Guacamelee! is a game where your character dies within the first five minutes after failing to save his childhood sweetheart from a man so evil, he out-eviled the Devil himself.

It’s one of the funniest games I’ve ever played.

This 2013 metroidvania from Drinkbox Studios is renowned for adopting a tone that isn’t afraid to get a little silly. I mean, for goodness’ sake, the game is called Guacamelee! I didn’t even need to insert that exclamation point to emphasise how ridiculous the title is—the exclamation point is part of the title! ← I added this one, though 😊

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Despite the inherently tragic story setup of the protagonist, Juan, being immediately killed by the game’s main villain, Guacamelee! never takes itself too seriously. Its jubilant aesthetic, inspired by Mexico’s Day of the Dead, bursts off the screen—even within the afterlife levels. The dialogue is sharp and packed with gags. And there are enough references and nods to other video games dotted around the map to fill an Ernest Cline novel.

I’ve written before about how, as a medium, video games have a particularly challenging time sticking the landing for a joke or anything that’s meant to elicit a chuckle from the player. Humour is obviously subjective and even though we play games because they are fun, we don’t typically gravitate towards them because they are funny. Crucial comedic elements such as timing, writing, delivery, and joke construction are harder to translate to an interactive art form like gaming. As such, when a game does try to be funny, it opens itself up to further criticism given the high standards humour are held to—standards that are also going to vary wildly from person to person.

Guacamelee! has not escaped this criticism. Over the years, I’ve heard people call this game’s style of humour cringe and overly reliant on referential comedy. And if you are one of those people, then that’s completely fine! Like I said, what makes you chuckle and what doesn’t is completely up to you. What I personally know to be true is that whenever I play Guacamelee!, it always puts a smile on my face.

Let’s start by addressing the abundance of references and Easter eggs scattered throughout Guacamelee!, as that seems to be the main point of criticism when people deride the game’s humour. Rightly or wrongly, there’s an opinion that all the nods to classic 80s and 90s video games scattered throughout the game’s story and setting are a lazy way for the developers to add some colour to the experience. To which I say: I agree. Except for the part about it being lazy.

Yes, Guacamelee! references a lot of retro games—some in obvious ways, while others are more hidden. But these nudges and winks are almost always integrated in a way that feels organic within the world of the game. Instead of there simply being a Mega Man sprite front and centre, its silhouette is instead carved within the brickwork of a town’s wall. Rather than showing Mario and Luigi as, well, Mario and Luigi, they are depicted as a pair of Luchadores in a poster that organically adopts the game’s art style. Discovering these references feels genuinely rewarding while demonstrating the clear lengths the developers went towards weaving their passion for these older games into their own work.

I will admit that Guacamelee!’s references to various early-2010s memes do feel a bit, well… cringey. It certainly dates the game seeing allusions to Business Cat and Foul Bachelor Frog. Thankfully, these meme Easter eggs are nowhere near as prominent as those connected to video games, so I’m not too bothered. Any game that features a gag about one of the wanderers from Journey collapsing near the summit of a mountain gets a comedic free pass in my books, every day of the week.

It also helps that Guacamelee! is just a really solidly designed metroidvania. Yes, the tongue-in-cheek humour adds a lot to the game’s tone. But first and foremost, this game invests in making the act of playing it fun. The map design is superb, almost all mechanics have a dual purpose between platforming and combat, and the difficulty curve is as fine-tuned as any title in this genre. It’s always going to be easier for a game to make you laugh when you’ve already been smiling the entire time.

And when Guacamelee! does try to blend its sillier tone with its gameplay, the results are usually great. Juan’s ability to transform into a chicken is just as ridiculous as it sounds. But while chicken Juan is naturally more limited than Luchador Juan, it’s not like these poultry gameplay sections are devoid of interesting ideas. Many of the chicken-specific areas make smart use of your smaller stature, and by the end of the adventure, you’ll discover that what started out as a joke actually ends up becoming an integral mechanic of the game’s design.

I also love the running joke about Juan destroying the Choozo Statues (a clear parody of Metroid’s Chozo Statues). Every time you break one to gain a new ability, an old man disguised as a goat appears out of nowhere and berates you for property damage before remarking on the fact that he wants to date your mother. I promise I’m not making any of this up.

In a genre like metroidvanias which often take themselves very seriously, Guacamelee!’s goofy tone comes across as fresh and nourishing as the Mexican dip that makes up one half of its portmanteau title. The other half of its title is also appropriate, as this game hits you with enough wacky energy to ensure there should be at least some gags that connect. Or maybe not! Maybe it is all cringe!

And if that makes me cringe, then I don’t care. I’ve adored Guacamelee! since I first played it on the PS3 over a decade ago, and I will always have an appetite for its colourful world, colourful punches, and colourful humour.

Have you played Guacamelee!, and do you enjoy its sense of humour? What’s a game that always puts a smile on your face? Let me know in the comments!

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The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

When your apartment is being threatened by flood waters rising at an alarming rate, the importance of your material possessions quickly becomes secondary.

This was the situation my now-wife, then-girlfriend, and I found ourselves in during the Brisbane floods in February 2022. After three days of relentless rain, the creek behind our block of apartments burst its banks, meaning the ankle-high puddles that had been submerging our front lawn were now transforming into something far more dangerous. And fast.

So fast, in fact, that the window for us to safely evacuate on our own closed before we even knew just how bad things had gotten. The water was now too deep and too powerful, and we needed help to get out. I called the State Emergency Services, and they said they would send a rescue team within the hour. That gave us hope we would escape this flood and reach safer ground, but there was now the question of what to do with all our things.

As I said, in moments like this, your main priority immediately locks into getting yourself and your loved ones out of harm’s way. Everything inside our apartment could be replaced if the flood waters did reach inside. Everything, but us. So, while we waited for rescue to arrive, we set about moving smaller possessions to the top of shelves and kitchen benches with a kind of militaristic detachment. If I could spare my stuff from a soaking, then great. But ultimately, my number one concern was making sure we didn’t end up doing a reverse Finding Nemo. There was simply no space or time to be emotional about leaving behind these objects to their fate.

With two exceptions. The first were my books. The second were my video games.

As I went about relocating my games to higher ground, I couldn’t help but feel like I was saying goodbye to something meaningful. Many of these games—as was the case with my books—were a bridge to my childhood and a physical vessel for memories spanning most of my life. Yes, they were replaceable. But the meaning behind them was something I could never truly leave behind.

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***

Last week, it was reported that Sony will be ending production of PS5 discs from 2028 onwards. This news came after what has been a gradual decline of physical games over several years. The warning signs have been there for a long time now. And yet, this development still came as a shock to many—myself included.

There are plenty of very real concerns around the gradual eradication of physical games—whether they be on disc, cartridge, or some other form of removable media. This general air of anxiety has been heightened over the past week, with many voicing their worries over a digital-only future and the impact this will have on games preservation and access. If you want to read some of these thoughts and perspectives, I’d recommend checking out the latest Reconnect Recap and scrolling down to the list of articles Alex has curated on the topic.

Like with many things in life, I’m trying my best to look at this news with as much nuance as possible. Because in no way am I anti-digital games. The rise of online stores for video games has allowed the development space to dramatically democratise, opening the door for independent studios to thrive with games that would, likely, otherwise never see the light of day. A slowing down of disc and cartridge manufacturing also means there will be less of either of those things adding to the global waste crisis (although I’m sure we’ll find something else to fill that gap).

And to be perfectly honest, my purchasing habits have strayed further and further away from buying physical games in recent years due to some of the inherent conveniences of the digital format. So, yes. I am part of the problem.

But it’s hard not to get romantic about physical games, isn’t it? I can feel myself being pulled towards typing out flowery prose about the purity of strolling through the hallowed aisle of a games store, the smell of fresh plastic in the air, surrounded by all the magnificent covers promising worlds beyond our own, selecting the title you’ve been yearning over for months, poring over the manual on the ride home, anticipation building and building, powering on your console and sliding the disc in—smooth and welcoming, like it was always meant to be—before experiencing something that would’ve felt like magic for people living a century ago.

See! Couldn’t help myself. But it’s a cliché because there is a truth behind it. Physical games give us greater ownership over the piece of art that extends beyond the basic legal definition. It becomes something we can display, something that can represent a part of who we are, and, most importantly, something we can use to connect to others.

When I look at my physical game collection, I see more than just plastic rectangles and logos. I see some of the most important relationships in my life reflected in the story of each box. I see my parents buying me my first video games—both the ones I had asked for, and the ones they surprised me with on birthdays and Christmases. I see games bought alongside friends, games friends have gifted me, and the gaps in my collection left by the games I gifted them.

I see Mario Kart 8 for the Wii U, which I hurriedly bought one morning when a couple of mates from high school made the impromptu decision to drop by and do some gaming. I see Tekken 6 for the PSP, which, not too dissimilar to my story about Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, was a game I didn’t even know had been ported to the handheld until miraculously seeing it on an EB Games shelf one day. And I see not one, but two copies of Animal Crossing: New Horizons, the first game my wife and I bonded over on our Switches.

The move to a digital-only future has felt like an inevitability for some time now. Gaming will continue, in one form or another, regardless of whether those games are played on a disc or through a download file. And as I outlined before, digital gaming does have some very real benefits that will hopefully only become more pronounced from this point onwards.

But we are also leaving something behind here. And I’m worried we will never be able to return.

Because while our apartment was mercifully spared from the flood waters that day, it did make something clear about my relationship to my physical games: just because it’s not life or death doesn’t mean it isn’t worth saving.

What are your thoughts about the industry’s accelerated move away from physical games? Do you have any memories attached to your physical games collection? Let me know in the comments!

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Hey, everyone!

