P.N. 03 (2003, Gamecube)

Capcom was on fire in the early '00s. The Dreamcast allowed for nearly arcade-perfect ports of their late 2D masterpieces Marvel vs. Capcom 2, Street Fighter III: Third Strike, and Capcom vs. SNK 2 in 2001. These games were stunning to behold and to play. Third Strike is regarded by many fighting enthusiasts as the greatest fighting game of all time. It was a tournament staple from 2001-2012 or so, and still commands a huge following on online emulators like GGPO and XBOX Live.

But the release of the Gamecube, and XBOX coupled with the success of the PS2 squished the Dreamcast around 2003, 2D gaming with it. It was obvious that Capcom could no longer get by on 2D arcade ports and was forced to enter the 3D action gaming arena. They did so with flourish. In 2002, Mikami Shinji announced five games for the Gamecube, each promising the ingenuity of Capcom's late 2D fighters. Those games were Killer 7, directed by an up-and-coming Goichi Suda; Dead Phoenix, a lush Panzer Dragoon-style rail shooter; Viewtiful Joe, still one of the most visually compelling 2D action game; Resident Evil 4 of which nothing need be said; and P.N. 03, no doubt the least-recalled member of the "Capcom Five" aside from the ultimately cancelled Dead Phoenix.

History's snub of P.N. 03 isn't entirely unwarranted. Today, there are plenty of mechanically better third-person shooters to play, not the least of which is Resident Evil 4. Compelling gameplay is not the reason you should play P.N. 03 today. Play Sin & Punishment 2 for a similar game better in nearly every way. I say "nearly" because of the one department in which P.N. 03 still captivates: its aesthetic.

Mikami Shinji games unfailingly have great, distinguishing senses of atmosphere. Resident Evil's barren mansion halls were unlike anything that came before it. Devil May Cry's gothic castle, with its high ceilings and expansive corridors, still inspires agoraphobia. P.N. 03's atmosphere was designed using the same medium: emptiness and sterility. The bleach-white halls are redolent if 2001: A Space Odyssey's. Everything in the game is metal--everything except for the skin of Vanessa, the player avatar and one of the most unfairly overlooked protagonists of the PS2 era.

Its not just Vanessa's flesh that sets her apart from her bleak surroundings, but the way she moves. The games enemies are stiff, expressionless robots. Vanessa, constantly in motion, stands out among them. She cartwheels, and backflips with fluidity. She gyrates her hips when executing a special attack. When idling, she taps her feet to the beat of the background music. Shots are fired and enemies spawn to the beat of P.N. 03's music. Everything in the game seems to be able to hear it, but only Vanessa is in conversation with it--her gyrating and foot-tapping are her way of contributing back to the music, talking to it, and talking to you.

Highest Recommendation

Tecmo Classic Arcade: Tecmo Bowl (1987, 2005, Xbox)

I know this is cheating a little, but bear with me…

I’ve spent most of this blog mourning. I’ve lamented the lost arts of obstacle placement and locomotion and the developer psychology of player psychology and of caring. Now I write about a game where nobody cared about any of these things, least of all caring. And it’s a great game precisely because they didn’t.

Don’t get me wrong. I maintain that all first-person shooter developers should aspire to Takahashi Meijin no Bouken Jima’s mastery of enemy placement and to Compile’s inventiveness and re-inventiveness. But that’s not to say these are necessary ingredients to a great game. Happy accidents can and have happened. The move cancelling mechanic that defined Street Fighter II and, as a result, all 2D fighting games, was a glitch. In 2002, the discovery of another Street Fighter glitch, roll-canceling to give moves unintended invincibility, reinvigorated a stagnant Capcom vs. SNK 2 scene, turning CvS2 into an entirely new game. In 1987, a game of serendipitous accidents would be released in arcades. It would be buried by the legacy of its sequels and forgotten until its 2005 Tecmo Arcade Classics release. Then it would be forgotten again.

 

That game is Tecmo Bowl (1987). Not the NES Tecmo Bowl (1989), the original arcade game. Tecmo Bowl was a relative arcade success, but on the rare occasion when it finds its name in print today, is typically written off as an ugly stepping stone on the way to the greatness that is the worshipped Tecmo Super Bowl series. But do not be seduced by Tecmo '89's licensed NFL teams or selectable plays or differentiable players or, uh, field goals, because Tecmo '87 holds up to competitive player better than any of the console Bowls because of its free-wheelin’, no-playbook-havin’ spontaneity--not being tethered to a scripted play kindles creativity. It’s also more balanced than '89: you don’t lose a down because your opponent successfully guessed one of your four available plays, and both teams—yes, there are only two teams—are identical. It’s also more intense: the inability to punt or attempt field goals makes every 4^th down a white knuckle affair. It's also more skill-based: fumbles weren’t coded into the game, mitigating luck’s influence.

