, villains always use their full strength. Keeping players’ heroes in optimal condition is like throwing down a gauntlet: it announces that everything, everywhere, knows how to kill them and will cut loose trying.

Gameplay vs. Story: The Catch-22 of Permanent Missables

If villains didn’t destroy cities, half the universe’s game heroes would sit on their sorry bums. We’d have no Mario, no Link, and not even Cloud. He helped Tifa and company for the money at first, but even a selfish motive required bad guys to battle; no one would have paid him otherwise.

I had this topic in mind well before Xenoblade, but its leaping cornucopia of sidequests demands that I write about it sooner than later. Xenoblade pushes incentive to thwart an imminent threat and pushes freedom to devote ages to exploring an expansive world—and that means it takes on the catch-22 challenge. The greater the major story events, the tougher the justification of minor events.

If a girl asks the party to collect honeybees and afterward her town is set on fire by dragons and run over by tanks, anyone will have trouble suspending disbelief that she still cares about those honeybees, owns amazing rewards to heap into players’ hands, and holds enough altruism in her heart to dish out those treasures instead of selling them off to help the reconstruction efforts. Permanent missables can have powerful story-based reasons for existing; it requires no suspension of disbelief that this same girl’s quest could only be fulfilled before her town’s untimely demise. Conversely, an experienced player who finds no hint of sidequests in a new town will be immediately alerted that it’s a worthless and doomed location doomed; the solution is not to cut the girl from the game’s final draft.

Many players hate permanent missables and feel cheated by them. Fair enough, but the point of this blog will never be to spread negativity. We should learn from them and the designer’s dilemma: an important NPC fated to die can’t issue a sidequest without introducing permanent missables; if no important NPCs die, the story loses its sense of danger; if only nameless NPCs issue sidequests, the story risks taking on a frivolous feel; if a game has no sidequests, it becomes linear. The only question for game developers, game designers, and even players is which they consider the lesser evil. From my time with Xenoblade so far, it sides with throwing away the danger; no matter how trumped-up the threat level of the villains, there’s always time to find a missing animal or fix a broken watch. The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask had a similar feel; because Link could press an in-universe reset button, no one questioned whether he would eventually prevail.

A game without permanent missables isn’t better for being designed that way, nor is it worse; it simply chose its path and left the player to decide whether to follow.

Xenoblade 4-Hour Impressions: Twelve Things I Already Love

My first four hours with Xenoblade: exceptional. It’s been a mashup manticore of Monster Hunter, Majora’s Mask, Dragon Quest I, VIII, and IX, Ys I, and a hint of Chrono Trigger.

I’ll start with what I can’t talk about:

    The characters. By my choice, I haven’t spent more than two minutes with any of them.
    The story, for the same reason. Other than the story-opening scenes and taking my first party member back to town, which I think was mandatory, I haven’t met the goals to see a single cutscene.
    Item creation, again for the same reason. The machine that creates orbs to slot into my equipment teases me by being broken and I don’t believe I can do anything yet with materials gathered from killing monsters. I assume I’ll eventually run into in-depth item synthesis.
    The battle system. Since I only have one character right now, I don’t consider it fair to judge. The power of various Arts depends on the hero’s positioning behind or to the side of enemies, but with no other characters around to distract monsters, I’ve only faced them head-on except for a single strike from behind to initiate the battle.

Even without those factors, I’ve already found at least twelve things to love to death.

See that door there? You don't? That door on the house right there? What do you mean you don't see a house? Well, anyway, the house has a door and Xenoblade's main character, Shulk, would be a little smaller than that door if shown here. Even so, I've covered nearly every inch of sea, shore, and slope in this landscape and quite a bit outside of the shot... And I've only just gotten started!
Explore it all. Every last step on land and every last kick of the legs at sea.