After taking a short break from weekly Substack posting, I am now feeling refreshed, recharged, and ready to get back to a regular routine with The Video Game Storyteller. This means you can expect a new free article to drop in your email and/or Substack feed each week, just as it was before. Paid subscribers will continue to receive their bonus fortnightly article as well.

And if you haven’t done so already, be sure to read my guest article for Infinite Lives which dropped last week, looking at the Queensland Games Festival and its significance to the local development community:

Infinite Lives

The grassroots games festival putting Queensland on the global stage

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15 days ago · 18 likes · The Video Game Storyteller

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

Returning to an old relationship in life is always risky business.

While you may harbour fond memories of that person in your past, there’s no guarantee they’ll be the same when you reunite. It’s likely you’ve both moved on with your lives, you may realise you have less in common than you remember, or, worst of all, they may remind you of rough memories you have long since buried.

Back in 2021, over 30 years since Sega broke up with their original mascot, Alex Kidd, the company teamed up with developer Merge Games to try and rekindle this old flame. Alex Kidd in Miracle World DX is a remake of the 1986 platformer on the Sega Master System and, just like revisiting a past relationship that ended in difficult circumstances, things here are a little bit awkward…

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It’s 2am, early on an icy Brisbane June morning, and I am having a spiritual experience.

I’m curled up under the covers, the brightness of my university laptop turned all the way down so as to not completely fry my retinas. E3 2016 is on, and Nintendo is airing their presentation for this year’s event. Unlike a traditional audience showcase or a pre-recorded Nintendo Direct, this year simply begins with a live feed of Reggie Fils-Aimé, President of Nintendo of America, standing on the E3 showroom floor, promising that we are about to be shown “the world of a single game—the newest entry in The Legend of Zelda franchise”.

What plays next is one of the greatest video game trailers of all time.

The trailer is deliberately slow-paced and atmospheric at first, gradually introducing us to this new Hyrule through shots of scenic landscapes and gentle piano flourishes. A voiceover from Zelda then plays, simultaneously soothing and urgent, speaking, “Open your eyes. Wake up, Link.” We are then taken to that iconic scene of Link running off the Great Plateau, all of Hyrule at his feet, as both the hero and trailer take flight. After a thrilling two-minute montage of Link interacting with this seemingly endless new world in seemingly endless new ways, the trailer ends with a shot of the Master Sword, waiting patiently for us players to claim it as our destiny.

The title drops. The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild.

I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. I have never been prouder to be a Wii U owner.

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After seventeen months, ninety-eight articles, and somehow only one accidental publishing incident, I am taking a step back from this Substack.

Kind of. Let me explain.

I have come to the decision to pause these weekly Thursday articles for at least the rest of June. Why? Well, there are some pretty big life things going on at the moment that, quite frankly, require more of my time and attention. I am also about to dive into some really exciting professional opportunities which you’ll hopefully learn more about soon but which I need to prioritise at least for the short-term.

With all this extra stuff going on, the last thing I want is to sit down at my laptop each week and realise that I have no words left for The Video Game Storyteller. This hasn’t happened yet, but I want to learn from some past experiences where I have come close to such a thing occurring. I care about this publication and this community too much to produce half-baked material, or worse, whatever slop I can get ChatGPT to spit out. If you ever see one of my articles with a title like “Video Games Are More Than Just Games—They Are Also Meaningful and Fun”, you’ll know I’ve fallen.

And so, I will enjoy a very specific kind of internet vacation away from these weekly articles—again, only for a month or so. A Substack sabbatical, if you will.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to disappear completely! I’ll still be goofing around on Notes and, of course, reading all the amazing work that’s being put out by my fellow writers.

Oh, and if you’re a paid subscriber to The Video Game Storyteller, you can still expect your bonus articles to drop on June 16 and 30. I want to make sure you’re still getting full value for the extra support you so generously offer me.

With that said, I do hope that you’ll stick around during what will be a quieter month for this Substack. In the meantime, feel free to dig through the archives of The Video Game Storyteller where you’ll find everything from musings on the thematic allure of JRPG towns to a one-act play about the perils of buying physical games in 2026.

Better yet, I encourage you to read (and subscribe to) some of the other wonderful gaming writers on this platform. You can start by scrolling through this article below where I list some of my favourites:

To be perfectly clear, this is not the end of The Video Game Storyteller. I mean, heck, I am so close to reaching one hundred articles, why would I stop now? I simply need to take a little break from publishing weekly to focus on some other projects before returning in the near future feeling re-energised and ready to give it my all once again. And maybe, just maybe, The Video Game Storyteller will finally have a proper About page written by then.

On a final note, I am planning on attending the Queensland Games Festival at the Brisbane Powerhouse on June 27. I’m stoked to check out some local video games and meet cool people—so if you’re in the area, come and say hi!

Never stop gaming and telling stories! I’ll see you all again very soon 😊

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The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

Gloom enshrouded the keep. Blood red and fire green tainted its stone walls. Its floors were covered with the bodies of those tasked with protecting it—their oaths incomplete.

Two souls remained amongst the wreckage. The mage and the prince. And as the keep succumbed to its final night, the prince’s eyes widened while the mage held the pendant close to their chest and spoke the forgotten words.

A flash of green.

“I can’t… my arms and legs. They won’t move.”

“So it would seem.”

“You foul… what evil have you cast on me?”

“I am only following orders.”

“Enough of this. Be quick with my end.”

“Your demise has begun, your highness. But quick it will not be.”

“Release me!”

“I cannot.”

“If I could only just reach my sword.”

“That is no longer possible.”

“Lucky you.”

“This is where we stay now.”

“What? Kill me now and take your blood money. I tire of your pathetic games.”

“We play no games, your highness. But if it brings you peace, know that I am killing you.”

“By shackling me to these invisible chains?”

“You are no prisoner. You are being assassinated.”

“Yet I still breathe. Do you actually know how assassinations work?”

“Your death continues on the same path it has always followed. Only, while the length of that path has not been altered, I have moved the destination far beyond your reach.”

“Great. You play no games but are happy to speak in riddles.”

“I speak only in truths.”

“Then put words to your actions.”

“All you wish to know surrounds your senses.”

“You piece of… wait, the fires. They have also stopped moving.”

“Make no mistake, their destruction continues. This keep falls tonight.”

“Yet their flames stand as still as my body.”

“Not stilled, only slowed.”

“It’s that horrid green necklace of yours, isn’t it? It’s somehow meddled with the flow of time.”

“Time continues to obey the laws of nature. Only, you and I now exist outside of those boundaries, and we pay heed to my rules.”

“I don’t like the sound of that at all.”

A passing of minutes.

“Let me get this straight, you foul hooded bastard. I have to spend the rest of my days standing in this very spot, trapped with you, growing old with nothing but each other’s company to pass the insufferably long decades I have left to live, as our lives flash by in a matter of moments for all those outside this wretched time pocket you have created. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“That is no longer possible.”

“I don’t care about possibilities. I can’t stand this for another second.”

“You will be standing much longer than a second, I am afraid.”

“Can’t you just burn me with your green fire? A knife to the throat? A sword through the heart? Something traditional, something quick?”

“My orders are to assassinate you via Meddling, the oldest and most sacred art of the Faded Flame.”

“I don’t care about that silly green candle you freaks worship. Who ordered you to kill me?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

“How much did they pay you?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

“Why did they choose this wretched form of assassination for me?”

“I am not at liberty—”

“Okay, I get the idea. Listen, I am first in line to the throne. If I ask for a mountain to be moved because it’s blocking my view, then a thousand workers will chip away at its stone until it no longer stands. Besides the king, there is no person in these lands who holds as much power as I do. You tell me what you want, it’s yours. I can make you rich. Give you titles. Elevate you to heights you could only dream. I could protect your order so that you and your people would never have to carry out these petty assassinations again. Forget the payment of my life. I am a man of honour. Name your price and I will make it so. What say you?”

“…”

“What say you?”

A passing of days.

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Let’s get this out of the way. I was a big fan of Transformers as a kid.

“Well, that’s quite alright,” I hear you say. “A lot of kids were fans of Transformers.”

Yeah, but, you see, um… I was a big fan of the Michael Bay Transformers movies. Specifically, I was obsessed with the second film in the franchise: Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. Yes, its script is as thin as a paper bag on Shia LaBeouf’s head. And, yes, there are plenty of, shall we say, problematic aspects of the film’s representation that probably felt dated even back in 2009.

But when the movie released, I was the perfect age demographic to be swept up in its epic story of transforming alien robots battling one another over (insert ancient source of all life and power in the universe MacGuffin here). Revenge of the Fallen was also the first movie I went to see in the cinema without my parents—I have a cool older cousin to thank for that—so it will always hold a special place in my heart for that reason alone.

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I then did the thing that Hasbro was desperate for all children to do and asked my parents to buy me the toys from the movie. Which they very kindly did (in moderation, of course). But my infatuation with Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen didn’t end there. You see, there was also an official video game adaptation of the film and of course I wanted to play it. One problem, though. The only gaming system I owned at the time was a PSP, and as far as I knew from my vantage point in New Zealand, there wasn’t a port of the game for Sony’s handheld.

Disappointed at not being able to play the video game adaptation of Michael Bay’s Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, I carried on living my life trading toys with other fanatical friends while watching the DVD of the film a truly unhealthy number of times. Little did I know, however, that a miracle was just around the corner.

The following year, my dad took me on a short trip to Australia where his parents were celebrating their 50^th wedding anniversary. Prior to the big event, I convinced him that we needed to visit the technology store JB Hi-fi (not sponsored) in Brisbane’s Queen Street Mall to see what kind of neat games and gadgets they had in Australia which had yet to make it across the Tasman Sea. I wandered over to the PSP games section of the store to check out what was on offer, and to my absolute shock and amazement, there it was. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. The video game. On PSP.

