RPG – Parry Everything

Paper Mario and Elegant Design

You’ve heard it before. I’ve said it, she’s said it, we’ve all said it – those of us who’ve played it anyway. Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door is the best Paper Mario game. The best Mario RPG in general, in my humble opinion. That’s pretty astounding for a series that’s been going on for more than two decades. Sure, plenty of people still mark games like Final Fantasy VII and The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time as the best of their respective series, but there have been many more contenders for both since then. Some from as recently as now, more or less (Time of writing: 2023). My point is, rare has a single entry in a series as The Thousand Year Door been so universally beloved, over and above its peers.

I think there’s a lot of reasons. The Thousand Year Door offers a rare interpretation of the bizarre Mario universe in a more grounded and holistic way, with a narrative bent. It introduces new, named characters and puts iconic Mario characters in novel and interesting situations. The world and narrative design went out of its way to be weird, surprising, and gripping in ways the more straightforward Mario games prefer to be safe, familiar, and general-purpose. But that’s not what we’re here to talk about today. Paper Mario: The Thousand Years Door is not only funnier, more dramatic, and more rich with character than every Paper Mario that came after it, it also plays better than every Paper Mario that came after it. The Thousand Year Door has some of the most elegant systems I’ve seen in a video game.

I could ramble for hours about how great Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door, is but as you’ve no doubt seen many others do so elsewhere, so I will spare you. The focus here is going to be on the gameplay and systems that make the first two entries of Paper Mario so great, even isolated from all other elements. These systems which, in subsequent entries preceding The Thousand Year Door’s 2024 remake like Color Splash, and Origami King, were altered in specific and fascinating ways that had a profound effect on the gameplay of those games.

A ghost in a party hat sits on a recliner next to a fridge. He complains in text "What are you doing, interrupting my 'ME' time?"

Oh shoot, wrong image. This is a picture of me remembering I have to write this blog post. How’d that get in there?

Elegance In Design

So what do I mean by elegant? To me, elegance is all about approachability, and applicability. To create an elegant system, you need an interface that is welcoming, intuitive, and easy to understand, which interacts with each game system in ways such to produce an engaging experience. A sentence, to me, elegant design means systems which find depth in simplicity. Simplicity. This is, paradoxically, a rather difficult thing to achieve – systems that appear simplistic yet offer a lot of depth.

The first Paper Mario for the Nintendo 64 tackled this problem by stripping down the turn-based RPG genre to its barest essentials, which I think is often a good step to take when trying to really take stock of the high-level, fundamental building blocks of your game. What about turn-based, party-based RPGs is fun or engaging on a ludic level? The turn part of that formula allows for infinite time to consider decisions. So, high-level, low-stress decision making. Overcoming stronger opponents by utilizing party members’ unique abilities in combination, feeling clever. Customizing character loadout for unique abilities to reflect individual playstyles. Collecting rewards when defeating strong enemies, to become stronger.

The game goes through each of these, one by one, and strips them down. Decision making is straightforward and boiled down to immediately obvious causes and effects. More on that later. What’s the minimum needed to accomplish skill combination with multiple player characters? Only two, so Paper Mario only has two active player characters at a time. Any more would add complexity. Character loadouts are represented by the badge system – a very simple point-buy system that allows unique abilities to be chosen, but these choices are non-binding and instantly reversible. The RPG convention of experience points is included, but XP totals never exceed 99, and each level up in Paper Mario reduces the traditionally dense cascade of numbers many other RPG level ups have to just one single bonus, chosen by the player from a suite of only three options.

Crucially, however, these simplifications take nothing away from the way their systems interact with one another. Leveling up still incentivizes battling. The limited choices in character progression still affect your strategy going forward. The wrinkle of the action command mechanic – real time inputs that enhance combat abilities – adds a natural point of divergence for different players. Those less skilled in the commands will find battles taking longer, and therefore will benefit more from having a greater health pool, etc. The mechanics which are simplified, still interact with each other in meaningful and impactful ways, experientially.

A grid of orange, blue, and yellow badges are arrayed on a menu. There is a green caterpillar at the top left of the screen. At center-top, a description reads "Action Badge. Floating High Jump. Jump higher than usual and momentarily float." A red cursor highlights one of the badges.

The badge system was *so* successful, they basically copied the premise for the newest mainline Mario game!

I think it would be helpful to contrast this with a newer Paper Mario game like The Origami King. The boss battles in that game employ a special, proprietary set of game rules (presumably because it was realized that the depthless turn-based combat borrowed from its predecessor Sticker Star could not support an interesting boss fight on their own. cough). The rules are as follows. The boss enemy sits at the center of the play space, which is divided into three rings circling the boss. Each ring in turn is divided into a number of spaces. These spaces can be empty, have a movement arrow facing one of four directions, or have some other action-triggering item. On the player’s turn, they are given a limited amount of time to select the angle at which mario will approach this play space. They can also rotate each of the individual rings to line up the spaces as desired. He enters the outer ring, then travels until he hits a movement arrow, then changes direction. If he hits a contextual or action space, he executes the associated trigger. The goal is to reach the boss enemy at the correct angle to hit their weak spot. However, the boss can also affect the rings, “pushing” them outward, causing each inner ring to become the subsequent outer ring, and creating a new innermost ring.

Now that sounds like a lot of information, and it is, not just intellectually but visually. The game boards for these Origami King boss battles are very noisy to look at. So the set up is like a turn-based RPG, but there are no interesting decisions to be made. The game has a very clear optimal solution which it is funneling you toward. To obfuscate this, Mario’s turn during this boss battles is on a timer, creating an artificial sense of tension, because the decision making of the gameplay has none. There is no substantive way to employ risk for greater reward, nor complex goal to accomplish. The systems at play appear very complex, but the goal is quite simple. The opposite of The Thousand Years Door, in which the player is presented with very simple tools to accomplish a relatively complex goal – defeating enemies with their own suite of tools that you must act and react upon accordingly.

Mario stands on the center of a series of concentric circles, surrounded by origami crabs.

The Thousand Year Door makes something incredibly large from very few, very small parts. Origami King makes something incredibly small from many parts.

Decision Anti-Paralysis

This is a fairly well known phenomenon, so I’ll give the quick version. When presented with too many choices, even if all choices are compelling – perhaps especially so in that case – it actually becomes more difficult to make a choice. What constitutes “too many” choices is highly subject to the individual decision maker and the greater context in which the decision is made, but the phenomenon has an observable effect on how people engage with games. RPGs that drown the player in too many options for play or character customization can easily drive people away, or dissuade them from engaging with the nuances of the RPG systems entirely.

But I think in a strange way, the opposite is also true. If given a selection of options, but a very limited selection of options, each possible choice can feel much more significant, and therefore confer a greater feeling of power and control to you, the player. There is a balance of course. If choices are too limited the player doesn’t feel the freedom of expression inherent to compelling decision making. They feel dragged along, dissatisfied. The three level up choices of Paper Mario represent a good, strong selection of paths to choose for the respective context. Health for durability, staying power, and a safety net. Flower power for those who wish to make liberal use of powerful special abilities. Badge power for those who desire a greater pool of more varied strategic options to choose from.

In The Thousand Year Door Mario, at the outset, only has two attacks – hammer and jump. Even fewer in the first Paper Mario. The two attacks do two very significantly different things. The jump can damage any enemy Mario can touch from above. It can deal two instances of 1 damage. The hammer can damage any enemy on the ground that Mario can reach by walking, and deals a single instance of 2 damage. These very simple rules make every choice feel pivotal. It’s not a question of dealing fire damage vs. ice damage as in the case in many RPGs, it’s a question as to whether your attack will be effective at all, and as the player gains knowledge of how the game works, that knowledge becomes a skill in knowing when and how to deploy their limited choices.

The Value of Low Numbers

Paper Mario prioritizes being intuitive and readable for players of all ages. A lot of RPGs involve a lot of math. Paper Mario isn’t interested in that. Again, we ask the question – what is the bare minimum level of complexity necessary to make an RPG system functional? Do you need to be able to deal 9999 damage? Do we need four digits to account for meaningful measurements of battle power? Super Mario Bros. only had eight worlds, and 64 levels, to make a comparison. That is the number of significant demarcations of difficulty. So maybe an RPG only needs two digits to represent damage? For most of Paper Mario only one digit is needed!

Does the difference between 4882 damage and 5121 damage really matter all that much? Think about it, I mean really think about it. If an enemy has 26000 health, how many times do you have to hit it with one of those four digit numbers to defeat it? The answer is six. Six for both, actually. The ~300 damage between the two is totally irrelevant. White noise. It is actually very unlikely that an enemy has *exactly* enough health to make such a small difference matter. And even then, the difference is only one turn. These number values might as well be 5 damage, and 26 health. Now those stats resemble a Paper Mario enemy, come to think of it.

Several windows indicating character status are displayed, with a lot of 5 or 6 digit numbers. The closeup face of a knight cuts in center-screen, then the camera pulls back as this knight strikes some monsters several times with a sword. Each strike showers the screen in incomprehensibly large and frequent number values.

I could not possibly tell you what on earth is even happening here.

Following a pattern here, although there is a narrower scope to the information density, that can actually be an advantage. Low numbers accomplish two major things. One: the line of causation between player decisions and outcome are clear. When you succeed at an Action Command in Paper Mario, you deal two damage. When you do not, you only deal one damage. In games with higher numbers, the numbers will naturally change more gradually, and constantly, and thus players will not be able to immediately recall what is and is not ‘a lot’ or ‘a little’. This allows players, with minimal investment on their part, to make meaningful decisions that have an immediate, tangible, visible effect.

Of course, it’s not as if smaller numbers are universally better. Larger values offer more granularity, and specificity. There’s more resolution to store information in the integer 1000 than in the integer 10, but practicality isn’t the only consideration here. There’s also just an undeniable appeal to big numbers on their own. Something in our lizard brain loves to see those values biggify. Sometimes reigning in that instinct toward preposterous numeric exaggeration is worth considering, though.

Mario stands on the center of a series of concentric circles, with four origami shy guys standing before him. An origami fairy next to Mario says "And they're lined up perfectly, so your attack power went up by 1.5X! I'll, uh, let you do that math."

Ahh, yes, every young Mario fan’s favorite leisure time activity: math.

Depth And Intuition

Paper Mario in its original incarnations took a step back and looked at what made up a satisfying progression system in an RPG. What are the barest essentials? Experience points, earned when defeating enemies and stored up by the player, represent progress towards leveling up and getting stronger. In Paper Mario star points take this role. They are likewise earned after battle, but rather than the traditional system in which XP requirements for each level becomes greater and greater to accommodate the leveling curve, a level up in Paper Mario always requires only 100 star points, at acquisition thereof, the player is returned to a count of 0 star points, and works toward earning their next level. This does not negatively impact pacing or the level curve however, as star point yield from defeated enemies scales with the player’s level. The weaker an enemy is in comparison to Mario, the fewer star points he will get. By hiding the mechanism of the leveling curve like this, Paper Mario removes an inherent mental calculus, easing the player’s mental tax, so they can focus on more central aspects of the game. Hiding information like this can be just as impactful as taking it away. RPGs at the time soon started to realize this fact as more and more RPG level progress is being represent as visual indicators like bars that fill up, rather than just overlarge numbers. The immediacy of being able to see one’s progress simply has an undeniable benefit.

And yet, leveling up in Paper Mario is no less satisfying nor compelling for this simplification. This is an example of simplifying without removing core appeal.

Intuition is a key target for those wishing to make games that feel simple to play. Common sense is not common, and appealing to a general or even niche demographic’s natural tendencies is hard. I think it’s one of the most important duties of a designer though: anticipating what your players are thinking. But it is essential that you do – when a game is intuitive, the more naturally play comes. The less you have to explain in detail of your game systems through exposition to the target audience, the better off you are.

Mario stands on the center of a series of concentric circles, surrounded by origami goombas with wings. A text pop up at center-screen reads "Line them up!"

Uh… Yeah, kind of the opposite of this.

In Paper Mario, jump attacks are for the air, and hammer attacks are for the ground. However, jump attacks can be used on grounded enemies, many of which react to jumps specifically. Hammer attacks can only hit the nearest grounded enemy. But that also means… Mario can just run underneath flying enemies to reach grounded ones on the backline. Enemies attached to the ceiling aren’t grounded… so a hammer won’t reach them, but there’s no space above, so you can’t jump onto them. However, several of Mario’s partners have projectiles or other attacks that approach from the side. Mario himself can learn a quake move that shakes even the ceiling! All this is obvious to anyone observing, these rules do not assert themselves in big text-heavy tutorials. Combat in Paper Mario is complicated… but it isn’t. It’s all intuitive. Many of its rules speak for themselves. Don’t jump on spiked enemies. Don’t hit exploding enemies with a hammer. Do jump on koopas to flip them over. Use the hammer on more defensive foes. Use the jump to bypass enemies to those on the backline. You can tell just by looking.

The Complexities of Simplicity

On a stage with an audience, Mario runs up to a fuzzy creature with crazy eyes, and slams it with a wooden mallet.

Now, a game that is elegant is deep yet simple on the player’s end. It doesn’t mean making such systems work harmoniously is a simple task. An enormous amount of thought was clearly put into Paper Mario. The key is the way in which different systems interact with one another, which takes a great amount of planning. Badge points drive the player’s acquisition of unique abilities, which drives their expenditure of flower points, which drives their ability to get through battles without taking damage, which drives their desire to increase their health points, which drives their desire to obtain star points to level up, which drives their desire to battle enemies, for example. In Paper Mario: Sticker Star, a caustic pattern is established wherein rewards for battle are simply not worth the time and effort (because the combat in that game is boring, you see.) Instantly any inter-system cooperation is cut off, and does not matter to the player. They are no longer compelled to do battle and engage with your combat system, so they simply won’t.

Speaking of making combat engaging and intuitive, I want to comment on the extensive care put into the action commands of Paper Mario. Almost without exception, each of the Action Commands in The Thousand Year door are meant to be abstractions of the actual diagetic action the commanded character is executing. For example, Mario is easy to break down: When Mario uses his basic jump attack, he kicks off of his target with a single, precision strike at just the right moment to get a second jump up successful Action Command. Appropriately, this jump Action Command is a single, precision, well-timed press of the ‘A’ button, or the button already associated with jumping. When using a hammer attack in The Thousand Year Door, the command is a little different. The player must pull the control stick away from the target while Mario is building power, then let it go. This mirrors the motion of applying pressure to pull back a heavy hammer, and then letting its weight carry you into a full overhead swing. Every action command in the game follows a sort of logic like this, but I want to mention one more. One of Mario’s allies is a koopa who attacks by withdrawing into his shell, and spinning up to launch himself at opponents. The action command is to press A, not just as he hits an enemy, but as a constantly scrolling marker overlaps a target point on a bar. Why does it take this form? It represents the spinning! Your PoV is the koopa spinning in his shell, trying to align his target. So clever.

Princess Peach stands in a computer room full of terminals, screens, and readouts. She says in text "Uh... OK then. Good night." with a nonplussed expression, the leaves.

Yes, The Thousand Year Door Is Actually That Good-

-and you should play it when the remake comes out. Seriously though, the purpose of this post is not to convinced anyone of how great The Thousand Year Door Is. I actually approached this from the assumption that the game is indeed effective at fulfilling its design goals, and I wanted to make the case for my observation of how that was accomplished. The genius of the first two Paper Mario games was in how they opened up an extremely storied and nuanced genre for young people. I basically learned to read by playing Paper Mario. It was formative for me, and it practically built the foundation of my understanding of how elegance and intuition in gameplay mechanics worked. I’ve revisited it many, many times and learned a little something about design every time I go back to it. I hope I’ve been able to impart some of that to you.

Mario, flanked by a goomba with glasses and a goomba with a ponytail and pit helmet stand before an ornate, ancient door. Mario holds a map aloft, which glows with magic.

It HURTS to be this good!

Baldur’s Gate 3 and Motivation: Why You Can’t Stop Playing Baldur’s Gate

You know it, I know it. I’ve spoken to strangers on the street in the past few weeks who know it. Baldur’s Gate 3 is on fire in the twilight of summer of 2023. The game has been extensively praised for its AAA quality that does not include any (as of this writing) in-game purchases or microtransactions, things which in their respective games, tend to replace motivating factors or worse, leverage motivating factors away from player enjoyment to encourage spending. I find it the height of irony, and extremely hilarious, that even given all of the breath, incalculable dollars’ worth of research, and man hours devoted to trying to make the perpetually playable game, to become the perpetually profitable game vis a vis microtransactions, Baldur’s Gate 3 has manage to break records of concurrent players and shatter sales expectations simply by being competently designed, with a respect for the established fundamentals of how game design manages player motivation. How about that.

A zoom in on the eyes on a monstrous, tentacled face, looking panicked. The next shot is from their perspective, seen through the windshield of a vehicle, falling through the air, about to crash into the side of a mountain.

Footage of me about to crash into yet another hundred-hour long RPG I don’t have time to play.

And speaking of motivation, it got me thinking about the game’s balance of intrinsic and extrinsic motivators. If you’ve studied game design for any amount of time, you may have run into these terms ‘intrinsic and extrinsic motivation’. I was particularly interested in how Baldur’s Gate 3 leveraged the concepts in concert with one another, and what specific gameplay aspects map to which form of motivation. The game has made some headlines for its huge numbers of concurrent players on PC – breaking the all time top charts. Clearly something is motivating players to keep coming back, and often, to the point of being notable even in comparison to other games.