    1. The greatest fantasy game environment I’ve ever had the honor to play. Every hour I’ve spent with Xenoblade Chronicles has only been in the starting area around Colony 9 and even though I’ve only been slaughtering small-scale monsters like rabbits, mosquitoes, flamingos, and armadillo-cows, the seamless world around them is as awe-inspiring as any area of Dragon Quest VIII, which featured possibly the most impressive overworld in gaming until now. Every piece of land clicks; every untraveled pathway invites. Ever heard people say that they believe in a creator because nature has such a majestic quality that they can’t believe it came about by chance? I don’t find it logically convincing regardless of my personal belief, but I perfectly understand how it can be emotionally convincing.
    2. Ubiquitous instant warp points. For two and a half hours, I didn’t realize that every Landmark—a point where a fallen Shulk will respawn—was also an area that I could warp to in about three seconds at any moment I pleased. When I found out what I’d missed, I didn’t curse myself for my ignorance; I had no reason to. Every minute to and fro on foot had shown me a new path to travel, opened item collection possibilities I didn’t imagine, and wowed me with gorgeous scenery. Even so, the freedom of open teleportation across a supersized landscape doesn’t settle for boggling the mind; it expands the mind. True freedom unfurls the welcoming carpet of potential—not a red carpet, but white, an empty canvas across which the brush of the pioneer spirit cannot help but sweep, for the heart cannot long tolerate it to remain blank and must begin its strokes, each more thickly layering on a paint crafted from the liquid mix of dreams, ideals, and the soul.

Ten more lovable things after the jump. Is each one better than the last? You'll have to find out, won't you? Aren't you curious?

Spell Scalability (or, Utilitarianism in an RPG Setting)

No player wonders “Fire or Fire 2?”
Every player wonders “Flamethrower or Fire Blast?”

Of the three biggest RPG series—Pokémon, Final Fantasy, and Dragon Quest—only one has consistently delivered gameplay that brings compelling decision-making into play. Choosing to teach a Pokémon Surf or Hydro Pump reveals whether players place more value on accuracy and extra uses or power; choosing Heal or Healmore/Midheal reveals whether players know math. In Pokémon, only the earliest attacks become moot; the rest compete for one of four move slots. Each attack has its own niche advantage of power, accuracy, priority, status effects, or other quirks.

One positive to the streamlined spells of FF and DQ is the immediate clarity of progress; even if the names don’t make obvious which is superior, as in Blizzara and Blizzaga, the levels at which they’re learned will. However, most attack and healing spells eventually become wasted space that players scroll through and never use. Out with the old.

Secret of Mana is an early RPG that shows there’s nothing wrong with simplicity; in fact, maybe it needs to go one step further. These heroes bring their weapons to Watts the blacksmith to level them up through a reforging process that unlocks more of their inherent power. Spells grow stronger with usage, so they never fall out of favor; since no one would cast Freeze Lv. 1 if Freeze Lv. 4 was available, the SoM designers keep one core spell in the same menu position and progressively boost its power. Both of these techniques are straightforward upgrades that phase out weaker firepower as necessary, pushing it out of sight and mind to keep everything compact and useful.

On the other side is the Shining Force series, which keeps different levels of spells but asks the player to decide the appropriate strength depending on the situation. Magic does fixed amounts of damage depending on the spell, enemy HP is visible, MP costs are high, and the spells vary in their range and area of effect. A weakened skeleton with 4 HP can be safely dispatched with Blaze level 1 to retain an optimal amount of MP; a distant gang of adjacent gargoyles at full health should eat the brunt of Blaze level 3, which deals more damage and hits a cross-shaped area. Spread-out gargoyles call for Bolt 3, which hits the largest possible area; a boss calls for Bolt 4, which deals far more damage but only targets a single space.

The ideal no-dead-weight RPG either retains the value of every spell and ability from beginning to end or replaces the spells and abilities that lose their worth. I find that more recent RPGs than not get this right, but I’d like to be able to say that all of them do. This is an elementary concept in game design—an extremely crucial one at that, and every developer needs to consider it. It applies outside of RPGs as well. The silenced PP7 gun in GoldenEye 007 was weak and non-automatic, but it didn’t alert enemies to James Bond’s presence; in a time when first-person shooters usually followed the mold of Doom, where strongest equals best, the advantages of a handgun established that GoldenEye was no clone.