It was like witnessing a mirage seeing that cover image of Optimus Prime and the villainous red eyes of The Fallen on a PSP games case. I simply had no idea that such a version existed. This was during my very early days of consuming games media online—early enough that I had never come across the fact that a PSP version of Revenge of the Fallen had been developed. Likewise, the game had never appeared on the shelves of any stores I was frequenting back in New Zealand, and during the research of this article I couldn’t come across definitive proof to suggest the game was ever distributed in that country.

But there it was. A PSP version of the film I had been obsessing over for the past twelve months. I could play my favourite movie. Better yet, the game was within my spending limit for the trip. Better better yet, I had taken my PSP with me to Australia.

Still in a haze of disbelief and euphoria, I bought the game, waited until Dad and I returned to our hotel, put the UMD into my PSP, and started playing a port of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen that I didn’t know existed a matter of hours before.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen for PSP is one of the worst video games I have ever played.

The game is a horrendous demake of the home console and PC versions that plays like the corpse of a dead Transformer—all shell and no soul. After a pretty decent-looking introductory CGI cutscene, things go downhill almost immediately. The opening level in Shanghai has you take control of Bumblebee from a top-down perspective, similar to a game like Hotline Miami. You can move, shoot, evade, and strafe, but after only a few seconds of gameplay, you’ll notice a pretty unforgiveable omission. You can’t transform.

That’s right, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen on PSP doesn’t give you the option to transform between robot and vehicle mode at will. The one mechanic that you absolutely must include in a Transformers game to ensure it feels fun and immersive is entirely absent here. Instead, the vast majority of levels in both the Autobot and Decepticon campaigns have you exclusively play in robot mode, with only a handful of stages switching to vehicle.

It’s not like either level type is particularly enjoyable. The robot stages are long, tedious shoot ‘em ups with little gameplay variety and some annoying hit detection. Meanwhile, the vehicle stages are often over in a flash, albeit while still managing to frustrate thanks to some stiff controls. What both gameplay styles share is a bland, grainy visual aesthetic that includes laughable destruction effects with zero animations outside of explosions that look too cheap for Clip Art.

Cinematics are almost entirely replaced by poorly written dialogue. There’s little to differentiate playable characters outside of the colour of their bullets. And despite all the cut technical corners, the game barely feels optimised to run on the PSP without the hardware whining as much as a Starscream monologue.

Did these issues stop me from playing Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen on PSP as a kid? Nope. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sure, I was gutted at the lack of any real-time transformation mechanics, and I could tell that this version of the game was far inferior to what I had seen on home consoles. But I still poured a lot of time into the game. Far more than the quality of the work warranted. I put this unearned attention down to three reasons:

1. I was so fixated on the film that I was always going to play the video game adaptation for hours on end, regardless of how good or bad it was.

2. I only owned about five or six games at the time, so any new purchase would have every last drop of potential gameplay squeezed from it, again, regardless of how good or bad it was.

3. The game did have some really cool unlockables that required persistent gameplay to access.

Let’s focus on that third reason for a second. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen on PSP also contained three episodes from the G1 animated Transformers series from the 1980s—those episode being S.O.S. Dinobots, Fire on the Mountain, and War of the Dinobots. On paper, this is a really great incentive to keep people playing the game. I was certainly desperate to unlock those episodes and have access to retro Transformers content that I could watch on my PSP whenever I wanted.

The problem was that the unlock requirement for those episodes was achieving twenty-five gold medals across all the levels in the game. This demanded finishing the levels in a certain amount of time while also accruing enough points. For some stages, this wasn’t too big a deal. For others, I nearly snapped my PSP in half from how infuriatingly precise you had to be to earn the gold medal. I spent months constantly replaying the same terribly designed levels trying to eke out that iota of gameplay optimisation needed to reach my goal.

It was exhausting and probably not worth the major time investment. But eventually I finished every level with a gold medal and celebrated by watching a handful of outdated, cheesy cartoon episodes—which, to be clear, I still had a blast consuming several times over!

That sums up my experience with Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen on PSP. A truly disastrous port of a mediocre video game adaptation of a film that most of the world despises. And yet, when I think back to that joyous moment of discovery in JB Hi-fi or the gruelling hours I spent working towards unlocking those episodes, I’m still filled with a warm fondness for this game and the memories it gave me. More than meets the eye indeed.

What are some of the worst games you have played that you were previously excited for? Any other disastrous handheld demakes that I should be made aware of? Let me know in the comments!

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Stuff from the Stack

Pixelshift

Nostalgia and My Favorite Video Game

I’ve been thinking a lot about the nostalgia I feel for certain games lately. Maybe it’s because I’m wrapped up in a project that has a lot of people commenting about their nostalgia or maybe it’s playing the silent hill 2 remake in my free time. I figured no better way to let that out then to share a story about one of the games I feel the most nostalg…

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2 months ago · 12 likes · 8 comments · Mario

Speaking of childhood gaming stories, I was fully engrossed with this article from Pixelshift about their personal origins with the Kingdom Hearts series and the Christmas that changed everything. There were so many delightful anecdotes sprinkled throughout this piece that the sentimental tone completely won me over. Even if, unlike the author, I still don’t really understand Kingdom Hearts.

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

A part of me withers away and dies every time I hear a person or publication refer to the PlayStation 3 as a “retro console.” I mean, come on! That system only released, like, *checks notes* twenty years ago…

Oh God.

I am currently going through a period of denial that every gamer hits at some point in their lives. This onset of ageing-gamer-related-misery (AGRM for short) typically hits in your mid-to-late-twenties, when there is very little chance that the youth of today will be playing the same video game systems you enjoyed in your adolescence—therefore lumping it all into that nebulous category of “retro gaming”. It’s what the PlayStation 1 kids had to endure in the 2010s, the NES kids in the 2000s, and the Atari kids in the 90s. And now it’s my turn.

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The best I can hope for is that young people continue to seek out video game experiences from both my past and well before that. Because, well, that’s what I did when I was growing up. During my teenage years, I found that digging into gaming’s history was an enjoyable way for me to connect deeper to this artform. It allowed me to play older games in series and genres I really loved while identifying how design trends blossomed and fit into the ever-sprouting video game family tree I was gradually coming to terms with. Also, a lot of these older games were still just a blast to play, many of which quickly became some of my all-time favourites.

And then there was a game like The Sword of Hope II.

This Game Boy RPG was developed by Kemco for Japan in 1992 and released in America in 1996. I first played The Sword of Hope II after purchasing it on a whim off the Nintendo 3DS eShop sometime in the early 2010s. I was right in the middle of falling head-over-heels for JRPGs at the time, and I was interested in exploring one for the Game Boy that didn’t involve spending dozens of hours stuffing poor woodland creatures into cake tins.

There’s no denying that when I first played The Sword of Hope II, it was already considered retro. Heck, regardless of whether you go with the Japanese or American launch year, this game still precedes my birth—which I always feel like is a pretty safe line-in-the-sand indicator for how old a video game feels. But what struck me about The Sword of Hope II was just how old it felt.

I don’t mean that to come off as rude or insensitive. If anything, I was swept up by some magical aura emanating from this game that transported me to an age beyond that of even the Game Boy. It was as if the game were a dreamy vision of a forgotten medieval land, adapted into code for this handheld, and I was simply viewing these memories through the small visual window that appears at the top of the screen. There was some form of alchemy at play with the game’s visuals, atmosphere, and sense of immersion that felt more abstract and more antique than a typical 8-bit game.

I realise that all sounds pretty airy-fairy for a game with a title so generic, it sounds like it could be a parody of retro JRPGs. So let me try to ground my thoughts around The Sword of Hope II a bit more. Because, at its core, this game contains all the standard RPG tropes for its time. There is a great evil threatening to devour the land and a young prince destined to save the day, a bunch of random battles, character customisation, turn-based combat, interactions with NPCs, and some pretty sweet tunes to score the adventure.

One of the ways in which The Sword of Hope II does feel more unique is that it adopts a dungeon-crawler-style approach for its world structure. Each screen is essentially a different grid on a map that encompasses towns, dungeons, and the fields in-between. Using the arrows at the bottom of the Game Boy’s screen, you move around the map with each location containing various interactive elements. This may be a person you can talk to, a chest that can be opened, or even some innocuous environmental object that could potentially be hiding a secret.

This presentation of The Sword of Hope II’s world is one of the big reasons I felt a sense of surreal anachronism while playing. Even in spite of the Game Boy’s simplistic black-and-white graphics—or potentially precisely because of the system’s limited technology—when flipping through these different screens, I felt like I was walking through an exhibition of scenic medieval artwork. Yes, the game’s depiction of a river flowing by a forest or an ancient crumbling temple may have been minimalist by design, but the effect was still highly evocative. At least, until one of the game’s constant random battles interrupted my gallery tour.

But even those battles reinforced the antique atmosphere in The Sword of Hope II. The monster sprites have relatively little animation and obviously no colour. They therefore appear as sketchbook-like interpretations of evil fiends, the kinds of which I found reminiscent of children’s fantasy novels like The Hobbit or Narnia. And the way in which battles play out, with all the actions being described through text, felt as though I was witnessing a great orator telling me the story of a timeless conflict—even if, in reality I was just beating up some lowly goblin.

Whenever I hear the opening music of The Sword of Hope II, I am listening to a bard pluck away on the strings of their lute. Whenever I discover a secret in one of the game’s screens, I am an archaeologist uncovering a mystery from the deep past. And whenever I play the game, I am stepping into a world that feels far older than the 1989 handheld it was first developed for.

No, The Sword of Hope II obviously isn’t the oldest game that was ever made—it’s not even the oldest game in The Sword of Hope series! But, for me at least, it does kind of feel like it. So the next time my AGRM has me in its grips and I’m lamenting the fact that Batman: Arkham City is now as old as Super Mario 64 was when Batman: Arkham City first launched, I can boot up The Sword of Hope II and take comfort that some things have—seemingly at least—always been.