Intrinsic and Extrinsic Motivation

So what are our vocab words for the day? Each are a form of motivations that encourages people to do stuff. Extrinsic means motivated by a consequence that exists outside of the action you are being motivated to do. In game design terms, this usually means rewards. Points, gold, gear, are all extrinsic motivators. They give a reason to adventure into the frontier and fight monsters, as opposed to intrinsic motivations – in which the promise of adventuring and fighting monsters is the only motivation you need. An intrinsic motivator is an action which is itself compelling. You might run on a treadmill just to work up a sweat, but you might play a sport just because you enjoy the sport. Both actions lead to a similar result, but in the former case you’re motivated by the result – the reward of the health benefits -, and in the latter case you’re motivated by the act itself.

This applied to Baldur’s Gate in a lot of pretty obvious ways. The game dolls out fairly regular rewards for exploration, dialogue choices, monster fighting, and general adventuring. You clear out a cave of gnolls, you get a cool magic pendant. This makes you stronger, which makes you better at fighting monsters, which you are now more motivated to fight because you can find more magic treasure. Do this enough, and you level up, earning more tools to play with, yet another reward. And so on, forming a feedback loop. But then, why is it that you consider those new tools a reward? The promise of enhanced power could mean faster extrinsic rewards, but it’s also likely you simply relish the idea of getting to use new spells are abilities. That’s intrinsic motivation at work. If you enjoy the strategy and planning involved in a combat encounter, you’re intrinsically motivated.

The Reward In The Labyrinth

A quintessential example of extrinsic motivation is the rat in a maze. If you put a rat in a maze where it can smell cheese hidden in the center, it will follow the scent to the treat, solving the maze. Why does it do this? What’s motivating it? Obviously, it is the promise of reward. It thinks of nothing but that reward in the labyrinth at the center. A game, especially a linear narratively driven one like Baldur’s Gate can be thought of as a labyrinth. It’s a designer’s job to lead player’s willingly through the labyrinth, and so extrinsic rewards are some of the most powerful tools in accomplishing this. What Baldur’s Gate 3 uses as its rewards system is not unique to it, but the results are leading to praise and critical reception the likes of which a western AAA RPG of this type hasn’t seen in a long time, so it’s worth examining. The player is given two major things regularly over the course of regular gameplay, which I would consider rewards – player power, in the form of gold, magic items, and experience points… as well as interactions with, and revelations about the player-controlled characters which make up their party of adventurers.

A rat, straddling a piece of hempen rope says "Follow me. But be ready for anything."

I am not ready for anything.

In other words, Baldur’s Gate uses its characters as a primary source of extrinsic motivation. You improve their attitude toward you enough, you find interesting encounters out in the world that the characters have things to say about, you progress the main narrative along its course, you are rewarded with more interactions with your party. This only works, of course, because the characters in Baldur’s Gate 3 are written so damn well, and are so compelling. A fair number of games have boring characters, to be frank. A fair number of games have boring characters that talk, a lot. Unless your player wants to get to know your characters, and hang out with them, the threat of more content involving interactions with them will not be very enticing.

Now, I’ve got a lot of opinions on the subject, but this isn’t a writing tips blog, so I’ll try to be pretty succinct, broad, and clinical about this. What makes the characters in Baldur’s Gate 3 work so well for people? Or at least, what do they have in common that’s making everyone want to smooch them, making fan art of them, and play hundreds of hours of a deeply involved role playing game to get to know them better. One obvious key, they all share, is an interesting hook. There’s a weird little fact about each of them that instantly draws you in. The hook is the promise of something interesting that could happen – the seeds of intrigue being planted in your audience’s head. It’s something that raises questions and teases answers. Literally every party member, and many NPCs, in Baldur’s Gate 3 share this quality.

Shadowheart’s hook is – well, it’s already there, isn’t it? Why is this young woman named Shadowheart. That’s a little strange, isn’t it? Does she come from some obscure culture that names people as such? Is it a religious thing? She is a cleric, after all. Maybe it’s just a title. These kinds of questions keep your player guessing, and motivate them extrinsically to want to progress their relationship with these characters until the interactions themselves become enjoyable, and the practice becomes intrinsically motivating. Then you’ve got them. We got all that from dear Shadowheart, and she hasn’t said a word of dialogue. All that before we even discover she worships a dark goddess of pain, in contrast to her very amicable and friendly demeanor. More questions. Another hook. Then we learn she had her memories willingly wiped. Then we discover she is afraid of wolves. Etc. All the Baldur’s Gate characters have a lot of these little secrets about them that get hinted at gradually as the game progresses, and many of which are inter-related. Before you learn about Astarion’s personal problems, he tries to make nice after holding you at knifepoint. Before you learn about Karlach’s heart condition, you learn she fought against her will in a blood war in hell.

A raven-haired woman with pointy ears in intricately decorated chainmail speaks casually to someone just off-screen. Onl the listener's shoulder can be a seen. There are cobblestone walls in the background.

I would die for you.

Again, without going too much into the nuances of to write compelling characters, a topic way beyond the scope of this blog post, I will say that this cast all have consistently engaging presence. This is something I notice in a lot of media that loses my interest. You can have the ‘deepest’ most ‘complex’ characters in the history of literature, but if A: Their depth is not conveyed (with those hooks, and subsequent payoffs) or if, more importantly in my opinion, B: They are not compelling to spend time with, your characters are not going to move people. Characters are more than just the hooks and the big reveals and the huge dramatic shifts and the larger-than-life inner turmoils. Think about your friends, your family. The people you love. Most of the time, assuming a healthy relationship, you’re not spending most of your time with people in high-intensity emotionally fraught confrontations. Most human interaction is just… shitting around.

An elf with red eyes and white hair speaks in a sultry manner into the camera. Beneath his lips, sharp fangs can be briefly seen.

You are a consummate loser, but you’re my consummate loser.

Baldur’s Gate 3 characters are excellent at shitting around. Astarion’s over-the-top, campy, cynical melodrama is fun, and funny. Shadowheart’s deadpan earnestness is charming and sweet. Karlach’s puppy-like sense of wonder with the world around her and irrepressible optimism is a delightful contrast to her menacing appearance and horrifyingly tragic backstory. Gale’s flighty, overly poetic, and know-it-all manner of speech makes him dorky and affable. All this, of course, bolstered by stellar acting performances. These people are just a good time to be around. It doesn’t feel like wasted time listening to them talk. This is all compelling, entirely aside from any deeper emotional complexity. Mere exposure to them is compelling. The fact that you might like these people, is what makes emotional complexity and the answers to those hooks from earlier mean something. It’s what makes them captivating and moving and effecting. People carry on through massive, hundred-hour-long RPG experiences like Persona or Dragon Age or Final Fantasy or Xenoblade or Baldur’s Gate not just for the carrot on the end of a stick. The interactions with the characters must themselves become an end, not just a means.

A pale elf with white hair looks longingly into the eyes of a cave bear, who returns him a tender expression. It appears as though they are about to copulate. In the corner, a live studio audience is seen celebrating.

Although it’s not a bad idea to keep ample rewards mixed in…

Learning more about these characters is the reward at the center of the labyrinth, but in the process, your player learns to love the process. Players no longer will play the game just to discover their party’s dark secrets, but to hang out with the party. That will keep a player moving through however much content you have to offer them – as the content itself becomes the goal, not just the rewards it can unlock. This, I think, is the secret spice to Baldur’s Gate 3‘s success. How this applies to its characters is a foundational pillar to its game’s design, but this philosophy also finds its way into all aspects of the design.

Combat As Player Expression

On another note about combat being intrinsically motivating. A major part of this Role Playing Game, based on a popular tabletop Role Playing Game, is the role playing. Now, not everyone engages with these systems, but I find it very clever how Larian utilized roleplay as a form of gameplay through its mechanics. If you have bought in to the world of Baldur’s Gate, then you may see the fun in entirely embodying your player character through their actions, dialogue responses, and fighting style. Maybe your character doesn’t kill. Maybe they kill everyone and push people off of cliffs at any given opportunity.

From a birds-eye view, an adventurer is seen shoving a scythe-clawed avian monster off of a giant mushroom, far into a chasm below.

More designers would do well not to underestimate the unfiltered joy of pushing things off of cliffs.

Combat and dialogue in this game is full of intentionally placed opportunities for various decisions with various results. Some players may encounter very clever strategies for defeating tough enemies, where as other players may not fight those enemies at all. Through this clever planning, Larian has made way for roleplaying to be an intrinsic motivator. If you are bought in to roleplay, then when combat and dialogue presents ample opportunities to engage in it, combat and dialogue becomes a lot more engaging.

Bringing it back, this highlights an important aspect of combat in games I feel is often overlooked. High-intensity gameplay like combat can be a source of player expression, as much as it is a challenge of skill. When a player chooses to be a mage instead of a warrior, or on a more micro level, when a player chooses to throw a punch instead of a kick, they are putting a bit of themself into the game. Any veteran player in competitive games will tell you that people develop playstyles – comfortable patterns reflective of their personality. This is true of single player games too. It’s satisfying to see a bit of your creativity pay off in a functional system! So even where roleplay is not directly involved, it’s important to consider a wide variety of viable player choices for solving gameplay challenges, as the creativity and personal expression that affords is also intrinsically motivating.

Player Expression As Player Expression

But combat is not the only way to encourage this behavior! Players are known for doing things ‘just to see what happens’. Getting to see what happens is the extrinsic motivator. Embodying the role of the character as the player conceives and perceives them, is intrinsically motivating – roleplay is a method of play that is done entirely for its own sake, for the joy of embodying a fantasy role. So to Baldur’s Gate 3‘s credit, it opens a lot of avenues to a lot of potential character archetypes. Unique dialogues related to what class, race, and background the player’s character is, kindly or cruel dialogue responses, branching story decisions. That’s all great for this, but it’s also all set dressing. What really impresses me is the avenues available for navigating the world that reflect back on the player character. In the early game even.

For example, there’s a goblin camp. You can run in swords and spells blazing, and fight them all. It’s tough, but doable. OR, if you’re a druid or otherwise have access to the talk to animals spell, you can sneak into their camp and convince their domestic spiders that their goblin masters are good eating, and get some help in the fight. OR, if you talked to some mercenary ogres the goblin leaders hired, you can give them a better offer, and get their help in the fight. OR, you can bypass fighting entirely – team up with the goblin leader and earn her trust. OR, ingratiate yourself with the goblins just long enough to find a storehouse full of explosives, and raze the place to the ground. And that’s just a handful of all the options available. That’s not even to get into all the little micro-decisions baked throughout the goblin camp which greatly vary the experience, and constantly get the player asking what sort of character they are playing. It’s quite impressive, I’ve seen the game turn people who are not super seriously into tabletop-type games, into out-and-out roleplayers.

Four characters from Baldur's Gate 3 are show in four panels. From left to right: Shadowheart, a dark-haired cleric woman in intricate armor. Her expression is blank. Astarion, a white-haired, pale-skinned elf with red eyes and a nobleman's coat. He is smirking, amused. Wyl, a dark-skinned man with cornrow hair and a false eye. His expression is disproving. La'zel, a green-skinned woman with a froggish appearance and facial warpaint. She looks as though she is about to explain something.

The Squad live reaction when you suggest murdering that old lady for her stuff.

I’d Write a Conclusion Here, But I’ve Got To Go Play More Baldur’s Gate 3 ©

So, uh, yeah. I just thought it was really neat how the narrative elements of Baldur’s Gate 3 like the characters are not treated as simple icing on the cake, but rather a material and core aspect of gameplay itself. It’s not the type of game which segregates story and gameplay. I think this is how they keep rocking such huge quantities of concurrent players. The next time you play, which for me will be right after I finish writing this, try and see how the character interactions are influencing your decision-making and how you engage with the game.

A wide panning shot of a group of adventurers in armor carrying torches, climbing down a set of ruined, craggy stone steps suspended over a river of lava. The steps lead to a large, ancient machine.

Gather Your Party And Venture Forth…

Inter-System Parity and Persona: A Resource Management Game

Persona 3 is being remade and they’re changing some things about how dungeon exploration works. I presume it’s going to look a lot more similar to how Persona 5 and Persona 4 does things. In my last playthrough of Persona 5: Royal I was struck by a thought regarding how its various systems fit together. I wanted to get it down in writing.

It has been oft refrained that modern Persona combines the appeals of two very different modes of play. This is true to an extent, but a zoomed-out bird’s eye view of the actual decision-making structures of play in the modern Persona series reveals that the differences aren’t as pronounced as you might think on a high level. Ultimately, the entirety of Persona‘s interactive gameplay is a series of resource management decisions.

Three Japanese students in uniform run down a dreary hallway lit with a sickly aqua green light. The surrounding decor is twisted and abstract. There are blood stains on the floor. A staircase is ahead.

Man, this is going to look so much better in HD.

There’s this concept I like to come back to when thinking about games designed with distinct modes of play such as this. I think it is generally a good idea to look to forming come kind of parity between different modes in a game, even if they’re technically different. For example, the mid-2000s were in love with turret sections. If you know, you know. I always felt like these fit most elegantly in with games that are already about shooting. Firing a stationary gun from a first person perspective *is* a different mode of play than running and gunning in a game like Ratchet and Clank. However, the game is about aiming and shooting big guns to begin with. So even though the rules are little different, the player can more intuitively slide into this different mode of play without it feeling jarring. On the other hand, players may find the addition of the all-too-common fictional card game within the game off-putting because of how different a card-game mindset is to, like, a platformer. Intelligently, most games with card-game minigames keep them as optional side-content.

The main item that unifies all of the game’s various systems is time. When interactive mechanics form a cohesive system, gameplay decisions exist in a hierarchy. Where and how you use your in-game time sits at the top. Persona models the daily life of a sociable high schooler and how the player chooses to use each day is a decision that cascades down across all other systems. Persona breaks down into two primary gameplay modes: the social simulator, and the strategic turn-based combat dungeon crawler. Ultimately though, whether you choose to spend time getting ramen with classmates, working out at the gym, studying for class, or fighting horrific hell-beasts in humanity’s collective unconscious, you’ll be spending a day of in-game time for each instance of each task. Days are a finite resource, and how you choose to spend them is the primary mode of interaction in Persona at a high level.

A stylized manga-like birdseye view of Tokyo. A row of numbers representing dates appear, and they move to the left, centering first "9 Saturday" and landing on "10 Sunday", the latter of which is pierced with a knife.

Time ticks down on your game, just as it does on the summer of your youth.

Persona’s dungeons are bursting with tough encounters with monster designed to whittle away your resources; health, and spirit power, or SP. These are long gauntlets meant to stretch your abilities to endure numerous combats to the breaking point. There is no reliable method to restore SP within these dungeons themselves. The only way to restore your combat resources fully is by ending a given dungeon session, and allowing time to pass to the following day. That means, of course, that you must spend at minimum one additional day of in-game time to complete the dungeon. This limitation of SP restoration is crucial, as it forms a limiting reagent to dungeon activity. It is possible to complete any dungeon in a single day, but only with extremely deft management of SP. This one resource’s scarcity creates a space where skilled play can lead to greater reward, without the implied penalty of inefficient play being too punishing. Losing one day is not a big deal. Wasting a lot of days though, adds up. Failing to manage your combat resources efficiently leads to an inefficient use of your social resources.

It’s this inter-relation that forms the bedrock of the gameplay loop in Persona. You have a limited number of days to complete a dungeon. And beyond that, you have a larger, but still limited number of days before the entire game concludes. Therefor, it is implicitly more desirable to complete dungeons in a timely manner, leaving more in-game days free for the player’s other social projects – fostering relationships, improving one’s social skills, earning money in a part-time job, etc. The latter of which can be intrinsically motivating through appealing character writing that makes the player want to engage in this social simulation. The social sim half of the game forms an extremely important part of this gameplay loop bedrock, but it’s important to note it would be not so nearly engaging without strong narrative context Persona puts forth for the social aspects of its gameplay.

A young silver-haired man in a Japanese school uniform is frames beside a list of character names, each with a rank and meter representing their respective closeness to the young man.

Many choices, but which- it’s Chie. You should pick Chie. Hang out with Chie.

You need to complete each dungeon in a timely manner, so you need to get stronger. Normally, in an RPG, you mostly do this by just fighting. Defeating more monsters means leveling up, means increasing your player characters’ power. This is also the case in Persona, although it is intentionally a lot more limited. When your protagonist levels up, his maximum HP increases, and his maximum SP increases, but that’s about it. His damage doesn’t go up, his defenses don’t go up, etc. It’s a good thing, then, that leveling him up does offer one other benefit – it increases the level of the titular personas that you can create, which, if you didn’t know, are reflections of the inner self that can be summoned to do battle. For our purposes and for the purposes of strictly talking about gameplay mechanics, they are basically pokemon. These personas determine the protagonist’s stats.

The developers do a couple of very clever things in how they handle power progression for personas. Personas themselves can level up, and their stats will increase accordingly, however, there is an effective soft cap to their usefulness. After a few level ups, you’ll notice your persona’s power growth start to kind of bottom out, as they become increasingly more difficult to level up, the acquisition of new abilities becomes scarce, and their old abilities just don’t quite measure up to the stronger monsters you’re fighting. This is the game’s way of always encouraging the player to make new personas as they level up. Each persona is not a lifelong companion, but rather, basically, a stepping stone to ever greater things. This behavior is further encouraged by an experience bonus a persona received upon being fused. This bonus can be massive and is a much more efficient use of your time than leveling up a persona in battle. How do you get this bonus? That’s right, the social sim gameplay mode.

A part of demons are covered in tarp and shoved into magic, glowing guillotines by childlike wardens. When they are chopped, their energy turns into a blue mist that reforms into a red-armored knight astride a horse.

The persona fusion animations can get rather fanciful. I went bowling with my cousin and I am now more proficient at decapitation.

Each persona has a type associated with an arcana of the tarot deck, and each of those arcana is associated with one NPC the player is encouraged through narrative context to form a relationship with. The rub is, once again, you have limited days with which to foster such relationships. So what type of personas you empower, and how efficiently you do so, is entirely up to you. Because there’s a lot of strategic skill involved in the social aspect of these games. Provided you are not simply following an online instruction guide, the social game of Persona involves a lot of forethought, planning, understanding the schedules and exceptions to the schedules of NPCs, how long certain long-term projects like improving your academic stats will take, how all this intersects, and how to balance it all.