The exclusion of fumbles, punts, field goals, and play books is what makes Tecmo great. These were not conscious, progressive design choices. These were mechanics that, as legend has it, were omitted because the developers didn’t understand them. The Japanese programmers at Tecmo weren’t football fans. Supposedly, their only reference point for the game was a rulebook. Dimitri Criona, former director of sales and marketing for Tecmo USA, testifies:

The guys who did the game literally sat down with an NFL rulebook and read the rules of football. And because of that, they were able to program a game without bias. If you take an American programmer, he is going to have some biases about the game. But if you take a Japanese programmer, he’s going to create a program that follows the rules. (Power Up, 219)

The idea of a football game without elective kicking being “a program that follows the rules” aside, there is something to be said for unfamiliarity, removal, and leaving oneself open to inspiration (more on this later), which I think is what Criona means by “unbiased.” An under-contrived game is less likely to be a good game than an over-contrived one, but it’s also less likely to be boring. Sure, Day Z and its ilk are objectively better multiplayer games, but what’s honestly more appealing: collecting sticks and rocks for use in heavy-handed crafting systems, or hurling a so-high-it-leaves-the-screen 4^th-and-28 Hail Mary to your buddy as he freestyles a route on his way to the end zone? Both games are about using limited resources creatively and the liberation of constraint (see also: writing poetry that conforms to meter). But I’ve seen a friend empty a celebratory beer over his head while playing only one. See if you can guess which.

It was the second thing. It was Tecmo.

 Highest Recommendation

Pochi to Nyaa (2003, PS2)

Compile’s Puyo Puyo series (Puyo Pop, Dr. Robotnik’s Mean Bean Machine, and Kirby’s Avalanche in America) was a curious thing. Every iteration was more complex than the last while remaining just as accessible as the one that preceded it. Typically, puzzle game franchises heap new mechanics on top of gimmicks, diluting original concepts beyond recognition. There is a reason Tetris 2’s bomb mechanic was abandoned after one game. Bombastic buries Devil Dice’s elegance in trick pieces. Puzzle Bobble (Bust-a-Move) became so clogged with additions that the value of planning and placing a shot was subsumed by player knowledge of a given iteration’s recondite rules and tricks. But Compile beat the odds.

Every Puyo Puyo had a unique wrinkle. Some were better than others, but every Puyo Puyo was good. What’s more unusual: Puyo Puyo sequels never rendered their predecessors obsolete. Puyo Puyo~n’s (1999) character-specific attacks are fun. So are Puyo Puyo Sun (1996) unique sun pieces. So is working doubly hard to eliminate Puyo Puyo Tsu’s (1994) lead pieces. And so is delaying retaliation with Pochi to Nyaa’s (2003) detonators.

This is the way detonators work: matching colored pieces does not immediately clear them. Instead, clearing pieces requires a piece and like-colored detonator. You can change your piece to a detonator with a button press as it's falling. That’s it.

 

What does the addition of detonators accomplish? It heightens tension. Executing a combo built around a detonator (or two, or three) is potentially devastating to your opponent, but spending too much time orchestrating a combo leaves you at risk of having your detonators buried in “garbage,” defusing your combo and leaving you with a pile of problematic pieces to deal with. Unprecedented combo potential and the risk of its pursuit intensify the tension between risk and reward, between Do I and Don’t I. This is the kind of stuff great designers think about. This is the kind of stuff great designers think about you thinking about.

I write about Pochi to Nyaa not only because it’s a great puzzle game with a charming aesthetic and a challenging single player mode, but because it’s a great sequel. Sequels are too often designed by addition: more maps, more guns, more characters. This approach is boring and wasteful. Once Super Street Fighter IV was released, there was no reason to revisit Street Fighter IV. Pochi to Nyaa doesn’t offer anything more than the game that came before it, Puyo Puyo~n. It offers something different; something new. Compile was masterful in designing by reduction and by transmogrification. I am sad to see them go, but am happy they left with dignity. Pochi to Nyaa is their design philosophy, their creativity, their sense of whimsy, and their Teddy Ballgame last-career-at-bat homerun.

Highest Recommendation