What game defines “old” for you, in whatever definition you attribute that word? How old were you when you first realised the games of your childhood are now considered “retro”? Let me know in the comments!

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The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

Of all the things that attracted me to play Mixtape—and there were many, including the fact the game comes from a renowned Australian developer, its John Hughes-style storytelling, and, of course, the banger of a soundtrack that scores the adventure—the main one was that the entire experience can be completed in roughly three hours. I know. The thing that a lot of people have been complaining about online when it comes to Mixtape was actually a major selling point for me and my tastes.

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And that’s because I like a short video game. Sue me. In particular, I think there’s something magical about starting and finishing a game in just a single sitting. We all know how immersive gaming can be, but for me, that level of absorption is amplified whenever I can leave behind the real world and interact with an entire virtual story all in one go. Like watching a great movie or reading through an entire novella across a solitary afternoon, playing through a full game at once can help elevate memories made within that world in ways that splintered sessions can’t quite capture.

Naturally, most games are too long to make this a viable option—though that doesn’t stop some of us attempting marathon play sessions here and there. But I have done this with enough games that are of a suitable length to appreciate the holistic experience that comes with the activity. As such, I thought it would be fun to share some of the games I have finished in just one sitting and how those one-and-done stints shaped my memories of said titles.

Before we begin, a big thank you to everyone who commented on my note from a couple of days ago that asked what games all of you had finished in just one sitting! Who knew so many people marathoned classic Resident Evil games?

Gone Home

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When I first started getting into Sega’s retro catalogue in the early-2010s, it was slim pickings when trying to find newer titles in all these classic series.

Sure, there was a new Sonic the Hedgehog game releasing every second Thursday, but for all those other retro Sega series? Other than a quickly forgotten Nintendo 3DS Shinobi game here and a quickly maligned PS3 Golden Axe game there, I was left wanting. Through various Sega Mega Drive collections, the Virtual Console, and even some cheeky emulators, I had grown a deep appreciation for many of these iconic franchises. But from what I could tell, most of them had died off alongside Sega’s withdrawal from the hardware race at the start of the century. And the few attempts that had been made to revitalise them barely moved the needle critically or commercially.

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However, over the past decade, one Parisian studio has made it their mission to fix this. While they are technically an independent developer, they have nonetheless formed a strong working partnership with Sega that has allowed them to breathe new life into many of these beloved series. And yet, nostalgia isn’t their only goal. Their games manage to strike the perfect balance between respecting Sega’s past while bringing these classics into the twenty-first century.

The studio is Lizardcube, and they are making retro Sega nerds like me very, very happy.

Lizardcube was founded by Omar Cornut and Ben Fiquet, with the two of them sharing a deep love of Sega’s past. The first project that their team worked on was a remake of Wonder Boy III: The Dragon’s Trap, which was initially developed by Westone and published by Sega in 1989 for the Master System. The game is a proto-metroidvania where your main character is transformed into a “Lizard-Man” after barely five minutes of playtime, with the remainder of the adventure seeing you gradually explore a vast world by acquiring other animal transformations.

Alongside frequent collaborator and publisher DotEmu, the Lizardcube crew went about remaking The Dragon’s Trap in a manner that honoured the original while making sure it felt fresh and accessible for a new audience. And (wonder) boy, did they pull it off. The 2017 remake of The Dragon’s Trap captures the joyful energy of the 8-bit game by layering on a gorgeous water colour-inspired art style that is simply dopamine for your eyes. Under the artistic leadership of experienced illustrator Ben Fiquet, the game finally had a visual identity that matched its whimsical charm, while finding a unique way to take on the aesthetics of an older, 2D game beyond adding complexity to the existing pixel art.

Best of all, with the press of a button players could swap out The Dragon’s Trap’s old and new art styles just to see how much of a difference Lizardcube’s visuals had made. Otherwise, everything that made The Dragon’s Trap so special nearly three decades prior was kept intact—from the game’s physics to the original password system. This culminated in a retro remake that felt equally reverential and refreshing while giving the Wonder Boy series its first significant boost within the collective minds of gamers since the mid-90s.

After the success of The Dragon’s Trap remake, Lizardcube was even more ambitious for their next project. Instead of simply taking an old Sega game and giving it a new coat of paint, why not take an old Sega series and create a brand-new entry? The only question was: which series should they do this for?

Well, after Sega ended up licensing out the IP to DotEmu, Lizardcube had the ability to finally create the fourth mainline entry in the iconic beat ’em up series Streets of Rage (known in Japan as Bare Knuckle). These games had been a core pillar of the Sega Mega Drive experience back in the early 90s, bringing players around the world a sense of pure joy as they strolled across the crime-ridden streets of Wood Oak City, beating up bad guys and taking down evil corporations, all while listening to Yuzo Koshiro’s absolute banger of a soundtrack.

Despite its popularity, Streets of Rage basically began and ended on that 16-bit system, having not seen a new entry since 1994’s Streets of Rage 3. LizardCube decided to finally do something about that. And once again, they absolutely nailed it.

Streets of Rage 4 is absolutely packed with fan service and nods to the past games—from its character selection all the way through to being able to play the game with the original 16-bit soundtrack. However, Streets of Rage 4 also makes important strides to bring this franchise to modern audiences. The beat ’em up gameplay is as slick and accessible as ever, while still containing enough complexity to make it interesting whether it is your first time playing or your twentieth. The combos flow together in such a seamless way that anyone can pick it up and have a fun time, while the harder difficulty levels still genuinely pack a bare knuckled punch.

Of course, that incredible art style Ben Fiquet and his team created for The Dragon’s Trap remake is back in full swing in Streets of Rage 4, with these filthy streets never having looked more stylish. They even managed to get legendary composer Yuzo Koshiro to jump back into the studio and record a couple of new tracks for the game’s music.

Overall, Streets of Rage 4 was another big success for Lizardcube and proved that the team could create new works through existing Sega franchises that bridged past and present game design philosophies in ways that were previously thought impossible.

Now that Lizardcube had hit a home run with Streets of Rage 4, many retro Sega fans were wondering which series the studio would take on next. You cannot believe my excitement when, as a longtime Shinobi fan, it was revealed that this studio would be developing a brand-new game in the ninja action platforming series. Released in 2025, Shinobi: Art of Vengeance is arguably not just Lizardcube’s best game to date, but also probably the best Shinobi game that has ever been made. And that is saying something.

Art of Vengeance comes incredibly close to perfecting slick 2D combat and even slicker 2D platforming, with level designs that constantly find new ways to surprise and boss fights that feel larger than life. It is also packed with so much love for the entire Shinobi series that the whole thing almost feels like a theme park attraction built for long time Sega fans. It is easily one of my favourite games of 2025, and in many ways, it was the game that finally confirmed to me that retro Sega belongs in Lizardcube’s hands from now on.

My Five Retro Sega Games I Want Lizardcube to Resurrect

Lizardcube simply understand the assignment and nail it each and every time, no matter the franchise, no matter the genre, and no matter how long it has been since we last played as these characters. It means so much to me, as someone who values Sega’s past so much, to see their older—and often forgotten—games brought back in this way. No matter what Lizardcube decides to do next, I have complete faith that they will do it justice.

That said, here are my five retro Sega franchises which I would love to see Lizardcube bring back from the dead.

1. Ristar - Lizardcube has already proven that they can do a 2D platformer, and I would love to see this starry-eyed Sega Genesis mascot finally return for that long deserved second game.

2. Ecco the Dolphin - To be honest, I am not even the biggest fan of Ecco the Dolphin when it comes to this era of Sega, but I would still love to see Lizardcube’s take on an underwater adventure, as I am sure they would have some interesting spins on it.

3. Beyond Oasis - This is another Yuzo Koshiro game from the Sega Mega Drive that I think Lizardcube would do a really fun job reinterpreting. I would especially like to see Beyond Oasis’s Arabian-themed setting come to life within Lizardcube’s painterly art style.

4. Gunstar Heroes - This one might be a bit trickier, as the original game was developed by Treasure. But Gunstar Heroes is another 16-bit Sega classic that is desperate for a comeback, as its frenetic run-and-gun, weapon-mixing gameplay feels primed for further experimentation. And I know Lizardcube could pull it off.

5. Phantasy Star - Of course, I would love to see this series come back in its classic, single-player, story-driven fashion. Lizardcube has yet to make an RPG, but I am sure they are more than capable of doing so. And if they need anyone to help with story development or narrative design, my DMs are always open!

What is your favourite Lizardcube game? What retro Sega series would you like them to tackle next? Let me know in the comments!

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Stuff from the Stack

MusicEXP Newsletter

Game Music Digest | Mixtape is a Great Game About Music Supervision

MusicEXP is a weekly newsletter exploring the intersection of video games and music, edited by Mat Ombler. Subscribe to receive weekly round-ups of the latest music and gaming stories, and monthly deep dives into trending topics. For more music and gaming news, make sure you listen to the…

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2 months ago · 3 likes · 2 comments · MusicEXP

Regardless of how you feel about Mixtape, I had a great time reading MusicEXP’s take on how the game explores being a music supervisor through its story and soundtrack. A great read for anyone who appreciates how video games use music and sound design.

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

There’s a story from the development of the Wii in which then-Nintendo president, Satoru Iwata, made a request to the hardware design team about the upcoming system. Legend goes that Iwata grabbed three DVD cases, placed them on top of each other, and asked the team to design a console that was no bigger than the stack. This stumped the designers, as the dimensions were far smaller than what they were expecting—but Iwata knew what he was doing. He wanted a system that was unobtrusive and clean. One that could slot gracefully next to a television without taking up much space or upsetting the aesthetics of a living room.