The art of a tart deck is displayed, in order of arcana numbered 0 to 20. The art is dark and somber, with extensive use of silhouettes and blue-leaning color palettes.

Here you see persona 3’s lovely arcana artwork, I guess in case you’ve never seen a tarot deck before.

This is, of course, a sort of tongue-in-cheek rumination on the nature of social interaction in real life – how easy it is to foster so many entanglements and commitments that it becomes a game in and of itself to manage them all, but also very compelling gameplay, that some players may not even notice they’re partaking in. The metaphor here is clear in narrative as well; friendships make the heart grow stronger, and your weapons are personas – the power of the heart. You delve into the game’s respective dungeons, and engage in strategically engaging combat one day, then decide whether your time is better spent hanging out with that girl you like, or patching things up with your friend whom you had a spat with the other day. Because even for how difficult it can be, it’s all worth it – just like forming bonds in real life – through the intrinsic narrative reward of getting to know these characters to the extrinsic gameplay reward of increased power in the dungeon, meaning you can complete the dungeon faster, meaning you have more time to play the social game, meaning you grow even stronger. And thus, the gameplay loop.

A group of four phantom thieves square off against two horned horse demons and a fairy. One of the thieves summons a monster in a jar with a swirl of blue energy, and the jar-monster strikes a horse demon with lightning.

There are a lot of numbers and words to look at here, but it’s all in service of maintaining that loop.

Persona‘s combat, similar to its sister series Shin Megami Tensei, is itself primarily a resource management game. As a turn-based RPG units of action are divided into discreet units. The player takes action, then the enemy monster does, etc. Your SP or HP can be spent on more powerful attacks, but can also be costly. However, if you don’t defeat enemies quickly, you may take damage which will require the expenditure of SP or healing items to recover. There are mechanics in place to extend the player’s turn to avoid this. However, utilizing this “Once More” mechanic most often involves the expenditure of SP. And even then, there are more and less efficient ways to spend SP, such as using a screen-wide attack to hit a group many enemies at the cost of significant SP, can be more efficient than using a single-target attack to hit each enemy in sequence. Understanding the balance can be key. Because both action and inaction can lead to loss of HP and SP, when fighting enemies in Persona, you’re really searching for the most efficient path to navigating each battle in terms of resources – weighing the potential losses versus gains in each given scenario, all in service of that ultimate higher level goal – clear the dungeon efficiently. This is the heart of Persona‘s combat system.

What appears to be a giant lizard with camo-print skin is electrified by lightning shot from the ghostly visage of a samurai, commanded by a teenager schoolboy. The text "Weak 19" appears, indicating damage dealt to the monster's weakness.

Exploiting weaknesses is one of the main ways to stay efficient in battle.

Each day, if you choose not to go dungeoneering, you must choose how the protagonist will spend their day. These units of action are divided into discreet days. The player takes action, then a day is expended, etc. Your time can be spent developing a bond with an NPC for those more powerful personas, but maxing out an NPC bond can be a costly long-term use of time. However, if you don’t get stronger personas, that can cost you in the form of excessive SP expenditure in the dungeons later. There are mechanics in play to make the development of bonds more efficient, such as seeing a movie with several friends – which buffs some social stat like charm, while also developing two bonds at once. Timing is crucial, however, because if one or both of the NPCs you bring to the movies is not ready to improve develop their bond, the act may do nothing for you. Understanding the balance can be key. You may also choose not to develop any bond, and simply spend the day working for pay to buy precious healing items, or weapons. Because both action and inaction can lead to loss of time, when developing bonds in Persona, you’re really searching for the most efficient path to navigating each day in terms of resources – weighing the potential losses versus gains in each given scenario, all in service of that ultimate higher level goal – clear the dungeon efficiently, so you can spend more time with your friends.

What we conclude from this, is that the social aspect of this game, when you really look objectively at just what mechanics are in play, is a turn-based resource-management game. Ah-HAH! I fooled you earlier, it turns out Persona‘s seemingly extremely different gameplay modes have almost exacting parity with each other! How about that. That’s right, I am making the case here that both of Persona‘s primary gameplay modes are essentially the same, when you get right down to it. It is the nuances of their execution and, crucially, their narrative context that is their distinguishing factor. The social mode is much more relaxed, with smooth music, good laughs, and little sense of tension or danger, outside the mundane stakes of going out on a date, or whatever. The dungeons and battles have very tense and exciting music, the narrative stakes are that if you lose you die, and you’re surrounded by nightmarish imagery. These contexts, along with the more immediate feedback of failure in battle vs. social situations, whose failure states are more nuanced, make dungeons a state of high excitement on an interest curve, vs. the social situations’ more mellow levels of excitement. With the two modes existing in a mutual loop, Persona quite naturally creates a very compelling interest curve.

Persona‘s themes, every Persona‘s themes have, at their core, the universal truth that true bonds with true friends make a person stronger. This is repeated a number of times in a number of ways in dialogue, but its also rather skillfully crafted into the very fabric of how the game systems inter-relate. The strong your bonds the strong you literally are in the game’s more dangerous situations. What really elevates it though I think, is how that desire to save the world with your buds further motivates engaging with them socially. There are a lot of games which began to ape Persona‘s ‘half combat, half social sim’ conceit following the breakout success of Persona 5. Some of them, though, I think miss the point here. Persona is not two separate systems that somehow fit together like magic, no. They are two very similar systems subtly distinguished in mechanics and narrative context to fit together seamlessly.

A blonde girl with short hair stands on a beach overlooking glistening blue water. She wears what appears to be a metal headband or headphones which cover her ears. Her face is framed by a white metal material that covers her entire neck and the outline of her jaw. She slowly turns to the camera.

The ability to summon a Persona is the power to control one’s heart, and your heart is strengthened through bonds…

Playing Final Fantasy I, II, and III For The First Time

I try to play a lot of games. I find exposing oneself to a wide variety of ideas and precedent helps one form a better understanding of the craft. I especially am fond of tracing the development of certain ideas and precedents over long stretches of time. In a moment of hubris that could be perhaps, generously, described as “insane”, some friends and I decided to undergo the herculean task of playing through the entirety of the Final Fantasy canon. The Roman numeral numbered ones, anyway. There are scant few games with such a distinct and traceable lineage. This is but the first leg of a long journey. Perhaps by the end you dear reader, and I, will have learned… something.

A man in red and black armor wielding a black sword with a red crack in it in one hand. His other hand is spiky and demonic with an orange glow over black armor.

He stands before an ashy gray castle in the background. A fiery phoenix and wolflike beast growl at each other from the corners of the screen.

Promotional image of the game Final Fantasy XVI

…We’ll get there.

As this is a retrospective, expect at least some spoilers for these games.

Final Fantasy I – Setting a Precedent

This is not going to be a narrative retrospective, at least not primarily, but story is an important part of this franchise’s identity, so I will touch on it briefly where I have something to comment about. Final Fantasy I‘s initial setup is about as simple as it gets. Four Warriors of Light set out on a quest to save a princess from an evil knight, then quickly discover they are heroes foretold in legend, destined to defeat Four Fiends, collect four magic crystals, and restore the balance of light and dark in the world. Still, even from humble beginnings, someone somewhere wanted to make this tale stand out a bit, with inspirations likely from Japanese mythology, manga, and anime, all of which tend to deal with rather esoteric concepts. The evil knight from the beginning of the game, Garland, reveals that he has enacted a complex time loop by sending the Four Fiends back in time. The result of this is that Garland becomes the immortal demon Chaos. Once defeated, all of our heroes’ adventures are undone, along with the evil of Chaos, though the memory of those adventures remains etched in the Warrior’s hearts. There are elements of Final Fantasy‘s heart here already. The esoterica, the high-minded fantasy concepts, the slight twinge of melancholy at the end of a long journey, all feelings that pervade the Final Fantasy games and their derivatives that I have played.

A man in full platemail, helmet decorated with bull-like horns and glowing yellow eyes. He wields a giant greatsword, and has a woman in a dress slung over his shoulder. A castle looms very small in the background. An image of the evil knight Garland.

Yeah man, this guy…

At the outset, the player chooses a lineup of four heroes from a roster of possible character classes with different abilities. Notably, you can loadout your team any way you like. Use four white mages, aka healers if you so like. Use four glass cannon black mages. This level of customization sets a nice precedent going forward for what the gameplay of Final Fantasy is, I think. The game followed the release of Dragon Quest about a year earlier, and follows similar conventions of its contemporaries. Turn-based combat with simple rules, spells, attacks, and the ability to run from battle.

Often I judge my enjoyment of turn-based gameplay by how much leeway I am given for strategic thinking. There’s… not a whole lot of that in Final Fantasy I. Boss and enemy designs tend to be straightforward. One throws fire at you. One throws ice at you. Sometimes enemies are stronger than you, though, and figuring out how to maximize your heroes’ damage while keeping them alive can be a bit of an entertaining problem.

A skeletal mage labeled 'Lich' fights against a mage in a blue robe with a face shrouded in shadow, all on a plain black background. The menus surrounding the fight are labeled 'Lich' 'Fight' 'Magic' 'Drink' 'Item' 'Run' 'BkM 'Fhtr' 'Thef' 'RedM'

The game’s visuals are simplistic, but refreshingly uncluttered.

My friends and I did arrive at a rather interesting strategy. It’s pretty apparent that it wasn’t the primary method of play, that it was a strategy unique to us, so that’s pretty cool. We had a part of one strong physical attacker, the warrior, one potent offensive mage, the black mage, one healing support, the white mage, and one jack-of-all-trades red mage. Our go-to method is thus: The white mage casts a strength-enhancing spell on our warrior, and the red mage casts a speed-enhancing speed spell on our warrior. Our black mage continues to blast offensive spells away, not needed enhancements to do decent damage, especially against several enemies at once. Meanwhile, our warriors becomes a lawnmower, shredding through bosses and other monsters like dry grass.

So while our decision making process never really changed, we did make some interesting decisions that allowed us to clear the game, so that’s good. On the other hand, the presence of a certain mechanic I dread really accentuates the repetitiveness – that being random encounter system. In the overworld, the player character moves across terrain divided into tiles on a grid. Each time they pass a tile, there is a chance they will be forced into a monster encounter. I think I’ve decided by now I pretty much detest random encounters, for a number of reasons. They introduce a level of abstraction that is irritating to me, bringing me out of the fantasy of the world. Where are all these monsters coming from? Where are they hiding? Why are they not dangerous until they are on top of me? Worse than that it bring an unjustified level of agency away from the player. The use of random encounters in early RPGs almost certainly was partially a tech consideration. The NES can only render so many items on screen, and a consistent supply of enemies to fight was needed. Still, from a purely ludic standpoint it’s annoying as hell. Crossing a continent in this game could take two minutes, or two hours, depending on your real-world luck stat. Mine is very very low.

I always find myself comparing old RPGs with random encounters to one of my favorite RPG – Chrono Trigger which, contrary to many of its contemporaries, had no random encounters. Enemies were consistently visible in the overworld. Sure, there were surprise encounters, and required encounters. Enemies often leap out of bushes to ambush the heroes. The added context and predictability of these encounters make them far more tolerable, especially when backtracking through areas, as is often required in RPGs. When one can mentally prepare for exactly how long a task it’s going to take, it’s a lot more pleasant than getting surprised with a lot of meaningless activity that does little but waste time. Any advantages you could gain by having random encounters can be achieved with more bespoke, designed encounters, with none of the frustration. But, this is Final Fantasy I of 16, so I’d better get used to them. Just wanted to throw out the random encounters rant early on here.

There’s one more thing I’ve got to say about this first game. Final Fantasy I sprang forth about a year after the release of watershed title Dragon Quest, itself inspired by similar role-playing-type games like Ultima. Ultima, in turn was inspired by Dungeons & Dragons, itself inspired by other tabletop war games and major fantasy works like The Lord of The Rings. J.R.R. Tolkien’s Legendarium, which includes The Lord of The Rings, represents a sort of fictive mythologized history of the real world – a legend for the modern age. My point is, Final Fantasy represents a lineage of people exploring the nature of the world as they understand it through imagination. There’s something poetic, I think, about how the heroes of the story embark on a journey that brings them across the world, and to the edge of history, only to rid the world of evil, at the cost of forever leaving those fantastical events behind, as nothing more than a fantasy. They don’t get to stay in that world, but the memory of it stays forever with them. Final Fantasy I is a humble game, with systems, gameplay, and storytelling that are primitive by today’s standards, but it’s also impossible to divorce it from all this context of its creation. There’s a lot of beauty, in this humble little adventure.

A message saying; 'The Warrior who broke the 2000 year Time-Loop is truly a LIGHT WARRIOR.... That warrior was YOU!' is imposed over a backdrop of peaceful waters and forests of pine trees under a blue sky.

Final Fantasy II – Experiments Are Educational, But Not Always Fun

The early Final Fantasy series was notoriously mislabeled in the west under its English releases, with Final Fantasy IV being erroneously christened Final Fantasy II to English speakers because the actual second and third entries to the franchise were simply not released outside of Japan. You know, I believe in the dissemination and availability of media across cultural boundaries. Translations and localization with easy availability are not only good, but necessary for a thriving and robust culture. That said… I think I could see how The Powers That Be found that, in the project of bringing Final Fantasy to the western market… I understand why they decided, “eh, think we can skip this one” (this is a joke). I mean… It’s bad, guys. I did not thoroughly enjoy my time playing Final Fantasy II.

The story of this game is alarmingly Star Wars. I know that’s an easy criticism to levy at a lot of fantasy media, but it’s really true in this case, I think. Everything from a rebellion lead by a princess fighting an evil empire, to a secretive emperor with a flying super weapon that razes civilizations, accompanied by a right-hand man dressed in black who is a secret lost family member that eventually turns good again at the last minute. The biggest major departure is the journey’s terminus taking place in a bright technicolor version of hell, which was a pretty delightful surprise, though somewhat harsh on my eyeballs.

A portrait of a man in an armored hat next to a text box reading "Guy: Guy speak beaver."

Below the text, four people stand near a beaver in the snow.

Okay, never mind this story is Kino.

Once upon a time, the coolest, hypest, most exciting RPG on the horizon was the as yet unreleased Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. We were dazzled with its cutting edge graphics in one-thousand-and-eighty-whole-p, 1080p! We were told about many of its new, innovative, never-before-seen gameplay systems that would upend what we thought an RPG could be! For example, the traditional RPG character level system? Out the window! Replaced, with this shiny novel skill system where your hero would improve specifically at the tasks they performed the most. How fresh! How new! Except, of course, this system predates Skyrim by more than two decades. It exists, in near identical fashion, in Final Fantasy II, which also forgoes its predecessor’s level system in favor of an adaptive skill system. Suffice to say, it leads to many of the same problems that plagued Skyrim in its day, though in some cases to a far greater degree.

Against a black background, four cerulean blue knights on horseback fight against a four heroic warriors. The menu at the bottom of the screen reads hp and mp, as well as the heroes' names in Japanese.

Oh featureless black void in which all fights take place, we’re really in it now…

Your heroes’ efficacy with a sword, with a shield, even with their ability to sustain damage is all determined by individual numeric values that only increase when engaged in their associated property. For your Warriors of Light to have a decent health pool, they have to be smacked in the face, repeatedly, and at length. Because you are able to target allies with offensive commands in battle, the best way to train hp is to have your heroes smack each other. The adaptive skill system introduces all kinds of bizarre and irritating behaviors like this. Whenever you get a new spell, you are not enthralled by the exciting new possibilities, but debilitated by the crushing knowledge that you’ll have to spend hours mindlessly blasting weaker monsters to get this new spell to even reach the point of being partially usable.

You will consistently feel pigeon-holed by the choices in character building presented in this game. Make no mistake, Final Fantasy II offers a bevy of options when building your heroes for battle. There are lots of different swords with different properties, from swords, to axes, to polearms. You can even dual wield! You can carry a shield. You can practice black magic and white magic as you please! You can customize your spell loadout. And yet. It takes so much time, and so much effort, to get any of those aforementioned options up to a level of usefulness with the adaptive skill system, that if you don’t choose your course for each hero early on, and stick with it, you’ll find your jacks-of-all-trades to be rather useless in combat by the end. In this way, Final Fantasy II rather lacks the adaptability in hero roster customization that even Final Fantasy I had.

This is not to say that such a level of adaptability is necessary to even complete this slog of a game. And I don’t use that word lightly. A lot of RPGs are very long, and very repetitive, but engaging with II‘s content is so consistently irritating, with more random encounters than ever before, that I eventually found myself engaging in… the Teleport spam. You see, Teleport is one of those spells – the kind that remove enemies entirely from battle. Usually, the tradeoff for that in most RPGs is that enemies will not drop loot, or provide experience points to level up. However, my hero’s skill at successfully casting Teleport did improve every time they used it, making this spell an infinite feedback loop of instantly killing everything, and becoming more likely to instantly kill everything. Including bosses! Including the last boss, save for his… very very super last, final form. Even then, we moved on to employing some other similarly cheesy strategy to dispatch him. ‘Cheesy’ in the case meaning, that it does not feel as though the strategy meaningfully engages with the mechanics of the game. The win against the boss at the end rang kind of hollow for me.

So Final Fantasy II was extremely experimental. It tried a totally new way to conceptualize character building. Even its Star Wars-ass story feels like a test bed for what these games could be capable of narratively. I mean certainly a lot of things happen in this game. It’s turn of event after turn of event, even if they all feel very familiar. Gameplay seems to have become even more simplified since the first game, but that may also be a byproduct of experimentation, with new spells and skills and whatnot. Experimentation isn’t a bad thing though, even if it seems to have thoroughly ruined this particular outing. Based on what I know of Final Fantasy now, it’s almost certain that the developers learned a lot about what worked and what didn’t while making this game, and that’ll serve them well in future titles.