Writers know of a saying to “Murder your darlings”: a saying that implores them to kill their babies, which are their words. Game designers should hear about this principle too. If a weapon, spell, or ability doesn’t stack up to par—or a dungeon, or a level, or a race track, or a mission, or a piece of music, or a 2D sprite, or a 3D model—then cut it and cut it with no concern over how painfully and at what great length you labored to deliver it. Players don’t fall in love with game designers who give them a bronze medal effort. Cut slipshod work until everything in your game is gold—and then keep cutting. Gold is not enough. Neither is platinum. Cut until all that remains is a single flawless diamond.

May the Fear Be With You

Your average gamer doesn’t break a sweat upon seeing a Balrog in Moria; we’ve been slaying giants for so long that it might as well be a rabid bunny. There’s no sense of fear—not from appearance alone. Titles don’t convey power either; Dragon Quest VI features Mortamor, the King of Demons, but who shudders at his name without personally battling him? No one. Your average gamer hears “King of Demons” and says “Oh, please.” DQVI and Dragon Quest IX themselves make sure that he’s no big deal by introducing a bigger and badder dude who mocks the poor sap. Direct quote from DQIX describing one of the bonus bosses:

“Brutal bad-dream demon from another dimension. So strong that he makes Mortamor seem more like Snoretamore!”

Hey Dialga, can you work on your time control? You keep getting hit by the other trainer's attacks and it sure seems like Rayquaza and Lugia and Mewtwo and Mew and Latias and all kinds of other legendaries are faster than you. I'm almost starting to think the time control thing is the real legend here. Palkia can control space, but can it see why kids love Cinnamon Toast Crunch? Also, does this mean that it can shrink itself so that the living space inside a Poké Ball becomes gigantic relative to the Pokémon? That was a problem for the Genie in Aladdin, you know! You have to think about these kinds of things.
Dialga and Palkia may be capable of destroying the world, but breaking out of a tiny ball is a tough order.

After killing Death a dozen times in Castlevania and enslaving creatures who control time and space in Pokémon, we’re all Gimli from DM of the Rings. We see an elder dragon the size of a whale and our first thought isn’t “AAAHHH!!!” It’s more like “you’re going down” or “huh, pretty cool-looking dragon” or “I’ve seen better.” Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

So after I came back as a megastar who saved the village from the ultimate threat like the superhero I am, the first reporter who interviewed me asked what was going through my mind when I first saw the Ceadeus. Was I marveling that his teeth were taller than me, she asked, or was I worried about drowning before I could slice him up, she asked, or was I terrified of being crushed by the water pressure, she asked. No no no! Not at all! I was thinking that with the lack of underwater lighting and the way my photographer suddenly swam off to a distance, I couldn't properly show off my adorable new sandals. The girl from the guild 'recommended' them just before I left--well, I mean, I happened to see her wearing the cutest shoes and had to buy a pair for myself. You know how it goes. Or maybe you don't. I'm always on the lookout for new clothing to accentuate myself because I am, of course, the best picture of beauty on this planet. My legs are to kill for. My shoulders? Sublime. My eyes are amazing and my form--just divine! My arms are toned and impressive; my hands are pure grace. My hair is finer than silk, the only touch worthy of my face. But even with the quintessence of cute right before him and even with his camera zoomed in all the way, my photographer wouldn't come close enough to get the right shots. It just ruined every photo op. This was the best picture we got, which is kind of sad, and--oh, what's that? The Ceadeus? Oh, him. He was a pushover for me. You should know by now! I'm unstoppable. Simply unstoppable. Now, let me tell you about the most perfectly photogenic, spectacularly stylish sword and shield I've ever seen...

A monster hunter takes a dive in her best swimsuit only to swim across the Ceadeus. Not pictured: shortly afterward, she shrugged and continued enjoying her tropical vacation.

A monster can be memorable simply for its size, but imposing fear on players requires substance. Just like movies, stories, and plays teach the audience what to expect as they go along—a comedy usually opens with humor and makes minimal use of dramatic moments; a drama does the opposite—the challenge in a game directs players’ expectations. A monster’s real fear factor is rooted in gameplay.

You're brave enough to keep reading. I can see it in your eyes.