In other words, Iwata didn’t want the Wii to look like a video game console.

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For the past twenty years (let that number soak in for a minute!), the Wii has earned a reputation as the gaming system for all gamers. Nintendo deliberately adopted a blue ocean business strategy for this system (as well as the DS) that successfully made the medium more accessible to people not traditionally considered “gamers”. A lot of the success that eventuated in the Wii selling over 100 million units is attributed to its innovative motion controls, affordability, and games library that appealed to a wide audience. But I also believe at least some of the credit has to go to the system’s aesthetics.

If I asked you to close your eyes and picture a “video game console”, chances are it wouldn’t look like the Wii. You probably pictured a large box, likely grey or black in colour, adorned with a myriad of buttons, controller ports, cartridge slots, openable disc trays, eye-catching branding, or possibly even removable faceplates. As discussed before, Iwata wanted to avoid or downplay most of these associations with the Wii. Unlike the cutesy GameCube, the futuristic Xbox 360, or the coffee-table-crushing behemoth that was the original PlayStation 3, the Wii was to be slick, minimalist, and understated. To phrase it another way: Iwata wanted a console he could easily slip inside his suit jacket to set up a grand reveal at E3 2005.

Kenichiro Ashida was in charge of the Wii’s design, and he spoke about how his team approached the look of the system during an Iwata Asks interview. He stated how they “wanted to make (the) Wii into something that would be treated more like a piece of interior design, rather than a toy or a piece of AV equipment”. It’s clear that Ashida and everyone at Nintendo were keen to make the Wii something that adults would feel proud displaying alongside their television, DVD player, family portraits, CD rack, and tasteful—albeit high maintenance—indoor plants. As iconic as, say, the original PlayStation 2’s design is to the gaming community, it’s hard to imagine parents finding elegant ways to integrate it next to their Sopranos box set.

This sleek, modern design philosophy extended to other elements of the Wii’s packaging and branding. I will happily die on the hill that sees me proclaiming the Wii games case design to be the greatest of any console. The stylish white “Wii” banner on the top of the game boxes brings a dignified layer to every title, whether situated above the artwork for Mario Kart Wii or Resident Evil: The Darkside Chronicles. And when lined up on a shelf, the white spines of these boxes combined with the titles’ logos strikes a nice balance between uniformity and individuality that makes such a cluster a highlight of any physical games collection.

When you actually turned on the Wii, the charm somehow went up another level. The channel layout of the system’s main menu was easy to navigate and instantly understandable for just about anyone, even if it was their first time operating a gaming console. And then there was the music. Oh, how the Wii’s various channel tunes have aged like the finest of wines. Kazumi Totaka was the man responsible for composing much of the Wii’s now iconic tracks, taking inspiration from jazz—particularly bossa nova and lounge music—to create a soundscape that was simultaneously soothing and so very, very catchy.

All of this aesthetic flair led to the Wii becoming a desirable entertainment product for households and schools and businesses all around the world. I remember first seeing one in the flesh at a friend’s house during a sleepover—where we all stayed up far too late playing the tanks mini game on Wii Play—and being mesmerised by the pure simplicity of the system. Here was a gaming console that looked as though it was designed by the guys behind the MacBook and not the GameCube. Yes, it was compact and monochrome, but that dedication to restraint also made it surprisingly striking.

When my family eventually bought a Wii, every member of my household immediately understood how it worked. While booting up Wii Sports, my mum, dad, sisters, and I all just got how to use the Wii Remote to swing a golf club or launch a bowling ball (and launch would be the correct word for our technique). It all just made perfect sense and the system’s timeless look ensured no one ever complained about its place in our living room.

The Wii was a chic piece of hardware that broke down traditional gaming barriers thanks, in part at least, to its look and design. Who knew that a trio of DVD cases could have such a profound impact on the history of gaming?

Are you a fan of the Wii’s design? What’s your favourite video game console look? Let me know in the comments!

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Stuff from the Stack

Reconnect Recap

Behind the scenes of Reconnect, and my thoughts for the future.

Hi there folks…

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3 months ago · 27 likes · 9 comments · Alex Antra

It brings me immense joy to finally share the work of someone who has made it their mission to share the work of so many talented gaming writers from around Substack and the internet. If you’ve spent a bit of time reading about video games on this platform, then Alex from Reconnect Recap needs no introduction, but I strongly encourage you to read through their behind-the-scenes piece on what has been such an important project for online games media.

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

I’m playing through Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia and things are not looking good.

The mountainous area I’m traversing through is teeming with enemies who want to stomp, sting, swoop, or slice me—several attacking with a combination of those things—while I desperately try to hold on. Because fighting back is no longer an option. I exhausted the last of my HP-rejuvenating potions ten minutes ago, and the last time I saved was a good thirty minutes before that. My character can barely survive another direct hit, and the thought of dying and having to repeat all my past efforts is making me play with the tension of a first-time bungee jumper. If only I can make it to the next save point. Then all will be well…

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Saving a game is one of those miracles of gaming that we so easily take for granted. I won’t go into detail about exactly how a video game saves your data, mostly because I lack the technical know-how to speak on it with any authority—but I’m sure there are plenty of great articles out there that explain the concepts of flash memory and non-volatile storage and all those fun things. Instead, I want to reflect on just how remarkable it is that a video game can remember your experiences. Like digital bookmarks dotted throughout a novel, save points allow you to return to your progress in a game a day, a month, or even years after you last logged off. And so long as your memory card hasn’t become corrupted, everything will be just as you left it, welcoming you back into this virtual world.

Today, I want to look at some of my favourite uses of save points in various games and how developers have historically used them to elicit certain emotions from players. Because just like with my treacherous Castlevania experience, when implemented in a certain way, no light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel shines brighter in a video game than a well-placed save point.

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Video games and the written word are two things that typically don’t get associated with one another—the former being an entertainment and artistic medium born from the fires of twentieth-century technology, the latter a pillar of human communication that dates back to at least the ancient Sumerians. I realise the irony of bringing this up on a Substack where I write about video games, but it’s to highlight that coming across a book that captures the energy and playfulness of gaming within the methodical prose of an author can still feel like a rare occurrence.

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That’s exactly what British writer and The Guardian’s video game editor Keza MacDonald has attempted to do with her latest book, Super Nintendo. I have long been an admirer of MacDonald’s work, having meticulously consumed her reviews and opinions on games going all the way back to her IGN days. Much of her past writing concerned the games of Nintendo, so I was excited to learn she had dedicated an entire book exploring this legendary Japanese company and the gargantuan impact it has had on this industry.

In Super Nintendo, MacDonald looks at the Big N’s place within culture more broadly, and how its half-century legacy within gaming—not to mention its century-plus legacy as a card game and toy manufacturer—has shaped the lives of those who have worked there and those who have consumed its products. The central argument of this book is that Nintendo is as much a cultural organisation as it is a technological one. That the main philosophy that drives Nintendo’s employees—from seasoned veterans such as Shigeru Miyamoto to the newer generation of developers—is to bring people joy through play. And through a dozen thoroughly researched and lovingly crafted chapters, MacDonald prosecutes this argument with her endearing blend of knowledgeable, evocative writing mixed in with plenty of warmth and humour.

Super Nintendo splits the history of the company into clear chapters, each built around one of its most iconic franchises, moving from Donkey Kong to Mario to Animal Crossing and all the way up to Splatoon. This structure allows MacDonald to examine each series and the people behind them, while also uncovering the threads that tie them all into the wider story of Nintendo. As a history lesson, it is both educational and highly entertaining, which are always the best kind if you ask me.

Through her decades of working as a games journalist, MacDonald has clearly built up what I can only assume is a warehouse worth of interview material. She draws on her conversations—as well as some from other sources—with some of Nintendo’s most recognisable figures, along with names you may not have heard before but, as you’ll discover by reading this book, have played a huge role in shaping the games we all know and love. MacDonald brings all of this research into Super Nintendo to create a work that feels truly comprehensive, grounded in the voices of the creatives who have moulded the company and its cultural legacy. In particular, there is a deep respect for the role of late Nintendo president Satoru Iwata that comes across in the pages of this book, with heartfelt remarks left by several of his colleagues and MacDonald herself, for the leader, the developer, and the man that he was.

When MacDonald does step into the foreground—whether through personal anecdotes or reflections on her own experiences with these games—it never feels intrusive or at the expense of the larger narrative. If anything, I would have welcomed more of the author’s own Nintendo memories woven through the history of the company, as when they do appear, they do a wonderful job highlighting the effects these games have on people and their lives.

Overall, I had an absolute blast reading Super Nintendo and would recommend it to anyone who is a fan of the company or who simply wants to learn more about the minds behind all these joyful creations. It is not often that you come across a video game book whose tone so closely matches the playfulness of its subject matter, but Super Nintendo positively sparkles with such energy.

It almost makes up for the fact that The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess did not make it into MacDonald’s top 50 Nintendo games of all time, a list she compiles at the end of the book. Oh well. They can’t all be winners.

Have you read Super Nintendo? What are some of your favourite gaming books? Let me know in the comments!

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Stuff from the Stack

Cosy Gaming Over 40

Can a video game give you your nature fix?

I’ve been playing nature-based games almost exclusively recently; Wingspan, Eastshade, and stretches of Breath of the Wild where I’m not really doing quests so much as wandering around exploring. And I’ve been wondering whether it’s doing the thing I’m hoping it’s doing; giving me that nature fix to restore my factory settings…

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3 months ago · 7 likes · 8 comments · Ellie

Speaking of well-researched and thoroughly delightful video game writing, this article from Cosy Gaming Over 40 felt as joyfully breezy to read through as the nature games it was discussing. I’ve long believed that inhabiting scenic virtual spaces in games can give you some—but not all—of the same mental wellness benefits as actually stepping outside, and this article backs up that belief with some great sources and personal stories.