Final Fantasy III – Why This Game And Not Any Other?

Final Fantasy III starts introducing more of those bizarre, esoteric concepts that require some serious thinking to really keep straight it your head. There’s no time travel, as far as I can tell, but there are larger than life mythological wizards, with special gifts of immortality, or dream walking, etc. There is global time stoppage, though. There’s a giant floating continent that the heroes were born on, not knowing it was a small part of the larger world. To the game’s credit, I also experienced that same emotional journey – and I’m sure that was the intent, a surprise reveal for players of the smaller Final Fantasy games that came before. Surprise! The game’s world is actually way larger than you thought. Pretty cool. The Warriors of (The) Light are still mostly hollow player-inserts, the quest is still to collect a bunch of magic rocks, and most characters present are not terribly deep or engrossing. The villain is once again preoccupied with immortality, and entangles themselves with dark forces beyond them for their hubris. The series is establishing its pattern of repeating narrative motifs – which is not necessarily a bad thing!

Final Fantasy III introduces the Jobs system. The seeds of this system will germ and survive long into Final Fantasy‘s future, up to present day. It is, in essence, the ability to swap your Warrior of Light’s class and associated abilities or on the fly, or under certain circumstances. In III, this circumstance is any time outside of battle. Your choice of jobs to pick from expands as you progress through the game, with more powerful ones coming later. This is pretty exciting, and does enhance the possibilities of team building from the first game. You don’t have to commit to a team right away. There are a couple problems with this first run at the system, though. For some reason, swapping jobs makes the swapped hero weakened for several battles. I say ‘for some reason’, but it’s likely to make committing to specific jobs per hero attractive, so heroes build more of a gameplay identity, rather than faceless fighters who can do all things at all times. I suspect this, because future such jobs systems will be designed toward that end, but usually in a more clever and less frictional way.

A grid view of the same drawing of a girl five times, with the girl in a different outfit for each drawing, and then again in those respective outfits seen from behind.

All that said though, yeah, the jobs system is cool.

Boss and enemy design of Final Fantasy III is once again fairly simplistic, but there was a moment that came late in the game. I think what I saw in Final Fantasy III was a spark, a flicker, a momentary glimmer in the night that reminds me of the reason that I actively seek out games with turn-based combat. I’m not talking about why I play JRPGS, a vague collection of aesthetic and ludic conventions that form a genre. I’m talking about why I enjoy the play of commanding a team and managing resources in a turn-oriented fashion the way Final Fantasy does it, divorced from all aesthetic and narrative trappings. Within the optional dungeon of Eureka, I saw the essence of what makes turn-based RPGs worth the effort.

The bosses of Eureka are tough. They threaten the Warriors of The Light with devastating attacks and powerful spells. Instant death for individual heroes is a very real possibility. To defeat these bosses, my own team of heroes – us nerds playing the game, had to put our heads together and reason out a strategy. A lot of games require this kind of creative thinking – where your initial approach is brick-walled by an impassible obstacle, and a different approach is required to progress. However, given the strictly governed rules of a turn-based game, the player’s ability to think laterally and solve abstract problems is something unique to this kind of play. It’s the same sort of thing that’s made activities like Chess and Go among the most enduring of all designed games. In hundreds of hours across three games of mowing down group of monsters, after group of monsters, boss after boss, villain after villain, mostly just by spamming our most powerful moves over and over again or… gods save me… spamming the Teleport spell, Final Fantasy III, in it’s final hours, at last forced us to think. It wasn’t just that we could think creatively to solve a problem, but that the game responded to this, and rewarded this. When creative application of game mechanics leads to interesting and rewarding, designed scenarios, that, to me, is strategic liberty, the very reason turn-based games are compelling to me.

Four purple wasps on a black background fight against four heroic warriors. The warriors names, as well as the options for combat are listed in Japanese on blue menus.

You kill an awful lot of wildlife in RPGs, I’m realizing…

It’s so important for a game to recognize its own worth. Why play this game, and not any other? I play action games to feel a sense of dexterity in my hands and tension in my heart that isn’t possible or quite the same in other formats. I play rhythm games because my sense of music aligns with my sense of play, and the two complement each other. I play platform games because the ease of traversal they entail appeals to a sense of exploration and adventure. I think often games will replicate certain mechanics or conventions based on precedent, without stopping to recognize why those things are precedent in the first place. This is the kind of thing I was hoping to see, playing Final Fantasy as a retrospective – these important core principles to the turn-based RPG and JRPG traditions develop before my eyes in real-time.

It occurred to me that the strategic liberty I so value in turn-based RPGs is much like the solving of a very elaborate and very particular kind of puzzle. It isn’t just that we had to think creatively with the tools we were given, but that the tools we were given operated in tandem to produce new possibilities. For example, the Warrior of Light Refia was our dragoon hero, or spearman. She was also our greatest damage dealer. We were fighting a boss whose physical attacks devastated the heroes. We could counter this with the Protect spell, but that Protect spell could only target one hero per turn, and only two of our heroes were capable of casting it. Moreover, each of our four heroes served an essential role in the party. Refia brought the damage, the dark knight Ingus was the only one who could take a hit, the red mage Luneth was our go-to spell caster, including caster of Protect, and the white mage Arc was needed for healing duty. Losing even one would debilitate us for the rest of the fight.

While our mages were busy casting Protect on people and not healing, one or more of our heroes might straight up die, so raising a full defense was just too slow a prospect. It occurred to us, after some experimentation, that Refia’s Jump ability – in which she jumps off screen and becomes immune to damage for one turn, then crashes back down to deal bonus damage – was maxing out the damage count at ‘9999’. Five of those jumps alone would bring the enemy down. So instead of insuring every hero could survive incoming damage, one of my friend’s suggested, let’s ensure Refia can, so she can constantly jump to safety, while busting the enemy down over the course of ten turns. Instead of Protecting the party, our mages would Protect themselves, while Refia used the guard action to survive. Then, we would buff her with Haste to ensure she’d always Jump before the enemy could act. If ever she was caught with some damage as she landed, we would repeat the process of setup, then sent her on her way to continue the attack. After a couple of tries, it worked! The enemy was defeated, and all of us players cheered.

The sense of satisfaction that washed over us was fantastic. Our friend expressed that they felt like a genius – a familiar sensation for anyone who’s played a particularly challenging RPG. It’s just a shame that this sort of thing had to take several dozens of hours of gameplay to get to. That’s a bit unfair, though, there was some strategizing that took place in the earlier levels of Final Fantasy III. However, it never reached near this level of depth. Knowledge of the game’s rules or how its various mechanics interacted was never really necessary. It was more a continuous process of experimentation – seeing what the various hero jobs did, though a feeling of utilizing them to some greater end was disappointingly infrequent.

That said, the presence of this strategic liberty, even at the eleventh hour, kind of redeemed Final Fantasy III a bit in my eyes. Like Final Fantasy I, I think it’s very commendable for its time, and it’s scratching at the surface of some of the things that I think makes this kind of game great, which is a good sign! I’m optimistic going into Final Fantasy IV, another game I’ve never played! Final Fantasy will be entering a transitional period, I predict, as it undergoes a transformation from its simple NES days to the robust cutting edge graphical and storytelling experiences of the SNES and PS1 eras, and beyond, that the series is famous for.

A man in blue dragon-like armor with glowing yellow eyes repeatedly pumps his fist in the air on a grassy background.

With the memory of their struggle buried deep in their hearts…

Kingdom Hearts ‘Floatiness’ and Gamefeel

Alternatively: “What The Heck is ‘Floatiness’ and Is It Ruining Kingdom Hearts? I Settle it Forever“

‘Floatiness’ is the extremely scientific term that parts of the Kingdom Hearts fan community have adopted to refer to a sort of shift in how some of the more modern and spin-off Kingdom Hearts games feel to play, as opposed to their predecessors. I’ve seen this term come in and out of vogue when it comes to in-depth and armchair analysis of Kingdom Hearts‘s combat, but it’s always fascinated me. I’m going to try to define what this somewhat nebulous term is specifically referring to, and how it’s been supposedly creeping its way into one of my favorite action RPG franchises. What causes floatiness in particular? What is the greater context of design which is causing whatever this ‘floatiness’ is to happen? Perhaps this exercise can help us explore the often imprecise art of ascertaining gamefeel in general. I certainly hope so.

Sora, spiky-haired protagonist of Kingdom Hearts III spins his key-shaped sword around quickly, then slashes with an uppercut at the air in the dimly lit streets of San Fransokyo. He then jumps and does the same motion elevated about 15 feet in the air before falling back to the ground. — Pictured: Floatiness?

First off, we’ve got to define it, this floatiness. Informally, it is reported as the sensation that the Kingdom Hearts player character lacks weight, impact, and to my interpretation, immediacy, or some combination thereof. For those unaware, Kingdom Hearts is a series of action games with a particular emphasis on exaggerated, superhuman feats of acrobatic melee combat, favoring style, spectacle, and emotive action, akin to combat-heavy anime and manga. All that while immersed in a fantasy world full of Disney characters, Final Fantasy characters, and a unique dream-like fictional mythology of its own. Trying to define this term will be much of what this article is seeking to accomplish.

With combatants consisting primarily of magical swordsman and dark wizards, while borrowing aesthetically from classic Disney animation, Kingdom Hearts offered its players a combat system increasingly free of the bounds of gravity, allowing its player characters to bound meters into the air at a time, maintaining that airtime through continued swinging of their sword, with a cartoonish sort of physical logic.

So, all this in mind, I set out to compare the gamefeel of several Kingdom Hearts games in my own experience to try and get a better idea. To make this process somewhat more precise, I investigated what is by my estimation one of the key metrics in determining the gamefeel of an action combat system – the timing of the primary attacks. Every action in a game as visually rich as Kingdom Hearts and its sequels has a startup time and ending lag. The former is the real-time between the player’s button input and the resolution of the action they’ve input, the latter is the real-time between the resolution of the action, and when the player’s next input can be resolved. For example, if a player character is to swing a big hammer, they’ll push the swing hammer button. As their avatar lifts the hammer with a grunt and struggle to convey its weight, we have our startup time, and as he pulls the hammer back to his side after the big swing, we have our ending lag, with the avatar unable to run or jump while resetting the hammer, in this example.

Sora from Kingdom Hearts II swings his keyblade at a volleyball in elaborate spinning arcs, launching the ball further into the air with each strike, and Sora continues after it, ascending higher and higher before falling back down. — Trust me it… it does feel very responsive.

Now imagine the hammer is a comically oversized key and you have a pretty good idea of what we’ll be measuring. Floatiness became an almost absurdly hot-button topic among Kingdom Hearts diehards due to its relationship with the much anticipated Kingdom Hearts 3. As the successor to the beloved Kingdom Hearts 2, and first numbered entry in the series for a period of thirteen years (though by no means the only Kingdom Hearts game to release in that period), a lot of anticipation was placed upon what the game would feel like to play. Its gamefeel, so to speak. Kingdom Hearts 2 has stayed in many people’s hearts as an all-time favorite action game due to the smoothness of its combat system, as any fan would tell you. So comparisons were inevitable. The stakes were high.

Kingdom Hearts 3, despite being the best selling entry in the series, gained a healthy amount of criticism from long-time fans in regards to its gamefeel. Floatiness was oft invoked. The developers seemed to take feedback from hardcore fans seriously, as the game would be later patched in key ways to increase speed and fluidity of the gameplay. More on that later. So what’s the truth? Has floatiness ruined Kingdom Hearts forever? Are we doomed to forever circle the drain of game design discourse without knowing what on earth we’re actually talking about? I’ve spoken to friends who know how to use a computer and they allege that numbers are involved here, believe it or not. So I’m afraid I have no choice but to deploy the diagram.

Data World

First let’s define some terms. All footage I used for this analysis is from the Final Mix, 60fps versions of the games, captured on a Playstation 5. All values are measured in animation frames. For the sake of consistency, in each game I tested the animations of main player character Sora or his closest equivalent (In Birth By Sleep the resident Sora-like character is named Ventus, but he’s close enough and for our purposes we’ll consider him a “Sora”). The games I will be looking at are as follows:

Kingdom Hearts

Kingdom Hearts 2

Kingdom Hearts 3 pre-“Remind” patch

Kingdom Hearts 3 post-“Remind” patch

Kingdom Hearts: Birth By Sleep

Kingdom Hearts: Dream Drop Distance

“Startup” here is defined as the time between Sora beginning an attack and that attack “resolving”, here defined as the moment his weapon crosses in front of his body. “Ending lag” is the time between an attack resolving and when Sora can move again, no longer committed to the attack. “Cancel Time” is the time it takes before Sora’s first attack can be interrupted to perform his second combo attack. “Gravity Hang Time” is the amount of time between an aerial attack beginning and when Sora reaches his maximum falling speed. More on that later. “Engage” here means the time between inputting an attack and when sora can strike a distant enemy from a neutral position.

So these results are pretty much in line with what I expected going into this project. KH2 is the fastest game, KH1 is second fastest. BBS and DDD are dead-last, KH3 is about in the middle, while KH3 with its post-launch patch just a little bit faster than that.

Some surprises:

Every KH game seems to have the exact same startup time for the first most basic attack of a combo. Seems like they’ve been pretty happy with this one from the word ‘go’ and consistently on from there.

KH1’s movement lag from a grounded attack is insanely long, as long as DDD’s. KH2’s is way faster, and nearly the same as KH3’s.

KH1, KH2, and KH3 all cancel their first attack into an attack combo incredibly fast at just four frames, another astonishing level of consistency, although BBS and DDD combos take twice as long or more to come out.

KH2’s biggest advantages in speed are its gravity hang time, and time to engage enemies. KH3’s gravity hang time actually got worse with its post-launch patch, though not noticeably, and this has to do with a new attack added in the patch that has a longer animation in general.

BBS and DDD don’t do too badly in the enemy engagement department, better than KH1 and KH3 pre-patch, even. KH2 is still the champ here, but this fast engage time might be a saving grace for BBS and DDD.

There is a lot to talk about, so I’ll drop the chart here again real quick, just because I know you all wanted to look at it again.

Okay, So What Is It?

What’s what? Oh! Floatiness. What is ‘floatiness’? My hypothesis going into this was that it’s tied up with the aforementioned startup and ending lag statistics, which would have a huge impact on the speed of the game. Kingdom Hearts: Birth By Sleep, Kingdom Hearts: Dream Drop Distance, and to a lesser extent Kingdom Hearts 3 are somewhat known among hardcore fans as the ‘floatier’ games, the former two by far the most guilty. I had presumed that in gathering my data, it would bear out that those two games would have the higher numbers when recording the delays, lag, and hang time. Kingdom Hearts 2 would be the fastest game, only slightly faster than Kingdom Hearts, and Kingdom Hearts 3 would fall somewhere in the middle. Indeed this was the result. So. Case closed? Shorter periods of loss of character control equals better combat? Probably a little more nuanced than that.

Golden calf Kingdom Hearts 2 absolutely has the advantage over its successors and predecessor when it comes to attack commitment. Its startup times, ending lag, and combo speed are universally faster across the board. But… they’re not that different from KH1 and KH3, even pre-patch. Almost immediately when I started this experiment, replaying each of the games side-by-side I came to realize the nuances of how gravity works in each game.

The Gravity Situation

As the Kingdom Hearts series progressed, aerial combat became more prominent. I always imagined in my head that the first Kingdom Hearts game was “the more grounded one”. And it kind of is. In the first game, attacking launches Sora high in the air toward aerial targets, and repeated attacks can keep him airborn somewhat. Kingdom Hearts 2 pushed this much further, with far more automated and accurate tracking on enemies, pushing Sora high into the air with each attack. I was kind of shocked to find that in Kingdom Hearts 2, the game I associate most with air combat, gravity is much more powerful than it is in any other game. With a delay of only 16 frames in KH2, compared to KH1’s 20, and double that at 32 frames in BBS, KH2 by far is the most beholden to gravity when the player is not attacking. This makes gravity a function of the player’s inaction. Never are they airborne without making it a conscious decision. In BBS and DDD, being strung up in the air against your will is almost the norm. There is a huge delay between aerial attacking and being affected by gravity.

Sora from Kingdom Hearts 1 jumps into the air and slashes at the three headed Cerberus from Disney's Hercules, before quickly falling back to the ground and dodging out of the way of a shadowy breath attack. — Gravity

Ventus from Kingdom Hearts Birth by Sleep (who resembles Sora) swings at an airborn enemy shaped like a pot. Several attacks miss, and Ventus is left hanging in the air for a moment before falling, after each attack. — Gravity

I think this is a major piece of the floatiness puzzle too. Being on the ground in these games naturally gives you a lot more options. You have access to your dodge roll. You are able to more precisely place yourself for things like blocking, or jumping out of the way, or lining up the right attack. Simply, being in the air is advantageous in some ways, but also a lot more risky. In the less ‘floaty’ games it feels as though being airborne is always a conscious choice, whereas the others place you there in spite of the player, and leave Sora hanging in a risky position for far longer than a player might intend. The ability to get back to the ground quickly gives finer control over the player’s risk vs. reward, and the game forms a more solid and consistent relationship with that risk vs. reward.

Gamefeel Good

The title of this article mentions gamefeel, so I’m going to take a moment to discuss that. Like ‘floatiness’ this term is a little hard to pin down, so, uh, how about wikipedia. They seem to know everything.