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

So, I’ve been playing a lot of Absolum lately.

For those uninitiated, Absolum was a bit of a 2025 sleeper hit, developed by French studio Guard Crush Games, that combines elements of the roguelite and beat ‘em up genres to create an iterative co-op fantasy adventure that I simply cannot put down. Few video games have ever felt more tailor-made for my tastes—particularly in regard to the latter of those two genres that Absolum attempts to amalgamate: the glorious and gory beat ‘em up. Or “brawler” or “beat ‘em all” or “2D arcadey action game”. Whatever you choose to call this style of game, I have always had a huge soft spot for the classic beat ‘em up, and Absolum absolutely scratches that itch.

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And yet, I feel strangely sheepish to even admit that. I wouldn’t go so far as to label my now years-long appreciation of beat ‘em ups as a guilty pleasure. But it’s certainly an appreciation that I struggle to articulate. Because let’s be honest—few video game genres feel more “of their time” than the beat ‘em up. These games peaked during the arcade boom of the late-80s and early-90s, when simple, repetitive, yet highly engaging game design philosophies kept people coming back to the cabinets time and time again. But just like with frosted tips and video rental stores, the beat ‘em up is generally considered to be a charming, albeit redundant, signifier of a bygone age that doesn’t have much use in modern times outside of acting as basic nostalgia fodder.

So why do I like beat ‘em ups so much, especially when their golden age came before I was even born? Most of my experience with the genre has been shaped by its reputation as a relic of gaming’s past, ensuring that even newer brawlers—such as Absolum—are coloured by the notion of it being a “throwback” or a “homage”, and not as a forward-facing work. I mentioned before that I find my appreciation of beat ‘em ups difficult to articulate, but that’s exactly what I plan to do today. Because for a genre that is constantly accused of being dated, I do believe there is one crucial, shining aspect of the beat ‘em up that has always, and will always, be timeless.

But before we get to that, I want to briefly address some of the common criticisms that are levelled against beat ‘em ups. Particularly the complaint that most brawlers are mind-numbing exercises in button-mashing, where success is measured purely by the durability of your thumb being able to consecutively and perpetually press the “attack” button. And to anyone who subscribes to that line of criticism, I would say… yep. You’re right. That is what most beat ‘em ups are about.

But is that really a problem? I guess it depends on what you want from an action game. Beat ‘em ups grew in popularity alongside the arcade fighting game genre, acting as the more streamlined, accessible younger cousin to the strategy-heavy, combo-laden arenas of Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat—popular brawler series Final Fight was literally intended to be Street Fighter II before its development direction changed at Capcom. So, when compared to the majority of fighting games, beat ‘em ups are naturally going to come off as being rather basic affairs.

And when compared to modern action games, well, beat ‘em ups have no chance of competing on either a complexity or execution level. Games like God of War, Devil May Cry, or any one of PlatinumGames’ adrenaline-fuelled titles may be inspired by the brawlers of old, but have added so many layers to their moment-to-moment gameplay—not to mention their sweeping, cinematic narrative design—that putting them up against something like Double Dragon feels like exhibiting a Vincent van Gogh painting alongside my Grade Two drawing of Henry the Octopus that looks like the world’s most convoluted Venn diagram.

I’ll ask again: is any of this a problem? Well, not for me. When I sit down to play a beat ‘em up, I inevitably end up having a blast because of the inherent simplicity at the heart of this genre. I enjoy getting into the basic-yet-satisfying rhythm of punching enemies and smashing barrels, following flashing arrows that tell me where to go even though the level only progresses from left to right on a single plane, eating random food I find on the ground, and most importantly, doing it all alongside a friend.

To be fair, some beat ‘em ups do make an effort to diversify their combat mechanics. I’ve seen modern brawlers adopt RPG elements into their gameplay, flirt with character customisation, and—as was the case with Absolum—even merge completely with other genres to keep things fresh. I’ve even seen some beat ‘em ups toy around with implementing deeper stories into their experiences, with River City Girls and Sifu being two recent examples that I believe accomplish this fairly well.

What about that one aspect of beat ‘em ups that I believe is their secret weapon? The main element of this genre that keeps me coming back for more, even though I know there will be few gameplay surprises to greet me. Well, just look at them! I’m serious. Just look at these games.

By and large, beat ‘em ups have always excelled at presentation. This is a genre that has always prioritised style over substance. And while taking such a stance is often viewed as being detrimental to the overall experience of playing a game, I actually believe the brawler has turned this into a strength.

Take Streets of Rage 2 for example. This Sega Mega Drive classic has long been considered one of the greats of the genre—but while the game does feature action gameplay that is engaging and contains some depth, I would hardly call it exceptional, even for 1992. What Streets of Rage 2 does have is buckets of personality, and nowhere is that better expressed than in the game’s visuals and music.

Streets of Rage 2’s eye-catching pixel art pops off the screen and breathes so much life into the characters and locations of Wood Oak City. This art direction allows the various settings a chance to shine in their own individual ways. When fighting against the criminal organisation of Mr. X, you’ll visit everywhere from a spooky amusement park to a baseball stadium to a secret laboratory, with each stage fully committing to immersing you within the aesthetic of its environment. Add in the fact that enemies are designed with striking cyberpunk flair and that Yuzo Koshiro’s electronic soundtrack continues to blast the bass settings of gamers’ speaker around the world, and it’s clear to see (and hear) that Streets of Rage 2’s greatest charm is its charm.

I think this is true for many beat ‘em ups throughout history. This is a genre that was born in the maximalist environment of late-80s arcades, and that loud and proud visual/audio approach has continued to influence the presentation of these games right up until today. Think about it: the actual play arena for most brawlers is typically between thirty-to-fifty percent of the screen real estate. That leaves a lot of room for the background art and setting to leave an impression. I think that’s a big reason why people, as a general rule, remember iconic levels in beat ‘em ups—whether that’s the Skull and Crossbones stage in Turtles in Time or Turtle Village in Golden Axe—more so than specific moments of gameplay.

This dedication to bold, immersive presentation can be found throughout the history of beat ‘em ups. All you need to do is look at screenshots of games like Battle Circuit, Dragon’s Crown, or Super Punch Patrol to see their stylistic embracing of cheesy pulp sci-fi, painterly fantasy, or sketchy minimalism respectively, and why these aesthetic approaches hold such appeal for players. This is also why I believe beat ‘em up adaptations of cartoons and comic books—whether that’s The Simpsons or X-Men—have traditionally performed so well, as those are two mediums that place a high value on the visual identity of their works.

This brings us back to Absolum. Like with many other beat ‘em ups, I’m wary to state that the game’s presentation is its only highlight, because that is simply not the case. The decision to place the mechanics of a beat ‘em up within the structure of a roguelite is a stroke of genius, as the inherently repetitive nature of the former perfectly complements the incremental progression of the latter. But Absolum also packs a diverse roster of characters, excellent power-ups, and some truly epic boss fights to ensure it doesn’t rely purely on its genre-merging novelty factor to hook you in.

Still, my favourite part of Absolum is how it uses its visuals and audio to immerse me in its world. This is largely thanks to Maxime Mary’s vivid art direction and Gareth Coker’s surprisingly emotional soundtrack, both of which pull me into the game’s fantastical atmosphere and fill me with a sense of wonder. Like so many other beat ‘em ups, Absolum leans into its style, while still making plenty of space for substance, meaning I am just as engrossed looking and listening to the game as I am playing it.

Anyway, hope I articulated my love for beat ‘em ups well enough. If you don’t mind, I’m going back to play more Absolum.

Why do you think beat ‘em ups continue to hold so much appeal? What are some of your favourites in the genre? Let me know in the comments!

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Stuff from the Stack

Adventures in Game Writing

You Don't Have to Choose - Freedom and Immersive Storytelling in Games

Why do we like choices in video games? The chance to craft a story to your liking? To become someone else? To roleplay yourself, but, you know, cooler and better? Does choice get to something fundamental and deeper in the human experience — an opportunity, even a brief moment, more control in a game than you might have in your life…

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3 months ago · 7 likes · 1 comment · Danny Homan

I really appreciated this article on Adventures in Game Writing, discussing how the presence of player choice can sometimes lessen the emotional impact of a game’s story or character arc. Any piece of writing that shouts out the narrative of Final Fantasy IV is always going to be a plus in my eyes, but there’s plenty of fascinating analysis to sink your teeth into here. Great stuff!

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

If, like me, you attended primary school in Auckland, New Zealand, then you would have become quite familiar with wet lunches. These were the lunchbreaks during school days when the persistent drizzle of rain that always seemed to hang over the city between the months of April and September would keep the playground off limits and ensure that twenty-to-thirty children had to spend their break indoors—with only the classroom’s resources as entertainment.

However, if, like me, you also happened to attend primary school in the late-2000s—during that sweet spot in history when most schools had computers, but educators had yet to really cotton on to the proliferation of online flash games—then these constant rainy lunchbreaks could actually be rather enjoyable.

I have some strong memories from Grade 5 and 6 of playing these internet flash games on our classroom’s pair of computers whenever the weather turned sour. And given how often the rain would fall during my schooling years, this meant I spent a fair amount of time playing these games… or, at least, whenever my friends would allow me a turn on the computer during the short twenty-five-minute window of opportunity.

Looking back, these are actually some of my earliest gaming experiences. So, there! Who says school doesn’t teach you anything.

Cool Math Games

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They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. It’s a classic proverb commonly deployed when discussing the distance between people or places. But today, I want to explore instances where I felt it applied to my experience with video games.

You see, I’ve just returned from a two-week holiday to Canada. My wife and I had a marvellous time in the country—soaking in its stunning scenery while consuming even more of its delicious cheese curds. Also, the cliché about Canadians being super lovely and friendly definitely held up from our experience (apologies if you find that cliché grating, Canadian readers!).

In terms of the gaming I did while in Canada… well, it was honestly quite minimal! I did bring my Switch with me and during the ludicrously long plane flight from Brisbane to Vancouver played through some Absolum, Trails in the Sky 1^st Chapter, and Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia (I still have nightmares about that crab in the lighthouse boss fight). Otherwise, I visited a handful of charming arcades dotted throughout Montreal, which was enough to scratch my gaming itch in-between whimsical days of exploring a new country and forming cherished memories with loved ones.

So, no. I didn’t do a lot of gaming in Canada. However, I did spend some time reflecting on instances when going away meant I had to leave a video game behind. These were mostly occasions during my high school years when a family vacation or school camp got in the way of me continuing a playthrough of a game I was currently enjoying—at least for the week or two that I wasn’t home. And boy, could that week or two feel like eternity!

These are some personal stories of my past gaming homesickness. When the pure thought of a video game I had waiting for me at home would linger during an entire trip away. And as we’ll discover, how such a mental exercise in anticipation would often lead to varying degrees of payoff.

I wasn’t particularly looking forward to Grade 11 camp. I’ve written before about how high school could be an anxiety-inducing experience for me and how video games often provided the escape I needed to work through those feelings. So, while I dreaded having my teenage grossness exist alongside those of my cohort for an entire week in some rural adventure campsite, I took my anxieties to the open seas of the Caribbean in Assassin’s Creed IV: Black Flag for the PS3.

That final weekend before camp was a tropical mental health getaway where I collected dozens of random objects around shanty pirate towns, assassinated small armies’ worth of pesky Templar scum, and, of course, sailed across the gorgeously rendered oceans of the eighteenth-century West Indies. It was exactly what the doctor ordered before having to go away for a week with my cohort and learn how dragon boating worked.

And you know what? The camp was actually fine—and the dragon boating honestly rather joyous! Still, if I ever felt a little bit overwhelmed or unsure about the best way to spit out my toothpaste in front of a dozen of my classmates without looking or sounding like a complete fool, I could always cast my mind back into the pirate boots of Edward Kenway. Because I knew as soon as I got home, I could decompress by taking to the seas once again.

I started playing Jak 3 the night before a two-week family vacation to Tasmania. That may not sound like the best idea on paper. Surely, I could have held back on beginning a brand-new game mere hours before having to leave behind my home consoles for a fortnight. And yet, waiting was simply not an option. Earlier that day, I had finished my playthrough of Jak II on the Jak and Daxter HD Collection for PS3, and given how enthralled I was with that game, there was no hesitation in commencing the final chapter of the trilogy.

What followed was a magical family holiday to some of Tasmania’s most beautiful locations—but one where I could not get Jak 3 out of my head. Exploring the markets around Hobart: thinking about Jak 3’s opening cutscene. Walking around Dove Lake in the shadow of Cradle Mountain: musing about zooming around the sand dunes of the Wastelands. Relaxing outside our cosy log cabin in Devonport: pondering the budding relationship between Jak and Ashelin and how it actually made more thematical sense within Jak’s character arc than his previously established romance with Keira.

I had created this version of Jak 3 in my mind that, after we did return home, I discovered didn’t exactly line up with the game itself. That’s not to say that I didn’t like the game. But it wouldn’t be until further playthroughs of Jak 3—unshackled from the expectations of prolonged holiday daydreaming—that I could appreciate the title on its own merits. That’s why, when I look back on my early experiences with Jak 3, I have stronger memories of thinking about the game than actually playing it.

This final story isn’t about just one game, but an entire console. I had been asking (begging) my parents for most of 2011 to buy me a PlayStation 3. My campaign involved me having to complete a pretty strict schedule of weekend chores with the idea being that if I really wanted this new gaming system, I had to earn it. The agreed upon deal was that if I worked hard enough for it, there should be a PS3-shaped present waiting for me under the Christmas tree at the end of the year.

So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I opened my birthday present in October that same year and was greeted by a glorious PS3 slim, complete with the games God of War III and Sports Champions (name a more iconic duo). My parents had come good on their promise a whole two months before I expected them to, and I had a wonderful time gaming on my shiny new birthday present… for about three weeks.

One detail I have yet to mention about this story is that my family was moving from New Zealand to Australia right at the end of 2011. However, for complicated logistical reasons that I can’t exactly remember, the vast majority of our belongings were being shipped well ahead of us in mid-November. This meant we would be living off rather basic means for a good two months during the transition period. Naturally, my new PS3 wasn’t considered an essential item and was sent across the Tasman Sea long before I would be joining it.

In what is perhaps the dorkiest thing anyone has ever done in the history of humanity, I held onto the DualShock 3 controller, even as the rest of the system was thousands of kilometres away. This was so I could still replicate the feeling of playing on my well-earned PS3 during those long weeks apart. Tease me all you want, but whenever my fingers rest on those inexplicably convex triggers of the DualShock 3, my mind flashes back fifteen years to that overseas move and the waiting, waiting, waiting.

Do you have any memories of leaving a game behind? What were your favourite games to play when returning home from a family holiday? Let me know in the comments!

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Stuff from the Stack

Late to the LAN Party

Bristol Video Games Expo

Today I'm trying something a little different than what I usually write about. Instead of reminiscing too much about the past, this post will be talking about a day out I recently had…

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3 months ago · 12 likes · 4 comments · Peter Monks

I had a lot of fun reading and looking through Peter’s experiences at Bristol Video Games Expo for Late to the LAN Party. If they go again next year, I’ll be sure to place some orders on those retro video game stalls—plenty of cool stuff on display!

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

At first, I really pushed back against the climbing simulator game Cairn wanting to tell me an emotional story.

To be fair, some of that initial trepidation towards Cairn's narrative elements may have been my fault. I didn’t really engage much with the game’s preview material outside of knowing it was a game where you were climbing a mountain. And that’s basically all I wanted from my Cairn experience—a virtual simulation of an extreme outdoor sport that I have long been interested in but have zero desire of attempting in real life.

When I sat down to play Cairn on my PlayStation 5, I did get that experience. The developers at The Game Bakers have done an exceptional job crafting an outdoor climbing game that, while perhaps not an entirely realistic portrayal of the activity (it is still a video game, after all), certainly feels authentic to the spirit of the sport. Climbing routes need to be meticulously mapped out and hand/footholds thoughtfully selected. Your vitals and the elements are a constant consideration. And long stretches of meditative flow state climbing are broken up by sharp moments of panic as disaster—and the prospect of losing the last twenty minutes of gameplay—suddenly sneaks up on you.

Cairn gave me all of those things. Plus a pretty art style and the chance to catch up on some podcasts while gaming. What I didn’t expect from this game was ending up in a place where I cared so much about my character and this mountain.

Let’s start by discussing Cairn’s setting. Mount Kami is the fictional mountain you are attempting to summit in this game, and from the moment the camera first pans up to unveil its towering majesty, I knew I was in for the climb of my life. I expected daunting slabs of rock and drops so severe they should produce an album of EDM tracks. What I didn’t expect was the near spiritual connection I ended up forming with this peak across my playthrough of Cairn.

Mount Kami is dotted with the remains of past human activity—from the scattered equipment of previous summit attempts to the ruins of a bygone alpine civilisation. In many ways, it is a mountain of memories, containing the faint echoes of those who have lived and died on its slopes.

I loved how Cairn often presents you with the choice of which landmark you’d like to climb to during your ascent. Whether it’s an old chairlift station or a cave opening, I was intrigued to visit these areas of interest—not just to gather more items for my backpack, but to learn about how they relate to the mountain and the people who once inhabited them. Of course, I could have just spent more time climbing up and down Mount Kami to explore every inch of the mountain. But I find it fitting how, even after rolling credits, there are still secrets left on that peak, awaiting my next climb.

One of the most fascinating elements of Cairn is how it unashamedly presents its protagonist, Aava, as being rather unlikeable. She is an experienced climber who has long considered summiting Mount Kami as being her ultimate mission. It’s the moment her entire career has been building towards and nothing—not her agent, not other climbers, not even her own partner—will stop her from achieving this seemingly impossible goal. She will either reach the top of Mount Kami, or die trying.

Aava’s stubborn determination is portrayed as being single-minded and even a little self-destructive. These aren’t the traditional character traits you expect to find in a main character of a video game, but they are relatable ones and honestly quite refreshing.

I found Aava’s struggle with carrying on with her ultimate dream while damaging her relationships with her loved ones to be a powerful character arc to follow. I ended up empathising with her unshakeable need to summit Mount Kami, no matter the cost. It’s a powerful journey that revealed far more to me about human nature than I could have ever anticipated when I first started playing Cairn.

When I first caught on to the fact that Cairn was trying to get me to emotionally connect to its setting and character, I resisted. I just wanted this fun and challenging rock climbing simulator to continue as exactly that. But just like with Aava’s journey ascending Mount Kami, with each new step of the narrative that I was presented with, the more I felt comfortable soaking in all its beauty.

Have you played Cairn yet? What are your thoughts on the game? Let me know in the comments!

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Stuff from the Stack

Playing This Week

Two obscure retro games my Dad loved

It’s my Dad’s birthday this Friday. Birthdays are important to me, and his hasn’t lost its significance since he died. Arguably, quite the opposite. I think about him every day, but even more so in April, one month of the year when he and I had our best adventures together…

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3 months ago · 9 likes · Katya Ryabova

I found this personal essay from Katya from Playing This Week to be a really moving account of family and gaming and how the two are often more intertwined than we first realise. A powerful read that I took a lot away from.

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

Ah, the metroidvania.