“Game feel (sometimes referred to as “game juice“) is the intangible, tactile sensation experienced when interacting with video games. The term was popularized by the book Game Feel: A Game Designer’s Guide to Virtual Sensation^[1] written by Steve Swink. The term has no formal definition”
Wikipedia Article on Game Feel

Well that was absolutely no help whatsoever. Wikipedia cites input, response, context, aesthetic, metaphor, and rules as the features a game can change to influence gamefeel, and this seemingly comes from Mr. Swink as well. It’s as good a place as any to start, so let’s see how this applies to our floatiness dilemma.

I don’t want to get too into the weeds with these, so I’ll limit my observations to response, metaphor, and rules. Suffice to say I think KH does pretty universally well in the input and aesthetics department. Context is a bit more nuanced, but again, trying to limit our scope here.

Let’s be a little contrarian and try to make at least a very small part of this gamefeel equation tangible. We’ve already broken down that there seems to be a correlation between the delay between action and reaction in Kingdom Hearts, and the popular perception of how well the games feel to play. KH1 and KH2 are beloved with their snappy reaction times, KH3 is well liked but garnered a lot of fan feedback. BBS and DDD are liked but not necessarily for the fluidity of their combat, and I rarely see gamefeel cited among their strengths. The data easily illustrates the importance of response time as a variable.

The metaphor at play here is how the timing of attacks translates to what the game is trying to convey. The main thing the mechanics of KH is trying to convey is melee combat. All these varying measures of time and attack resolution and ending lag etc. is all metaphor for the physicality of swinging a sword at a guy. A real person cannot instantaneously move their arms, the sword has startup time and ending lag in real life. That’s why these time gaps are there in the first place. It wouldn’t be a very fun game if you pressed the attack button and just instantly won. So as in a real, actual battle, you have to consider how your various actions leave you open to counterattack. On the other hand, one can go overboard with this, as in real life you’re also trying to minimize your vulnerabilities, and a swordsman is not going to be flashy at the cost of leaving himself open to a hail of enemy attacks. These are things people intuitively understand, and so players bring with them preconceived notions of how entities should behave in these situations.

Sora from Kingdom Hearts 1 blocks an attack from a dark ball with a mouth. Immediately, he counters with a series of fast strikes in the air. He loses altitude with each strikes, and ends his combo standing on the ground. — Pictured: Gamefeel??

Drill even further down and you get to the rules of the game itself. Enemies are attacking you, while you’re trying to attack them. If you are locked into an animation you are unable to deploy any defense to stop them, and so we have a game. Risk, and reward. However, if the player’s control feels disconnected from how these rules operate gamefeel is thrown off. In Birth By Sleep and Dream Drop Distance, attacking creates great gaps of no-player time, where inputs on your controller mean nothing. You are vulnerable to attack, and a passive observer in the world. This disconnect throws off both the player’s relationship to response and to the rules of the game, as overly long and committed attacks can become more of a liability than an asset. In KH1 and KH2 throwing out attacks is almost always fun and satisfying, and usually rewarding. It’s often a lot more burdensome to do so BBS and DDD. BBS and DDD have other methods of dealing damage besides the basic attack, but since the basic attack is so pivotal in the main series, a lot of players are thrown off by how minimized it is in these spin off titles, which primarily utilize the command deck instead.

The Command Deck

So why is Birth by Sleep and Dream Drop Distance so damn slow compared to their peers? Well these two games share two very important elements in common. First, they were each developed for a handheld family of systems. Second, they share the game design system known as the command deck. These two points of similarity are very much entwined.

Kingdom Hearts and its two numbered sequels utilized the ‘command menu’, a little persistent menu in the corner of the screen that can be navigated in real time to select whether you want Sora to attack, use an item, or cast a magic spell, essentially. 90% of the time you will be spamming the attack button. The command menu was meant to evoke the strategic decision making of a turn-based Final Fantasy game, but re-tuned for an action combat context. Ultimately contextual combo modifiers became a much greater source of player expression in gameplay, and the strategic applications of the command menu are limited. However, it remains an elegant way to give the player a lot of options without bogging the game down with too many buttons.

When Kingdom Hearts went handheld it rethought its combat. Suddenly, we’re dealing with a much smaller screen, and the camera had to be pulled in on the player character to compensate. As a result, enemies can much more easily hit you from off-screen or sneak up behind you. Consideration was clearly given to a system that better fit playing on the go, where deep concentration on twitch-reaction may not be as viable or palatable. The command deck was the answer, a cooldown-based system where actions are selected from a rotating list and can be used at any time. Now the flow of combat is dictated by these ability cooldowns, and the regular attack combo was made to be more slow-paced, flashy, less freeform, and yes, more floaty so as act more like a stopgap to using the command deck, rather than the main form of attack itself. The command deck has a lot of advantages such as the ability to customize your attack loadout in a much more granular way, but it also has its own host of problems, which I won’t get into here.

Ventus from KH BBS slashes at green impish enemies on the ground. In the bottom left corner, the command deck can be seen. — In each game the command deck is present in the bottom-left

Sora from Kingdom Hearts Dream Drop Distance slashes at the air while standing on the ground in a mailroom, then does in the same after jumping. The command deck can be seen in the bottom-left. — In each game the command deck is present in the bottom-left

The point is, Birth by Sleep and Dream Drop Distance are deliberately slower games made so because they were designed to be played on the go, and utilize entirely new systems that weren’t designed with KH1 or KH2’s speed and flow in mind. Because KH3, BBS, and DDD share a lot of development talent though, it seems like a lot of the design philosophy of these handheld games bled over into KH3’s headliner console game, which was jarring for a lot of people.

Okay So… Is This Bad?

In my opinion, one of Kingdom Hearts‘ greatest strengths is the immediacy and responsiveness of its gameplay. A fine degree of control gives the player a much wider spectrum of possibilities in any given scenario, and this is what leads to a creative space within gameplay for players to express themselves through the gameplay. This fluidity also allows disparate gameplay mechanics such as movement and sword attacks to blend. Kingdom Hearts 2 always feels as though its many, many mechanics are in a harmonious conversation with one another. Engaging a ground enemy can be converted into an aerial assault, which can flow into a strategic repositioning, etc.

So yes, I think it weakens Kingdom Hearts‘ identity somewhat when some of the more experimental entries in the series have dabbled with slowing down the combat and making its pieces more discrete. The particulars are a bit beyond this already enormous article, but I did want you to understand my motivations for trying to understand how and why Kingdom Hearts 2 feels so different to play than a game like Kingdom Hearts: Birth By Sleep.

Sora from Kingdom Hearts 2 slashes at a volleyball, sending it bouncing into the air. — Up… and Down

Kingdom Hearts is a series about ridiculous anime battles between magical wizards wielding baseball bat-sized keys as weapons. People fling themselves through the air to attack one another. It’s not realistic, but it exists within the heightened reality realm of animation. Its primary inspirations are, after all, some of the animation greats, including Disney of all things. Animation works to heighten reality because it has an understanding of its underpinnings. Even if people can jump twenty feet in the air, there still has to be a since of presence and weight. It has to give the impression that some sort of underlying laws of physics are at play even if they aren’t one-to-one to our own laws of physics.

Despite appearances, it wasn’t a magic genie spell that made KH2 so satisfying to play. It was hard work, clever planning, likely some very precise number tuning, and likely a whole lot of playtesting. I want to know the nitty gritty of what made Kingdom Hearts one of the smoothest action games in existence, what distanced it from that, and what brought it closer to that esteem once again. Because you see, there are still those Kingdom Hearts 3: Remind post-launch changes to talk about.

Kingdom Hearts III And The Combo Modifier

In Kingdom Hearts, Sora has a very basic attack combo, with little by way of alternate options for the player, at first blush. You press the attack button, and sorry does the next hit of the combo. Rinse, repeat. The wrinkle though, is that Sora can gain abilities which cause his attack combo to behave differently depending on where Sora is standing relative to his target.

Kingdom Hearts 2 pushed this contextual combo modifier idea much further, with hosts of new options that allowed the player to flex mastery over the system through mastery of manipulating these contextual attacks. They did things like make engaging enemies faster, extending the combo, increasing the power and range of combo finishers, among other things.

Kingdom Hearts 3 launched with its share of combo modifiers, but they lacked the breadth and applicability of KH2’s abilities, and they did little to speed up combat overall. That is, until it was patched in anticipation of the Kingdom Hearts 3: Remind DLC. Numerous combo modifiers were added which increased the overall speed of Sora’s basic combo attack and made the game feel overall more responsive. I don’t think the Remind DLC gets enough credit for just how much it improved, and it’s kind of refreshing how in tune it is with popular feedback. Real people playing your game can tell you a lot about that mystifying, all-important yet elusive gamefeel.

Sora from Kingdom Hearts 3 showcases an attack combo with a flashy series of slashes accentuated with powerful light energy, these attacks come out rather rapidly. — Combo Modifiers

Sora from Kingdom Hearts 3 showcases an attack combo with a series of slashes. These attacks come out noticeably slower than the other image in this gallery. — Combo Modifiers

Airstep is Literally a Game-Changer

Kingdom Hearts as a series has done a decent job with teaching players about its systems and how they work. Some of the more advanced mechanics that deepen higher-level play are a bit more obscure, but usually reaching a baseline level of competency at core systems is pretty straightforward. Kingdom Hearts 3, however, I found stumbled at instilling the importance of oce of its most important new mechanics, the airstep. The airstep allows the player to manually aim the camera toward a distant foe, and fling Sora at them at high speed for a relatively quick engage across a huge battlefield. This was obviously done to compensate for the much larger environments featured in KH3 as compared to older games, but utilizing this move frequently and often, even in close quarters, really does change the way the game is played.

Airstep can cancel out of nearly any other action, you see. In terms of making the game more fluid, or moreover in terms of giving the player fine control over their actions, the airstep affords an enormous amount of power and precision to determine the pace of fights in Kingdom Hearts 3. This along with the ability to cancel combo finisher attacks, which was added in the Remind DLC update, makes the whole combat a lot more cohesive and much more fluid than you might initially expect based on the raw frame data. Speaking of which, the frame data was improved in that update as well! The fact is that this latest iteration evolved the combat in a lot of interesting ways that I don’t want to see abandoned in favor of just making the series going forward exactly like everything that came before.

Sora from Kingdom Hearts 3 blocks an attack, before the camera zooms in on his enemy, Sora then zooms to their location in a flash of light. — Here Sora is sent at the boss straight out of a guard, exploiting an opening in an exciting way

Kingdom Hearts Is Doing Fine, Actually (But It Can Do Better)

So yeah, when people say Kingdom Hearts 3 feels ‘floaty’ as compared to Kingdom Hearts and Kingdom Hearts 2 the evidence is there. Attacks are less responsive and more of a commitment, generally, and gravity is turned off more liberally. You will literally find Sora floating more without direct player intervention. However, the frame data differences, discounting the gravity aspect, are minor at best. It’s really that gravity delay that accentuates the small differences to give a pretty stark impression. Birth by Sleep and Dream Drop Distance are so far afield of the gamefeel of the main series games that it’s clear there was no intention of recreating those mobile games for KH3’s release. The developers have further made it clear their intention to deliver an experience their longtime fans can enjoy with the changes made to the Remind DLC.

In fairness, it had been 13 years since a main Kingdom Hearts game had been made when KH3 was released in 2019. With just a few tweaks I feel they were able to bring it up to parity with KH and KH2 in terms of fluidity. It’s not the tightly wound, exceptionally blisteringly fast experience of KH2 precisely, but do remember that KH2 was developed only three years after the original, so the developers were coming right off the back of designing an already exceptional combat system. The experience was fresh. From where I stand I don’t think the future of KH is in any danger. Three years on from KH3 as of the time of writing this in 2022, and KH4 seems to be around the corner, poised to improve in ways reminiscent of how KH2 improved.

The Kingdom Hearts 4 reveal trailer doesn’t actually show any basic attacking in favor of mostly displaying the new movement options, and any gameplay it does showcase is subject to a lot of change to begin with, but what it does show looks pretty snappy and responsive to me. I’ll let you be the judge. The KH team learns quickly, and their intentions for this series’ gameplay have been made clear vis a vis the Remind DLC update. They understand the data I’ve so painstakingly gone to lengths to describe and how it affects gameplay, clearly. The KH3 update was so precision built for improvement it’s kind of astonishing. And, with KH4’s refocus on ‘reality’ as an aesthetic, I would not be surprised if a little more gravity came back to the party to polish the combat system even further into something really special.

Sora from Kingdom Hearts stands on a floating platform with a shield-wielding enemy, and rapidly dashes at and through them, holding out his keyblade.

Whatever you’re talking about, I don’t care…

Difficulty as Narrative Design – The Emotions That Might Happen When You Fight Sans

I’ve had some stuff on the brain lately, in regards to difficulty’s place in design, which is what tends to happen when you play Elden Ring for so many hours straight. I’ve also been replaying Toby Fox’s Deltarune with a friend, another game that uses difficulty in interesting ways. I’ve had this thought for a while, to do a write up about how difficulty can be, and is, deployed in design to affect the greater experience. This article contains major spoilers for Undertale and mild spoilers for FromSoftware’s Elden Ring.

To be unambiguous here – difficulty is a very nuanced and at times personal subject in design that touches on a host of other things such as game balance, technical depth, general play enjoyment, and of course accessibility. These are very complex subjects that deserve their own discussions. What I’m specifically focusing on in this article is how difficulty can be deployed with purpose, and often has more relevance to the overall design than is often attributed to it, as a simple measure of player competence for the purposes of challenge. I wanted to look at an example of a game where difficulty is an intimate part of its narrative design, where the reactions it illicit is very much a product of how difficulty is utilized.

The idea that difficulty in gameplay can be a narrative tool should be fairly straightforward to grasp when looking at a couple of examples. In Elden Ring, all of your primary boss characters are demigods, children of gods, who once fought over the shards of the titular ring. The demigod Radahn fought his half-sister Malenia to a standstill. Radahn is oft touted as the strongest of all demigods – he holds the stars in stasis by his own power – he takes an entire platoon of elite soldiers in gameplay just to take down! This assertion that Radahn is the strongest remains more or less unchallenged for some time. There are harder bosses, but none that require so much backup to defeat, nor any nearly as hobbled with injury as poor Radahn.

There is a secret and hidden boss, however, another demigod called Malenia, who is still alive. When Radahn is found, Malenia’s power, the same power that has scarred the landscape around Radahn has left him ‘divested of his wits’, and fighting like a wild animal. Malenia, however, is more or less totally lucid, angrily awaiting the return of her missing twin brother and liege lord, Miquella. Malenia has never been in better form – there was nothing stopping her from taking Radahn’s shard of the Elden Ring and yet she did not, so clearly she has no interest in ruling. Indeed her dialogue reinforces the notion that she fought only for loyalty to her brother’s ambitions.

Two warrior women face each other in a lush cavern filled with white flowers. One has red hair and is in golden Valkyrie garb, with a sword. One is in a blue hood, with a spear. The Valkyrie ascends into the air and swings her sword with such ferocity it creates white-hot slashes of air in a blurring flurry around her. The blood-hooded woman runs and rolls around the attacks. — I can practically feel the hairs being shaved off the back of my neck.

Any who’ve fought Malenia will tell you, the idea that Radahn could stand a chance against Malenia in combat, is laughable. They could tell you entirely because of how demanding of a boss she is, how difficult she is tells you the entire story. There’s no possible way she left her encounter with Radahn in defeat, or even in a draw. Her swordsmanship is deadly and near insurmountable, and she hides an even greater power beyond that. She defeated him, and he was left without his senses. She must have left because her brother, the real aspirant to the Elden Ring, went missing. The player will know this intuitively, through experience. They lived it. They will feel it in their bones. Radahn could not have defeated Malenia, and the rest of the story follows. Without Miquella, there would be no reason to collect Radahn’s shard. If you’ve explored the world of Elden Ring thoroughly, this line of thinking is vindicated, as you’ll know Miquella underwent a sudden and shocking disappearance, followed by an extended and secretive absence.

A woman in a blue hood runs her spear through the chest of a taller woman with red hair and golden Valkyrie garb, the stabbed Valkyrie falls onto her back in a pool of blood as the spear is removed. — Difficulty is a marker of power in games, and examining power is essential in stories of conflict

If you’ll indulge me to invoke the first of two quotes from Bennett Foddy, designer of Getting Over It With Bennett Foddy, a notoriously difficult game.

“The act of climbing, in the digital world or in real life, has certain essential properties that give the game its flavor. No amount of forward progress is guaranteed; some cliffs are too sheer or too slippery. And the player is constantly, unremittingly in danger of falling and losing everything.” – Bennett Foddy

All that said, difficulty is not just a mechanical gameplay consideration. Like all aspects of a game, it is an essential part of the cumulative experience. I am of the opinion that if an obstacle within your narrative is meant to be threatening, formidable, out to kill our dear player character, then the player should get the sense that this force is threatening and formidable. To trivialize it, or deny the sensation that there is an opposing force trying to halt the player’s forward motion, is to render the narrative dishonest, and rob it of its power. If conflict is about power, than difficulty is one of the most genuine ways power can be communicated in an interactive system. This isn’t to say that every game needs extreme challenge, or even that every game with conflict is necessarily trying to create the aforementioned sense of opposing force. This is but one type of experience you might seek to create, a goal your art may aspire to. In fact, this is just one way to deploy difficulty as a mode of narrative design. That brings us to Undertale.

The skeleton Sans stands in a black void, above a battle UI overlay. He says "ready?" then suddenly unleashes a barrage of bones and laser beams to attack the player, represented by a red heart-shaped cursor. — “No.”