Gaming’s favourite portmanteau. Perhaps the only genre that predominately operates in 2D that has actually grown in popularity this century. This is the realm of locked doors and the keys that open them. Sprawling, blue-squared maps that slowly reveal themselves with time and knowledge. Devastating boss battles and punishing platforming. Items and weapons and secrets and mysteries galore.

Oh, how I love a good metroidvania. And I’ve played plenty of great ones in my day as well. Long ones, short ones, colourful ones, moody ones, thinkers, thumb-breakers, candlestick makers, and also Disney Illusion Island (which I actually think is an excellent entry-level metroidvania, but which sadly doesn’t quite make this list).

So I decided it would be fun to list my seven favourite metroidvanias. Why seven? Well… I don’t really know. When I sat down to write this list, I sifted through all the metroidvanias I had ever played and ended up with a shortlist of the ones I truly love. And that just happened to be seven. As a meta game, feel free to assign each entry to one of the seven deadly sins if you so feel inclined!

One game per franchise—otherwise this list would be bloated by the genre’s two namesakes.

And before the pitchforks come out, I should probably clarify that while I have started Hollow Knight, I have yet to finish it and therefore would feel uncomfortable placing it on this list just yet. I know. I’m a disgrace to my country.

7. Shantae and the Pirate’s Curse

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Consider Gilius Thunderhead.

The greatest fighter that was ever bred.

Let no other rival’s name even be said.

For none compare to Gilius Thunderhead.

The green dwarf from Golden Axe

whose might and power know no match.

His weapon of choice is sure to go whack!

Not golden, mind you, but a silver axe.

Jump

jump

jump

little Gilius.

Jump and land your killing blow.

The only method to fell a foe.

To bring the minions of Death Adder

a wave of woe.

Gilius’s helmet is adorned

with horns—

a warning

to the scorning.

Worn by the mourning: Gilius.

His only relative, Garī, slain.

His tears thick as rain.

Oh, the pain

for this soul,

this character,

this human,

this dwarf.

Neither Tyris Flare nor Ax Battler hold a candle

to the one fighter who can handle

the emotional weight of this daunting quest.

You can forget about the rest.

Gilius is up for the test.

The greatest video game character can attest

to the history of a medium that had been building up

to this.

He has head of thunder

and clothes of green.

Axe of silver

and beard filthy.

He is the greatest video game character

to ever exist.

And when else,

than on April 1st

can we celebrate Gilius Thunderhead

for the magnum opus

that he is.

Please don’t unsubscribe :)

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

Want to see more from The Video Game Storyteller? Check out our TikTok channel @thevgstoryteller or follow our Bluesky ‪@thevgstoryteller.bsky.social

If you wish to contact Harry, you may do so by emailing him at harryfritsch98@gmail.com.

Your party of heroes have been all but decimated.

Three of them are already dead and your final character barely has enough remaining Hit Points to survive an enemy’s sneeze. But you must push on. Because just over the hill, you see the condensed model of a nearby town, shining on the overworld map like a beacon of hope. If you can just make it there, then everything will be okay. You can heal, you can regroup, and you can venture forth once again. So long as there’s no more pesky random battles between now and the safety of that town, this JRPG (Japanese Role-Playing Game) has yet to conquer you.

I don’t know if this is a controversial opinion or not, but towns1 have always been my favourite parts of JRPGs. The reason I say that in a hushed tone is because when compared to the other two main sections of a traditional JRPG’s world—the field (or the overworld) and the dungeons—towns typically see the least amount of action. It’s a fact: battles don’t happen in JRPG towns nearly as much as in the field and dungeons. This strips these locations of a core gameplay layer that can leave them feeling like a place solely dedicated to restocking on health potions and talking to some annoying NPCs (Non-Playable Characters) in-between the real game.

So why do I love JRPG towns so much—often finding them to be the quiet achiever as far as settings go in many of the games I have played in this genre? Well, let’s gather at our local inn, grab a few hearty beverages, and discuss some of the reasons while the travelling bard plucks away a jaunty tune.

Let’s begin by acknowledging that the traditional limitations associated with JRPG towns mentioned above can actually be strengths when viewed from a different perspective. Yes, a lot of towns in a lot of these games have less battling and bombast than in the monster-ridden fields and dungeons. And yet, that’s precisely why I find towns to be such a refreshing change of pace when compared to other stretches of gameplay in a JRPG.

Moments of action need to be balanced out with moments of calm, otherwise they begin to lose their sense of excitement. One element of a great JRPG is how it can manipulate the player’s emotions to rise and fall across its typically lengthy playtime, and towns play a huge role in that. Entering a town in a JRPG is your chance to catch your breath and recharge after dealing with a barrage of enemy encounters. It’s a pause—a fleeting and necessary respite before you feel ready to step outside the safety of the town’s walls once again.

Of course, there have been plenty of JRPGs throughout history that cruelly subvert the town’s expected status as a place of peace. One of the most powerful examples that comes to mind is Ryube Village from Suikoden II. This serene settlement becomes your go-to destination for rest and restocking during the early hours of the game, cementing it as a reliable sanctuary from the war that’s spreading chaos elsewhere. Sadly, that war eventually finds its way to the leafy borders of Ryube, destroying both the village and its inhabitants, signalling that in Suikoden II, nowhere is truly safe.

Stories need people to drive them forward, and in a JRPG—as is the case in real life—if you’re looking for people, you should start by looking in a town or city. Yes, there’s the cliché as old as time (or, at least, like 1985-ish?) that a town NPC in a JRPG will say the same sentence over and over again as if they’re trapped in a time loop. Naturally, this cliché came about due to the limited memory space of older games, but the fact that the NPC is saying something at all is still indicative of a town’s greater purpose in a JRPG’s narrative.

These are the locations where the bulk of the game’s story takes place. Not all of it, mind you, as I’m well aware that key dramatic moments in JRPGs often take place at the climax of their dungeons. But the setup for that moment probably happened in a town. It’s here that you receive the quest, where you learn more about your characters’ purpose, where the greater narrative is further contextualised so that you find yourself caring more.

Towns also do a lot of the heavy lifting for the worldbuilding in a JRPG. Wandering through the streets of a JRPG town or city is where you’ll learn more about the culture, people, society, beliefs, and customs of this virtual world. Talking to NPCs may reveal prejudices or secrets that reframe your understanding of the world, or simply looking at the surrounding architecture can signal a lot about the town’s class, culture, and religion. If stories need people to drive them forward, then towns are the hotbed for narrative in a JRPG.

The final point I want to make about why I love JRPG towns so much has to do with their music. You don’t need me to tell you that this genre of games has a pretty high bar for its soundtracks, yet JRPG town themes usually don’t get as much attention as other tracks. While overworld themes are routinely adventurous, battle music adrenaline-pumping, and dungeon tunes filled with an air of danger, town themes are often defined by their relaxing, homely vibes. All I’m saying is that there are few better ways to lock in during a stressful work task than to have the Kingdom Hearts “Traverse Town” theme playing on repeat in the background.

My Top 10 Favourite JRPG Towns

Now that I have outlined why I think towns in JRPGs are kind of the best, I thought it would be fun to list my ten favourite (one per franchise, otherwise there’d be like six from just the Trails series on here):

1. Goldpaw – Ni no Kuni II: Revenant Kingdom: There are so many memorable towns in the Ni no Kuni duology, but my jaw literally dropped the first time my party entered the bustling, neon-lit streets of Goldpaw. Such a striking aesthetic and its culture of leaving everything up to the roll of a dice has always stuck with me.

2. The Kingdom of Zeal – Chrono Trigger: An iconic location from an iconic game. The Kingdom of Zeal is pure magic realised in 16-bit.

3. Fourside – Earthbound: The New York influence really makes this city stand out in Earthbound, and its dark “Moonside” counterpart is one of the more surreal moments in a game that isn’t short on them.

4. Alcamoth – Xenoblade Chronicles: I clearly have a thing for floating cities in JRPGs. Alcamoth gives me strong Coruscant vibes, with a neo-futuristic grandeur that always gives me chills.

5. Grancel – Trails in the Sky: It wasn’t easy choosing only one town from the Trails games, but in the end, I had to go with the capital of the Liberl Kingdom, Grancel. Mostly because the best chapters from both Trails in the Sky games take place in this sprawling metropolis.

6. Celestia – Radiant Historia: In a game filled with large, industrial military cities, the magical forest village of Celestia really leaves a strong impression.

7. Aiedo – Phantasy Star IV: I will always be obsessed with the fact that Aiedo has two weapon shops. Two! For a town in a 16-bit JRPG, there’s a lot of fun little details dotted around Aiedo.

8. Buccanham – Dragon Quest VII: Fragments of the Forgotten Past: I’ve said it before, but Buccanham has both the darkest and the most gripping story arc out of all the towns in Dragon Quest VII.

9. Dali – Final Fantasy IX: The quintessential cosy JRPG town in my mind. Out of all the towns on this list, Dali is the one I would most want to live in myself.

10. Caldislia – Bravely Default: An excellent starting city for Bravely Default that sets the adventurous tone for the rest of the game.

What are some of your favourite towns in JRPGs? More importantly, what are some of your favourite JRPG town musical themes? Let me know in the comments!

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Stuff from the Stack

Infinite Lives

Inside the Australian videogame magazine Kickstarter that raised over $70,000 in a week

Like most business ideas on the internet, it all began as a chat thread…

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4 months ago · 19 likes · 3 comments · Harrison Polites

No other Substack writer covers the Australian gaming scene better than Harrison from Infinite Lives. That’s why I was so thrilled he got to chat with Mark Serrels and Jackson Ryan about their wildly successful Kickstarter for CONTINUE?—a new magazine that seeks to pump some life back into the withered Australian games media landscape.

The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

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