In Undertale, the story is persistent – and any runs of the game, even when reset, are remembered and color the experience of playing Undertale going forward in little ways. Death and resetting is diegetic, meaning the player character is literally dying and coming back to life at a previous point in time, within the game’s fiction. In this way failure is kind of inherently tied to the narrative. Undertale comes packaged with a few predefined paths to play that present themselves based on how the player tackles obstacles. Killing monsters casually as they come to confront you will result in one of several ‘neutral’ endings, in which the player’s human character escapes the world of monsters, which is left in varying states of disarray as a result. The ‘pacifist’ run will see the player avoiding lethal violence, and reaching out the hand of friendship to major characters to achieve the best world for everyone. The ‘no mercy’ run is the third and most obscure path, in which not only is lethal force deployed against all obstacles, lethal force is deployed against every potential obstacle, wiping out all monsters in the underground.

To do this, the player has to spend an inordinate amount of time trawling around for enemies to fight. Every single one needs to be killed for the No Mercy ending to hold true. This process is long, repetitive, somewhat dull, and even grueling at times. And yet, it remains an immensely popular way to play this already immensely popular game. There is a purpose to all this consternation, though. I think it pretty noncontroversial to say Undertale‘s ultimate message is one of nonviolence – that the best way to solve conflict is through open communication and a curious, empathic heart. The No Mercy run exists as a counterpoint to this message, to prove its efficacy. Killing everything in Undertale is a pain, frankly. It takes a lot of effort but not necessarily the kind of effort a player seeking challenge might be after. More of that exists along the less violent story routes. No, Undertale is instilling through the avenue of frustration that ‘the easy way out’ isn’t always easy, and while ‘the high road’ isn’t always easy either, it’s a heck of a lot more fun than willful cruelty, which is a continuous and conscious effort on the part of the abuser.

And yet, most playing through will persist. They have buy in, and as Undertale expects, most will be curious enough to want to know what happens next, not in spite of the frustration, but perhaps even because of it. One of Undertale‘s most infamous features is the normally comedic, friendly, and jovial character Sans, who is a bit of an internet meme. There’s a lot of reasons for that, but I think one of them has to be his sudden transformation into the game’s greatest and most stubborn challenge. The boss battle against Sans, with one other exception, is the only real challenge in the No Mercy run, with all other opposition crumpling like paper before the player. The player has not had a ramp up in difficulty in this point, and Sans comes out of the gate swinging with one of the most demanding gameplay experiences in modern popular interactive media. No punches pulled here, Sans is meant to be a brick wall of a boss, one that will have to be worn down with patience if it’s to be cleared at all.

Sans the skeleton stares you down from a black void with a battle UI overlay, as the player's heart-cursor, now blue, jumps across platforms littered with bones. — I have SO MUCH patience right now, you wouldn’t believe. Oh god the patience I have.

Fans of Undertale have such a personal relationship with it, and given its immense popularity that is quite impressive. The player at this point, is acting as an agent within the narrative, separate and apart from their controlled character, Frisk, who ambiguously is either mind-controlled by the player, or influenced by the player subtly to act or fight. Sans tries everything he can to appeal to the player to start over, to do anything but follow through on the path they’re on. He pleads, he appeals to humanity, he threatens, and he even cheats. After each failure, Sans comes up with some new unique dialogue with which to taunt and belittle you for trying. The player can come back as many times as they want to try again, so words and his ability to act as an immovable object are Sans’s only real forms of power over you. The ironclad stubbornness of this encounter, the unerring, unflinching confidence in its unreasonableness makes it feel real, like Sans is a thinking actor specifically trying to get under your skin, and make your goal unreachable, and that is what makes it feel personal.

Sans the skeleton says, "sounds strange, but before all this i was secretly hoping we could be friends. i always thought the anomaly was doing this cause they were unhappy. and when they got what they wanted, they would stop."

He then fires a bevy of skull-shaped laser cannons at the player's red cursor. — Oh. Kind of makes me feel bad I’m trying so hard to kil- OH GOD LASERS

Sans isn’t trying to kill you – he knows that is beyond his power. He’s trying to wear you down, to frustrate you, to bore you, whatever it takes to make you give up on your killing spree, and maybe start over, or even give up. The story was very carefully set up to make this a legitimate way to cap off the narrative. In Undertale, the story is persistent – and any runs of the game, even when reset, are remembered and color the experience of playing Undertale going forward in little ways. In Undertale, giving up and starting over is a legitimate and designed-for chapter of the narrative.

The skeleton Sans sends an onslaught of bones and laser beams at the player's heart-shaped cursor, turned blue now. After a moment he sends the blue heart careening into a deadly maze of bones as it flies against its will to the right side of the screen. — What a reasonable amount of garbage that can instantly kill me, on the screen, all at once

Giving up can mean a new beginning, a world where the player is not a force for destruction and misery, but a force for change and friendship. Whenever I play Undertale, I love to play the part of the sinister player destroying the world and its inhabitants for callous entertainment (and in a way, I truly am that), but then our protagonist, Frisk, overtaken by sorrow after killing Sans, is able to wrestle back control and ease me into a more peaceful, and ultimately more fulfilling world. I’ll play a No Mercy run just up until I’ve killed Sans, and no further. I’ll then roleplay the regretful monster, the powerful demon whose lost everything, and has no more mountains to conquer. From there I return, back to the beginning of the game, anew with a desire to learn and try again. Undertale makes failure an avenue for learning and improving at the game yes, but also a potential narrative moment of fulfillment.

I love this scenario. It creates a full arc for me, as the will and intention of the player character Frisk, to go through. It’s a rich narrative that unfolds entirely through gameplay that I get to be a part of. That’s the real magic of difficulty in games for me, it’s something entirely unique to the medium, a level of interactivity other forms of art simply cannot achieve. Sans is blisteringly difficult, to the point that he may even feel antagonistic to the human behind the screen. But the game isn’t trying to punish you, nor look down on you, it’s trying to play with you. It is a game, after all. It is interactive theater, a stage show where you are the star. And maybe just maybe you’ll get something valuable out of the experience.

“Death and rebirth, trying and overcoming—we want that cycle to be enjoyable. In life, death is a horrible thing. In play, it can be something else.“-Hidetaka Miyazaki

You are meant to be along for this emotional ride through joy, through sorrow, through fear, through love, through distress, and yes, through frustration. It’s a frustrating thing to be denied passage, to face an opposing force that’ll do everything in it’s power to stop you. If the art is to be evocative, it may be necessary to instill that sense of frustration. I will deploy the second of two Bennett Foddy quotes, as I admire the way he puts it;

“What’s the feeling like? Are you stressed? I guess you don’t hate it if you got this far, feeling frustrated. It’s underrated. An orange, a sweet juicy fruit locked inside a bitter peel. That’s not how I feel about a challenge. I only want the bitterness. It’s coffee, it’s grapefruit, it’s licorice.” – Bennett Foddy

Sans the skeleton sleeps, standing up, in the center of a screen with a battle UI. A red heart-shaped cursor moves over to the UI button labeled "FIGHT". A slashing effect moves toward Sans, but he slides out of the way and begins to speak, but is cut off by a second attack, which leaves a violent gash across his chest. — Frustration and loss isn’t just a roadblock to joy and catharsis, it’s an essential part of the whole.

Frustration is not the opposite of fun. I think the runaway success of games like Dark Souls, Elden Ring, and Undertale, games that very much use frustration as feature of their storytelling, are strong evidence of this. There are hosts of games that follow similar patterns. When you play and watch people play difficult games as much as I do, you begin to notice that not only is frustration not a deterrent to the fun for most, it often accompanies the highest highs of player’s positive emotional reactions. Art is not a vehicle for merely delivering joy and nothing else. Life is a rich tapestry of a variety of emotions, and if art is to speak truth, then I think it’s worth considering how best to accurately reflect that. I’ve been talking a lot about feelings and emotional reaction, and I can’t overstate how subjective such things can be. You’re walking a fine line when utilizing traditionally negative emotions such as frustration to tell a story. As I said before, difficulty is a very nuanced and complex topic and this is just one aspect of it, one feature of difficulty to consider when configuring the shape of the experience you want to create. Difficulty can be used to tell and legitimize interactive narrative in a very profound way. That said, not all games need to, and by no means should they, take the same shape. Knowing how best to achieve the goals of your design starts with understanding your goals, and understanding the tools at your disposal.

Sans the skeleton sleeps soundly, standing up, in the center of a screen with a battle UI overlay.

You have something called ‘determination.’ So as long as you hold on… so as long as you do what’s in your heart… I believe you can do the right thing…

The Evolving Boss Design of Elden Ring: Godrick The Grafted

Yes, yet another FromSoft post. In my defense, Elden Ring, 2022’s action RPG release, and FromSoftware’s foremost foray into the open world game format is impossibly large, and has proven just as impossible to keep out of my head. Boss battles, with their big climactic set pieces and heightened sense of challenge have always been FromSoft’s bread and butter when it comes to their contemporary era of action games. It seems these games are constantly pushing the envelope of how grotesquely deadly these big baddies can be. The opening boss battles of Elden Ring are a strong showing, coming in with all the bombast, shock, and awe that I’ve come to expect, but I did notice something – a subtle shift in the design for the likes of Margit The Fell Omen and the first major ‘chapter boss’, so to speak, Godrick The Grafted. This new design direction seems to carry forward with the rest of the bosses of the game, so I really wanted to talk about it.

In a castle courtyard, a huge man made of many limbs grotesquely frankenstein'd together swings his axe above his head, summoning gusts of wind upon which he rings up into the air, then slams his axe down on a thief, who dodges out of the way.

For those unfamiliar, combat in FromSoft RPGs generally can be broken down like this; The boss has a pool of attacks and moves from which they will select their action, reactive to the player character’s position relative to themselves. A dragon may swing its tail if the player is behind them, or breath fire if the player is standing at a distance, and such. In response, the player has a number of options including blocking with their shield, moving out of the way of the attack, or avoiding damage with the dodge roll maneuver, which gives the player a brief window of invincibility. The dodge roll is very very powerful, and potentially frees up a hand that would otherwise be occupied with a shield, so the player can two-hand a more powerful weapon, or offhand a second weapon. As such, the dodge roll is traditionally the player’s greatest tool of avoiding harm while they look for punishes, brief windows in which a boss cannot counterattack. These punishes happen when the end of a boss’s action animation precludes them from taking another action for a brief moment. The recoil of swinging a huge axe, for example.

Traditionally, FromSoft RPGs like Dark Souls and the like have a very powerful strategy when it comes to fighting bosses – getting behind them. Though even as far back as Demon’s Souls, many enemies were equipped with back-facing attacks meant to dissuade players from becoming too comfortable back there, the caveat was generally that these back-facing attacks were a lot more manageable than many of the front-facing ones, so circle strafing enemies remained a pretty dominant strategy in most situations, all the way up to Dark Souls 3, with some exceptions, but we’ll get to that.

When I first fought the major boss Godrick The Grafted I found myself failing and dying. A lot. To be expected of the infamously difficult FromSoft RPGs, right? Well sure, but Godrick is a very early game boss, so I had to rethink my approach. Surely the first major boss couldn’t be that difficult. Godrick’s fight is split into two phases, though both operate generally the same. He has a large pool of attack options, but I’ll mention some of the most common ones. First he has what I’ll call his basic attack combo, which he prefers to use on players that are standing medium-close to him, in front of him. It starts with a very slow axe swing to teach players to rely on their eyes for dodge cues, not just prediction, as aggressive predictions tend to result in early dodge rolls that are punished by such slow attacks. He’ll then follow up this axe swing with a series of swipes of his arms and axe, using a combo of variable length. If the player disengages, the combo stops at two attacks, but continues for up to four attacks if the player stays close.

In a castle courtyard, a huge man made of many limbs grotesquely frankenstein'd together brings his axe down on a thief, who ducks and dodges toward the arc of the axe swing, avoiding harm, but getting hit by the grotesque man's swinging arm, just as the thief is standing up. — The hitbox of this move is designed very specifically to catch players getting too close.

This attack presented a bit of a problem for my muscle memory. The dominant strategy of old in Dark Souls was to ‘dodge through’ enemy attacks. If you got the timing right, the invincibility of the dodge roll could carry you through the hitbox of an enemy sword swing, and the best way to do this would be to dodge into the arc of the swing, toward the direction it’s coming from. This minimizes the time your player character and the enemy hitbox intersect, making a successful dodge more likely. This results in a lot of getting behind enemies and proverbially hugging them up close. Try this on many of Godrick’s moves, however, and he’ll have a hasty response.

The better maneuver is to out-range Godrick, and dodge away from him as he attacks, dodging or moving toward him only to punish his openings, although these can be difficult to judge at first because he has so many followups. Remember how I said his basic attack has a variable length? Many many of Elden Ring‘s baddies have followups like that, contingencies to account for the different places the player might be standing to avoid harm, so sometimes what you think is a punishable opening on a boss is simply not.

In a castle courtyard, a huge man made of many limbs grotesquely frankenstein'd together wildly swings his axe at a thief, as the thief sprints away, out of his reach. — Dodging this attack with rolls is theoretically possible, but so high-risk as to be ill-advised

Godrick’s ‘big swing’ attack, as I like to call it, happens when he rears up his axe with both hands slowly, giving the player ample time to reposition themselves in response. This attack has five very large swings, some of which hit in nearly 360 degrees. They’re also very deadly, making standing up close to him equally as deadly. This attack is very punishable, but only at the end of its run. Godrick has a lot of attacks like this, such has his whirlwind, which not only nudges players away in a circle around him with a bit of damage, but is immediately followed by one of two attacks that very difficult to distinguish without the full picture, and dodging the wrong one could mean taking a big hit. A lot of Godrick’s and many Elden Ring enemies’ moves are like this. They are of variable length, and potentially can sweep the player up in a very long combo. It’s not that getting behind a boss is impossible, it’s just not very safe.

Another feature worth mentioning, is the stagger system, somewhat borrowed from Sekiro. All enemies have an invisible value that is diminished when they take a hit, but constantly regenerates over time. If this value hits a certain minimum, the enemy will stagger, and become open to a critical attack. Due to its nature, and the many variables that go into it, this value can be somewhat unpredictable, especially as it is not displayed anywhere, unlike in Sekiro. Previous FromSoft RPGs had systems like this, though they were less powerful, only allowing an extra hit or two when enemies stagger, rather than a chance for big damage. Since the exact moment a boss will stagger is so unpredictable, the best thing to do is to just keep up the pressure, to increase your likelihood of getting a stagger, which naturally makes Elden Ring combat more aggressive and high-tension.

In a castle courtyard, a huge man made of many limbs grotesquely frankenstein'd together leaps into the air riding on a whirlwind and slams his axe down, but his target, a thief, dodges out of the way, then stabs his exposed body several times, causing the hulking man to gush blood, and fall onto his knees. — Whenever a stagger does occur, it creates a rewarding moment of catharsis

Frequently, if you do manage to get behind Godrick he’ll roll out of the way, and quickly prepare another attack. This often results in taking a hit, and disrupts your ability to consistently damage Godrick, meaning you’re less likely to stagger him with this route.

In a castle courtyard, a huge man made of many limbs grotesquely frankenstein'd together rolls away from a thief as the thief positions himself behind the hulking man. As he finishes rolling, the man swings his arms at the thief. — Godrick is quick to respond to unfavorable positioning.

So what’s going on here? Why do the bosses in Elden Ring feel so different? I think I know. It seems to me that a major design goal for the bosses of Elden Ring ties into that verisimilitude I talked about when discussing Sekiro. FromSoft wanted fights in this game to feel more genuine, to reduce the friction between the gameplay and narrative of a life-and-death fight. In a real fight, you’d expect there to be a lot less dancing around opponents and a lot more squaring up, staring them down face-to-face, standing opposite one another as you trade blows. As such, everything about Godrick’s boss design makes him equipped to enforce that scenario. Getting behind him is dangerous, standing too close is dangerous, all defined by Godrick’s particularly designed behavior.

In a castle courtyard, a huge man made of many limbs grotesquely frankenstein'd together takes his own battle axe and slams it into his other arm, screaming all the while, before succeeding in cutting it off, the end of his arm landing bloodily in the foreground. — Extremely normal behavior.

Between a much broader repertoire of tools at his disposal for hitting players at any angle, the ability to quickly reposition himself, and a much more unpredictable, variable moveset that adapts in length and reach to player positions in real-time, fighting Godrick the old way is much less viable. When players have to rethink their approach, they’ll likely come to a similar conclusion I did; the safest place to fight Godrick is in front of him, at a decent distance, where they can see his attacks clearly, and where dodging is less likely to be a death sentence. Compare Godrick to an early boss from the first Dark Souls game.

A rotund demon in a crumbling ruin swings a mighty hammer at a thief, he dodges the swing and rolls behind the demon with ease. The demons stands there for a moment, then swings his hammer feebly in front of him, unable to reach the thief. — Godrick would have killed me three times by now.

Notice how completely unable the asylum demon is to respond to my parking behind his rump. The Asylum demon does have an attack that can reach behind him, but it is exceptionally easy to dodge, with a huge slow windup. Also, it’s only just the one. Outside of trying to butt-stomp the player, the asylum demon really has no options. He can’t reposition himself either. Godrick, on the other hand, can… slam the ground to create a large earthquake in a circle around him, quickly whip up a whirlwing that knocks nearby players way, jump into the air to reposition himself and attack simultaneously, roll away to a more advantageous position, initiate his 5-hit super combo, etc.

Sped-up footage of a thief continuously circling around a large demon, standing behind him as the demon fumbles to try and attack the thief, in an old dimly lit ruin. — Yep, it pretty much just goes like this.

The old way of fighting bosses in Dark Souls was, and still is, fun. Some of the most fun I’ve had in a video game, but FromSoft isn’t a developer to rest on their laurels. The evolution of their boss design seems to be working more and more to create a believable experience with a strong sense of weight and presence. Verisimilitude is a major priority, but not only that, there are a lot of important advantages to designing bosses this way. For one, the player will be able to admire and appreciate the art of the boss they are fighting a lot more from a nice, framed, middle-distance shot, than from standing between their legs (depending on the boss, and the player, I guess..). The clearer framing also makes reading enemy telegraphs a lot clearer and easier. If a player is rightfully standing behind a boss because it’s the safest approach, camera zoomed up way close, they might understandably become frustrated by attacks they cannot see, and won’t determine the reason, succeeding by their strategy in the end, but having less fun in the process. Since so many of a boss’s attacks are triggered by the player position, having the player spend so much time in an awkward position may result in them not even seeing the boss’s coolest most impressive attacks, diminishing the entire set piece.

It seems FromSoft has been working toward this goal of the ‘squared off, face-to-face’ boss battle as a default for a long time. As far back as Dark Souls 2, we saw evidence of this. It is very popular to complain about the enemies’ ability in that game to track the player’s position with their attacks, meaning the enemy’s entire model actively rotates to align itself with player position, making circle strafing a weaker strategy. This worked to an extent, but also was pretty transparently artificial. People really just don’t move that way, spinning on their heel to align the swinging of their arms in a way that defied physics, so much so that my friends and I had taken to calling the process the ‘ballerina twirl’. Bloodborne reduced the ballerina twirling quite a bit, making up for it by giving the player a tool which made squaring up with bosses a lot safer – an extremely powerful frontal parry. Since the player needed their enemies to attack them from the front to succeed in a parry, it became a much more desirable spot to stand. The backstab of Bloodborne, being so slow, also meant circling around was suitable for stealth, but less suitable for active combat. Dark Souls 3 introduced a lot of the standard for how attacks are shaped in these games; big sweeping things that sometimes make as much as 360 degrees around the boss a danger zone. That game also introduced a lot of the adaptability and variability of enemy move-sets that made them more equipped to react to players constantly trying to get behind them.

This new design direction seems to have culminated in Sekiro, which was developed alongside Elden Ring. In Sekiro, parrying is everything, so enemies had to constantly be positioning themselves and the player into a squared off position. A lot of strategies employed to accomplish this seem to have carried over to Elden Ring, adapted to account for the lack of a strong parry, of course. The behavior of Sekiro‘s largest bosses is rather reminiscent of Elden Ring bosses. I can’t say I dislike this new direction FromSoft is taking its boss design. Godrick is a fun and exciting challenge, and one I actually got to see visually in its full glory! Just while recording footage for this post, I was struck by how consistently beautiful and exciting the action looked in motion, so by my estimation the efforts to make fights in Elden Ring feel more genuine, worked.

A hunched, cloaked figure gently caresses the face of a skewered dragon carcass in a castle courtyard. A close up of the figure reveals a six fingered hand.

…And one day, we’ll return together …to our home, bathed in rays of gold…

Torrent of Elden Ring: Gaming’s Most Powerful Horse

My god, so that Elden Ring huh? Certainly has given me a lot to chew on. There are any number of topics I want to write about on that game eventually, from the new approach to boss design, to the integration of more summoned NPCs, the nuances of the tweaked melee combat, the expanded magic toolset, to how the open world has changed the way enemy encounters are designed. So I had to narrow it down, and I want to talk about one of the game’s most prominent new features and a major marketing point of the game – the presence of a horse and mounted combat.

I’ve wanted to, for a while now, do a write up on game design’s strange and somewhat hilarious history with mounted riding animals in a broader sense, but Elden Ring‘s local speedy boy Torrent has given me cause to talk about the ways Fromsoft has distinguished mounted combat and movement specifically. There are a lot of really cool design choices I’ve noticed that went into making Torrent a beast on the battlefield, with combat that feels as good as any of Fromsoft’s previous unmounted offerings. Here are just a few.

Don’t Forget, We’re Playing a Video Game

When I say ‘we’re playing a video game’ I don’t mean to say that player immersion and realism needs to go out the window. Kind of the opposite, actually. I feel like the tendency in some games is to put a lot of physics and terrain based restrictions on how player characters move. Maybe in the name of realism, maybe in the name of feeling cinematic, but often this approach leads to characters that control like tanks, ultimately creating more friction between the player and the experience, not less. My preference is to make the character controlling process as smooth as possible.

Torrent is a horse, and the design makes considerations to make his control feel more like a horse. He doesn’t stop on a dime. He’s got some acceleration and deceleration to him. He can’t turn on a dime, he needs space to swivel his rear around when you about face. Thing is, he doesn’t need that much space, and he doesn’t take that long to reach full speed or come to a stop. Torrent has movement limitations, but only barely enough to convince you he’s moving a like a horse. Fromsoft put the utmost priority into making sure he just moves smoothly, minimizing friction. Even given the very minor limitations placed on mounted movement to give the impression of riding a horse, enough to reinforce verisimilitude, these are somewhat circumvented by the presence of a double jump!

A warrior astride a horned horse leaps over brush and rocks as they ride across a field. To jump over a tree, the horse gains additional height with a spectral magic circle in midair. — Imagine animals actually being able to navigate their environment. Incredible.

Yes, the horse can double-jump, completely redirecting his momentum in midair, enhancing the length and height of his jump in the process. Torrent doesn’t turn as hard as the player can on foot, but he can totally reorient himself by jumping. This mechanic is in place for several very important reasons. First, Torrent is an exploration tool and Elden Ring is filled with very precarious drops and complex terrain geometry. Something a lot of other games featuring horses have stumbled on is how damn incompatible the mounts are with their own game world. Lots of video game horses can move fast, but can’t go anywhere. A glut of limitations on mounted movement can make it too specialized and niche, not versatile enough to be used often.

Torrent doesn’t feel like a second entity your player is fighting to control, but rather an extension of themselves. In that way Torrent is treated more like a vehicle. It’s a compromise, in that this perhaps distances the design from the realism of riding a horse, but for the design goals they were trying to meet, it makes a lot of sense. Those design goals being, that riding Torrent needs to serve as a distinct combat style that feels as seamless and satisfying as grounded combat, an extension of Elden Ring‘s primary gameplay mode.

A Horse Is Much Faster Than You

This is a weird one to see not fulfilled so many times. Part of what makes Torrent so successful as a mount is that he is just a lot more maneuverable than you, the human player. He’s a horse; he can move at like double your top speed. I’ve played an astounding number of games with mounts that don’t feel all that much faster than just walking. The double jump plays into this too. Torrent has horns as well, kind of giving him the impression of a mountain goat, which communicates his exquisite climbing ability. Mountains, cliffs, and ravines are common obstacles in Elden Ring‘s world of the Lands Between. Distinguishing Torrent with his much more robust set of movements for dealing with such obstacles proves his worth to the player, and was very important in cementing his place in the game.

Torrent Isn’t Made of Paper

For a number of reasons, video game horses are often not equipped for combat. Perhaps the game simply does not have a design for mounted combat. Perhaps the design does not account for a constant companion that would throw off the game’s design. Maybe they just thought it’d be awkward if you constantly had a horse following you, biting and kicking goblins. Whatever the reason, horses in games often wind up very weak. Ride them off a two-foot-high outcropping and they crumple like they’re made of paper mache. Get jumped by a dragon, and you’re never seeing that horse again.

First of all, Torrent can fall very very far without issue. He needs to navigate complex environments with a lot of versatility and if he was constantly dying from underneath the player, it just would not be workable. Torrent has knees of steel, and can bound off of cliffs with ease.

A warrior astride a horned horse jump off of a cliff from grassland into a shallow lake. The horse lands gracefully and harmlessly. — Oh no no NO NOT OFF THE CLIFF oh- oh never mind, we’re fine.

What’s more, Torrent is meant to be used in combat, and thus can take a hit or two. In fact, he’s quite a bit more sturdy than even the player. Riding Torrent is a very safe place to be, gameplay wise. He can even take hits for you, depending on the angle of attack. To counteract this big advantage, riding Torrent is given a specific risk. You can take a lot of hits, but if you are knocked off of Torrent, either by losing your balance, or if Torrent dies, you are sprawled onto the ground and left very vulnerable. Re-summoning Torrent will require taking a moment and possibly sacrificing some healing resources.

A warrior astride a horned horse pass in front of a gray dragon, which angrily bites at the duo, drawing blood. The horse stumbles, but quickly composes itself and rides on, warrior still in tow. — Good God this horse is built different.

We’re Just Not Bothering With The Idle Problem

This one is funny to me, but I respect it. If you’ve played a video game with a horse you’ve seen it. The world’s jankiest implementation of entity spawning known to man. I’ve legitimately played a AAA game where I’ve seen a horse pop into existence upon use of the ‘horse summon’ button. The problem is, what do you do with mounted animals when they’re idling, not being ridden? Do they just run off somewhere? What’s the visual of that? How is the horse summoned and where does it come from? Does the horse exist in real-time, meaning it stays where you leave it until you come to pick it up? Torrent kind of just… double-jumps over this problem entirely. When summoned, he appears underneath your player in an instant, and disappears just as instantly when dismissed. Sometimes, the realism of a thing isn’t worth the headache. Torrent works better if his presence is never in question, so it just isn’t.

The side-benefit of this is that Elden Ring can switch between its two combat modes, mounted and on-foot on the fly and seamlessly. Torrent is always available outdoors if you need him. You can even ride Torrent into battle and jump off for a cool dismounting attack.

In a shallow lake dotted with dead trees, a lone warrior whistles on her fingers, summoning a horse that phases out of spectral energy beneath her as she mounts up, and rides toward a large gray dragon in the distance. — Man, I love not even having to think about what stupid stuff Torrent’s Horse AI would get up to.

As Above So Below

This is a straightforward idea, but one that implies a lot of extra work in creating game assets. While mounted, the player is allowed to use basically any attack they can use while unmounted. Making the mounted combat feel seamless and parallel to unmounted combat was very important for Elden Ring, so a lot of extra animation and frame data was created to ensure the player’s preferred weapon and spells were available to them while mounted on Torrent as well.

Combat As a Spatial Problem

As I’ve said before, action combat is mostly all about relative spatial relationships between player and hazard. Where a player is standing when an enemy attacks determines if damage is dealt, etc. A friend of mine pointed out that video games are and have always been, very very good at mapping spatial problems, and with this in mind, real-time combat can often be boiled down to very elaborate spatial problem. Elden Ring‘s mounted combat leans hard into this concept. Normally, combat in Elden Ring and other action RPGs from Fromsoft centers majorly around the dodge roll mechanic, in which well timed button pressed can impart a moment of invincibility that can be used to circumvent damage regardless of positioning, although positioning remains important due to the invincibility window’s briefness.

Torrent does not have a dodge with invincibility frames, this seems to have been the main thrust of distinguishing mounted combat in Eldren Ring from its on-foot counterpart. There are other key differences, of course, but they all seem to revolve around this one major change. Having no iframes on Torrent changes the way one approaches combat immensely. ‘Rolling into’ attacks, so to speak, such that when a dodge roll ends, the enemy’s attack has already moved past the player’s position, is a fundamental strategy normally. But now, keeping your distance is a player’s best method for not getting hit. Since Torrent can’t dodge in the way the player can unmounted, dodging attacks becomes entirely a matter of positioning. In place of a dodge, Torrent has a dash which gives him a quick burst of speed, useful for getting player-seeking projectiles off your tail or outmaneuvering other mounted combatants. So you’re encouraged to always disengage after riding up to an enemy to hit them.

Dead serious, fighting this dragon is an all time great achievement of experiential design

The result of this simple change is that combat much more resembles a series of ride-bys where the player rides up to their foe, hits them quickly, then circles behind or gets out of their reach in some way. There’s a lot of two horses riding past each other in a sort of joust… kind of like how mounted combat actually works, or at least how one might imagine it works! There’s that verisimilitude again! Dang. By removing this seemingly essential tool, Fromsoft has reinforced a method of gameplay that resembles what they are trying to simulate, brilliant! When you can’t dodge with invincibility, you have to outmaneuver danger, and that means riding around and past enemies like you’re an actual mounted cavalry, you can’t just stand squared up to your foe and hit them without expecting to get hit back, and thus you are encourage to be constantly on the move, kind of like you’re on a riding animal. Dang. It just keeps fitting together, doesn’t it?

A warrior astride a horned horse gallop in the foreground as brush and trees rush by, a dragon in the background flies across the sky raining down fire narrowly outpaced by the mounted warrior and his companion. — No amount of rigid unresponsive tank controls would have made this moment feel more cinematic

So this is all well and good, but Elden Ring is an extremely three-dimensional game with a lot of danger happening, left, right, center, up, and down all the time. Torrent needed another tool to avoid damage. Dang, he already has one we’ve talked about, doesn’t he? The damn horse can double-jump. Torrent’s extreme level of vertical maneuverability makes awareness of enemy attacks even more essential, and some can be completely circumvented with well placed and timed jumps. Very little in this, or any video game feels as instantly exhilarating as jumping over a dragon’s flaming gullet, the camera pulled way out to capture the action. Forget harshly limited controls that make characters feel more ‘realistic’ or ‘cinematic’. No, good gameplay can do that just as well.

A warrior astride a horned horse runs up on a large gray dragon in a shallow lake as it begins to breath fire, the horse runs up a large rock and bounds into the air, over the dragon's head. The warrior skewers it with a spear, cutting off the fire breathe and felling the beast. The two ride out, then come to a stop as the words "GREAT ENEMY FELLED" appear. — WOW! Someone get this horse an apple and some sugar cubes.

So yeah. Elden Ring impresses on a number of fronts, but it’s easily got the best mounted combat I’ve ever played. Not that I’ve played a huge number of mounted combat games, but riding Torrent is just as engaging as fighting enemies on foot, which is kind of impressive. The riding in and out to swipe enemies in the side as I pass, jumping over dragons, and covering great distances as I bound over cliffs, it’s all very exciting. Rarely have I had just a smooth experience with mounted animals in games. Fighting that dragon? Almost indescribable how elated I was, to fight a dragon that felt like it had an appropriate sense of danger, scale, and gravitas. Couldn’t have done it without you Torrent, here’s to many more adventures in the Lands Between.

Torrent has chosen you. Treat him with respect…

Boss Breakdown: Bloodborne’s Blood-Starved Beast

You step into a large chapel overgrown with sickly vines and eerily empty, save for one hunch-over figure at the back, nearest the chapel shrine. It stalks toward you like an animal as its boss music kicks in, and you’re introduced to its name: Blood-Starved Beast. The Blood-Starved beast is a mid-game boss in FromSoft’s action RPG Bloodborne. Though technically optional to complete the game, Blood-Starved is centrally located, and gatekeeps one of the game’s major features; the chalice dungeons. It is thus likely to be a boss that most players encounter toward the start of Bloodborne‘s mid-game. This malnourished and emaciated figure fights with the ferocity of a starved predator, and its design backs up this idea while also serving appropriate functions within the overall experience of Bloodborne.

A hunter in a long black coat and tricorn hat pushes through a wall of fog into a run down stone chapel, lined with columns and torches. A lone figure, on all fours, slowly trudges toward the hunter from the distant shrine of the chapel. — FromSoft really knows how to set the scene

My philosophy when it comes to design, and especially in regards to big set-piece combat encounters like this is to reinforce the overall feel and experience of the game. It’s one of the reasons I so admire FromSoft’s design ethos overal.. Bloodborne, at this point in its story, is a visceral gothic horror about hunting horrible, bloody beasts. It’s gritty, it’s guttural, and it’s dangerous. The blood-starved beast begins to reinforce Bloodborne‘s overall aesthetics and feel from the moment you see its visual design. It’s a hunched-over, somewhat skeletal, feral humanoid figure with large portions of its skin bloodily peeled from its back, and draped over its head like a shawl. It’s a gruesome sight that reflects the environments and tone of Bloodborne. It fights with a hunter’s aggression, homing in on the player with a ravenous intent, keeping the fight high-intensity. The Blood-Starved beast is a quintessential representation of Bloodborne‘s hunt. It’s bloody, it’s animalistic, brutal, and imminently deadly.

A hunter in a long black coat and tricorn hat runs at a semi-humanoid skeletal beast, who charges at him on all fours, before wildly swiping at the air with large claws. — This thing’s animations and attacking pacing create a frantic sense of danger

Blood-Starved’s sense of danger is essential to making its fight come together. It needs to feel as though this thing could rip out your throat at any moment, a violent, unstable, rabid animal. This is most embodied in its grab attack, which does a huge amount of damage and can potentially kill a player outright. Highly lethal attacks like this are a favorite of FromSoft’s design to establish the threat of their enemies, and keep them oppressive. The ever-present looming promise of an attack that can potentially outright end the fight in a game over keeps the player on their guard, and shores up the tension. That said, such attacks can feel cheap and unfair if not handled carefully. If an attack is extremely deadly, best practice is keep it predictable and telegraphed, so if the player does fail to avoid it, they don’t feel as though they were blindsided, and the mechanic remains one of skill in the player’s mind, not a random vector of bad luck. The Blood-Starved Beast assumes a very particular posture, it’s normally gyrating and animated movements become still, and focused, it’s arms almost exactly shoulder-width apart in an even stance. This stance really stands out once you know to look for it, rewarding close observation of the boss, which is a standard for FromSoft enemy encounter design, something they are very much always looking to reinforce.

A hunter in a long black coat and tricorn hat strikes a vaguely humanoid skeletal beast with an overhead swing of a large battleaxe. The beast reels, but then assumes a steady, wide stance, before leaping at the hunter, who barely dodges out of the way. — After the first axe strike, you can see the beast assume this very still, square stance, a clear telegraph for its deadly grab attack, seen here missing the player.

On the more usual and rote side of things, the Blood-Starved Beasts’s primary attacks almost exclusively are aimed in front of it, and they have very little player tracking, meaning just a bit of movement will move the player out of danger. If the player moves too far away, however, the beats will initiate a Dashing attack that covers a lot of ground, to reset the neutral positions of the fight. These patterns, while predictable and simplistic, create the very strong spacial dynamics of the fight.

Blood-Starved’s quick attacks and short response time make it dangerous to approach, and risky to engage in close combat. As an early-to-mid-game boss, Blood-Starved functions to help really cement the player’s skillset and prepare them for the steeper challenges that are to come, and it does so by emphasizing Bloodborne‘s parry mechanic, in which players shoot an oncoming attacker with a firearm just before being hit, stunning the enemy and preparing them for a visceral counter-attack. It’s a powerful option that can carve through enemy health bars quickly, and will remain useful throughout the rest of the game, so Blood-Starved really pushes the player to master this. Its attacks are fast but reactable, wide-reaching but mostly short-ranged, perfect for being parried by the player’s firearm. If the player utilizes the parry and visceral attack, the difficulty of the Blood-Starved Beast can be curbed to a great degree, rewarding mastery of the skill.

A hunter in a long black coat and tricorn hat is attacked by a vaguely humanoid skeletal beast who swings with its immense claws horizontally, striking the hunter just as he blasts the beast with a flintlock pistol. The beast reals from the gunshot, so the hunter grabs it by the neck, and violently rips out a gush of fluid, sending the beast flying onto its back. — Even though the player takes damage here, he is able to rally all of his health back thanks to a well-timed, aggressive parry, while grievously harming the boss to boot.

Later on in the fight, The Blood-Starved Beast will start to string a long series of attacks together. With a maneuver like this, the beast is more likely to get some licks in, to give players more opportunity to leverage the health-restoring rally system, which rewards reprising attackers. It also punishes a lack of attention paid. Once the attack begins to hit a player, it is not difficult to disjoint with a dodge so the remaining hits miss, but being caught unaware could mean quickly and drastically losing health. There is one more feature to this attack though, which is that, since it’s a rapid series of strikes it makes parrying it very easy. A lot of times FromSoft will employ rapid attacks like this that seem very intimidating, but realizing how parrying works – that it requires player input to intersect with a certain part of an enemy’s attack animation, means knowing that if you try to parry one of these rapid attacks you are very likely to succeed, as the enemy’s ‘vulnerable’ animation is flashing past over and over again, and it only needs to be snagged by your parry attempt once. As I supposed this boss is meant to greatly reinforce the use of Bloodborne‘s parry, I suspect this is one of the primary reasons for the presence of this attack, a reliable parry opportunity. It’s a powerful attack, but it can be turned against the beast, with an equal and opposite counter.

At the same time, Blood-Starved maintains the standard formula of FromSoft’s boss design through a moveset that reinforces spacing and timing. If the player is unable to master the parry mechanic, Blood-Starved is surmountable through diligent use of spacing. Fast yet telegraphed melee attacks make engaging with it directly from the front infeasible without parrying, so circling around behind can be effective. The boss’s preferred response to this is to create distance between itself and the player, which effectively sets up for it’s leaping grab attack or dashing slash attack, both of which require precise timing to avoid. This makes the boss feel proactive and responsive to the player’s actions, while ensuring player’s are unlikely to escape the battle without seeing their enemy’s most deadly attacks. Circle strafing it is an effective tactic, but not one that carries no risk. In a game that relies so much on its atmosphere, this illusion of a thinking and responsive agent behind enemy AI is essential.

A hunter in a long black coat and tricorn hat steps to the side as a vaguely humanoid skeletal beast tries to bite him. He responds with a strong vertical swing of his battle axe. — The best mainly will attack forward and in front of itself, making circle-strafing very effective

Once The Blood-Starved beast has taken significant enough damage, it will begin the first of two phase transitions, marked by a screeching roar it lets loose. Starting in phase 2, its attacks will now apply poison to the player. The addition of poison to the fight accomplishes two things. One, it ramps up the tension and danger of the encounter. If you’re hit by the beast too many times, even if you’ve got enough healing to recover from the damage, you’ll be poisoned and a constant ticking clock will hang over you. This punishment effectively sets the standard of how often the player should expect to successfully dodge boss attacks without incurring major disadvantages in the future, establishing their expectations accordingly. Secondly, the building of a slow poison encourages a more aggressive playstyle, which is one of Bloodborne‘s chief design goals and hallmarks, which sets it apart from its more slow and calculating predecessors, Dark Souls and Demon’s Souls. Players in high-intensity situations will often try to ‘turtle-up’, so to speak, avoiding direct encounters so-as to preserve their resources and maximize safety. This is somewhat the opposite of Bloodborne‘s strengths as an action game, so FromSoft went to great lengths to reward proactive behavior.

A hunter in a long black coat and tricorn hat fires his pistol repeatedly at a vaguely humanoid skeletal beast as it mills about on the floor. After a moment, it screams and rears up, a cloud of toxic mist emanating from its body and its wounds. — The poison is mechanically functional in gameplay, but also very stylish and intimidating

The presence of the poison’s ticking clock communicates that your resources will be depleted if you don’t return a good amount of strikes that the Blood-Starved Beast can dish out to you, complemented by Bloodborne‘s rally system, which restores health if player damage is followed quickly by successful attacks against enemies. Blood-Starved serves as an excellent tool for engendering a more aggressive playstyle that matches the frantic and gritty nature of Bloodborne’s encounters. Phase three sees this pushed further, with clouds of poison now spewing from the beast’s wounds in all directions as it attacks. Spacial awareness becomes even more pivotal, and reliance on just one strategy becomes dicey. Players who can utilize a variety of approaches based on the situation, and do so proactively and aggressively, will find the final phase of the Blood-Starved Beast much smoother.

If a player is too risk-averse or simply not yet up to playing very aggressively, there are alternative solutions to besting the beast for the more strategically-minded. ‘Antidotes’ are plentiful from the carrion crow enemies that dot the level leading up to Blood-Starved Beast, and keeping them handy can put off the pressure from poison, if you find a moment to take one in-between dodging attacks. The pungent blood cocktail, a common item meant to distract the bloodthirsty minor beasts players can encounter, appropriately, works on the Blood-Starved Beast. It will become distracted if one is thrown, and clamor after the small traces of blood within. It’s really refreshing to see that kind of flavorful ingenuity that relies on knowledge of the game’s fiction be rewarded that way. Purely from a gameplay perspective, it might not be obvious that an item like that would work, but from a narrative standpoint it makes perfect sense. Anyway, I always appreciate these little alternate routes to victory in difficult games. Thinking around a problem is as impressive a show of skill as tackling it head on, and players should be encouraged to do so. Reward experimentation.

Blood-Starved is an extremely effective mid-level fight, I think. It’s rather straightforward with its only real gimmick coming in the form of the poison, which as I explained, fits rather well in what the beast’s design utility is. That is, the beast is at home in Bloodborne‘s oppressive atmosphere, with its oppressive combat style, and helps to reinforce a lot of Bloodborne‘s combat fundamentals leading up to the more advanced challenges that await afterward. Players who find themselves able to fight aggressively, and reliably perform parries, counters, and sidesteps, will find themselves well equipped for what comes after. You might say the Blood-Starved Beast is a ‘skill check’ in that way. Designs that focus on both teaching the player abstract technical concepts while engrossing them in the atmosphere of the world is what FromSoft does best in its boss design, and I think the Blood-Starved Beast is pretty emblematic of that.

A hunter in a long black coat and tricorn hat is struck multiple times by a vaguely humanoid skeletal beast, then backs away. He injects himself in the outer thigh with something, then dodges out of the way as the beast tries to bite him.

Hunters are killers, nothing less…

Rethinking ‘Health’ as Game Mechanic: Sekiro’s Verisimilitude

Talking about Sekiro again. Sekiro is a ninja action game by FromSoftware, that involves a lot of sneaking around and backstabbing, but nearly as much sword-to-sword clashing and front-stabbing as well!

A ninja in a red coat and scarf attacks a spearman in an old-japanese-style interior. The ninja is stabbed, but blocks the followup attack, breaking his opponent's guard before stabbing him through. — That beautiful yellow bar there, that’s the posture bar. Love that thing. We’ll get to that.

Verisimilitude! A big word, and one of my favorite ‘game-designerisms’. What exactly does it mean? So if realism is invocation of the real, of reality upon your fiction, verisimilitude in the context of game design is the invocation of what seems real, or rather feels right to give the impression of reality. That distinction might seem fuzzy, but it’s very important. What makes a game realistic is an adherence to the facts of the subject you are simulating, from an objective standpoint. What gives a game strong verisimilitude is a respect for the experience of what you’re trying to depict. In the latter case, it is more important that the gameplay feels right than it is for the game to be objectively close to reality. A horse’s hooves are expected to make a certain sound in television and movies, but this sound is often expected to be the sound of clapping coconut shells, instilled in audiences after many years of the sound effect’s prominence in television and movies. As you can see, creating a fulfilling sense of verisimilitude involves a complex balance of player expectations and affordances. This becomes even more complex, as these things tend to be, when you involve the dimension of interactivity. In Sekiro, I want to talk specifically about the verisimilitude of the game’s sword fighting.

I think one of the things I respect most about Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice is the design’s willingness to reevaluate even the most fundamental assumptions of action games. The health bar, for one, is ubiquitous in such games. But, if you think about it, ‘health’ as a gameplay mechanic is a little weird, right? There is an arbitrary number representing your opponent’s closeness to death. Maybe the enemy will pull out some stronger ‘desperation moves’ when their health gets low, but so long as it isn’t zero, they can fight as well as they ever have. When that last HP or ‘hit point’ is depleted though, POOF! Their body’s ability to sustain its own weight goes up in smoke and they crumple like their bones have suddenly turned to sawdust. The HP mechanic exists for a reason, it works well. The suspension of disbelief needed to accept this abstraction of how fighting capability works is easy enough to achieve such that most players will not question it, in return for the fun gameplay that HP pools provide. Sekiro wants to go a step further though, and bring the abstraction of their combat closer to a cinematic realization of an idealized sword fight.

A ninja slashes a flurry of blows at a spearman in a old-japanese-style interior. The ninja steps on an oncoming spear attack, knocking it out of the way, then breaks the spearman's guard with a final blow, before stabbing him to death. — The enemy’s posture indicated by a yellow bar above them (the red bar is HP). As the posture bar fills, the enemy is closer to loses their stance.

In reality, a sword fight does not involve two guys hitting each other back and forth until one guy runs out of hit points and collapses. Really, it’s closer to the first guy to land a clean hit… has probably just killed his opponent. So Sekiro has created a system that abstracts this reality – Sekiro is not generally a game about cutting opponents over and over again until you’ve punched out all of their blood, but rather, you strike at opponents as they deflect your blows until you can land a clean hit, killing them instantly. This makes a lot of sense. In a real fight, wearing down your opponents’ defenses, finding ways around their guard, is paramount. Most opponents are not going to just stand there and let you stab them with a sword. The idea Sekiro proposes is that ‘hit points’ are secondary to ‘posture’, or the strength of one’s defenses.

Two ninja duel in a Japanese manor courtyard, one garbed in grey and a mask, one garbed in a red coat and scarf. The masked ninja strikes at the other several times, each time deflected in a flurry of sparks, after the fourth strike, the masked ninja loses his stance, and the red-coat ninja quickly stabs him to death. — clang, clang clang, CLANG. And its over. The nature of the posture system creates a ‘correct’ sense of lethality and back-and-forth in combat.

Posture in Sekiro can be reduced by striking an opponent’s guard to rattle their stance, deflecting their attacks with a well-timed parry, or participating in a number of other contextual maneuvers such as the mikiri counter, a special counter against thrusting attacks, or jumping over enemy sweeping attacks. Posture naturally regenerates over time, and the player or enemy combatants can quickly restore it by holding their position and guard. When posture is completely gone, enemies become vulnerable to a deathblow, which will kill them instantly, while the player becomes stunned if their posture is gone, forcing them to dodge or take a hit. The idea of becoming too tired or psyched-out to defend myself in a tense situation due to relentless pressure from my opponent is much more relatable to me than suddenly exploding into red mist and collectible coins because I was punched one too many times. I am able to, through this system, put a bit of myself in the battle. Feeling my defenses wear down is something I have really experienced, in real life, so that feeling of the real draws me further into the game through Sekiro‘s clever abstraction of the concept.

Deathblows becomes the real hinging point of combat in Sekiro. As I said, whenever an enemy’s posture is depleted, they become vulnerable to the instant-killing deathblow. I say instant-killing, but some enemies can endure two or even three deathblows before really dying. Sekiro takes places in a fictionalized and fantasy-tinged realization of 16th century japan, with inhuman warriors, monsters, and demons, so the idea that a giant ogre-man can survive two ‘clean hits’ before he goes down for good does nothing to hurt the verisimilitude in my estimation. It’s not realistic, but it still feels right. The thought that even the strongest demigod opponents you face can be brought down by just two or three true strikes really grounds the world in a sense of grit and lethality. The illusion is given that life in Sekiro is nearly as fragile as it is in reality, even with divine powers. These ‘deathblow counters’ work brilliantly with Sekiro‘s stealth mechanics as well, as one needs only sneak up on an opponent to get a free deathblow, no risky one-on-one fighting required. The two systems work so well together that I feel I could write an entire article just about that, so I’ll move on for now.

A giant white, headless gorilla charges a ninja in a red coat and scarf in a knee-high spring in a valley. The gorilla, wielding a giant sword and its own severed head, swipes at the ninja. The ninja manages to block, being pushed back by meters with each p;arry. — The verisimilitude of the combat mechanics highlights and heightens the impact of the supernatural elements. So it still works when a beast keeps fighting after decapitation.

Now hit points still exist in Sekiro, but their role has been shifted somewhat. Enemies will still die if their HP reaches zero, though this is much less likely to occur than their posture reaching zero. That’s not to say wearing down your opponent’s HP is pointless. The lower a combatant’s HP is, the slower their posture can regenerate. Now if HP is still meant to represent ‘health’, then this makes a lot of sense. A clean hit is likely to just kill someone in a sword fight, but a series of glancing blows are very likely to make someone less able to defend themselves. Cuts, bruises, a broken finger or two, such things would definitely add up to a poorer and poorer defense, and so this adds to the overall sense of internal consistency in Sekiro‘s combat. No matter the true reality, fighting in Sekiro creates an experience that meets the player’s imagination of how being a sword-fighting ninja would actually work. This level of gradient to the effects of losing HP, where the more injured a combatant, the worse they can defend themselves, addresses much of the inherent weirdness of HP I mentioned earlier, and it does it in such a simple, smart fashion.

Verisimilitude is all well and good, but I wanted to quickly go over some other practical advantages of this system. Since posture is an ever-shifting and renewable resource, it creates a very dynamic tension that can shift back and forth freely as the situation demands. Empowering reversals of fortune on the part of the player are common, as posture greatly rewards consistent performance, making a win when you’re on the ropes a lot more feasible than you might expect. Posture also allows many little tweaks and knobs for the designers to create a great variety of enemy fighting styles based on their posture stats alone. Maybe one boss restores their posture absurdly quickly, but doesn’t have huge stores of it, meaning this boss must only be parried a few times, but they cannot be given the downtime to recover. Maybe another boss has huge stores of posture, but recovers it very slowly. Some enemies might recover posture quickly, but lose this advantage if they’re even a little injured. Etc. There are a huge number of possible variations of these, and Sekiro implements pretty much all of them.

A twelve-foot-tall woman in a skull mask and large monk robes swings a naginata polearm in wide arcs at a ninja in a red coat and scarf, atop a bridge in the mountains, covered in snow and autumn leaves. The ninja is able to deflect several strikes, then steps on the naginata to block it, The ninja cuts the monk twice, then blocks two more strikes, before leaping over a sweeping attack and stomping her shin, breaking her stance, and stabbing her. — The versatility of the posture system can create endurance battles of attrition, or deadly quick-draw duels, depending on context.

Obviously glowing praise is my default position for much of Sekiro‘s systems, but it’s worth mentioning some drawbacks. Sekiro‘s posture system works specifically because of how intense a game it is. It demands constant, focused attention of players in a way that may not be appropriate for every game experience. It’s very much ‘Sekiro‘ but every action game may not benefit from such high levels of gameplay intensity so consistently, and so the posture system isn’t a one-size-fits-all solution that can be injected into every action game without adaptation considerations or consequences. I would like to see more systems like the posture system see popularity, but it is a very delicately balanced system that would demand a lot of care in the implementation. Just plain old HP is much simpler, and it’s been the de facto way to represent combat in so many games for so long for a reason. As I’ve said before, the level of abstraction it creates can be an acceptable tradeoff if it’s supported by a strong combat system, and the simplicity of it fits your game. Another aspect of Sekiro‘s posture system is not only the gameplay intensity, but the intensity on the player’s hand in controlling the thing. The system demands a lot of very rapid and often repetitive inputs that may not be suited for all players. It’s an obvious drawback, perhaps not inherent to a posture system, but correlated to how it’s implemented, and so the system would likely need some fundamental changes and re-tuning to map to a more inclusive suite of control options.

I think the posture system is a great look at how we can rethink the traditionally established rules of how games need to be. Creating new and exciting interactive experiences means being willing to accept that no one game mechanic can be sacred, even if it is ubiquitous. HP bars are so universally standard that any deviation from that mold feels almost alien. The posture system picks apart what HP is meant to represent and repackages it in a way that is extremely conducive to the kind of ninja-action experience Sekiro aims to create, in a way that is evocative of the real, even if it is still very abstract. Sekiro‘s posture system isn’t purely realistic, it’s not what sword combat actually looks like, but it feels very real to experience. It feels like pitched life-or-death battle with high stakes, and real tension.

A ninja man in a red coat and scarf clashes swords with an old woman ninja dual wielding kunai. She jumps from a hidden wire connected to the walls of a crypt-like cellar. Her attacks are deflected repeatedly by the red-coat ninja before losing her stance and being stabbed.

My Lord, I Have Come For You. This… Will Only Take A Moment…