#chelnov

Super Hydlide (1989)

This is one of the best “old style” action-RPGs I’ve played. I’ve gone in with barely any prior knowledge, and I think that’s how to best experience it. Spoiling yourself on the extent and workings of its mechanical systems would, I think, turn it into nothing more than leveling up and finding the next place to go. The range of overworld which you’re initially able to explore is fairly restricted, and, as the action-RPG designation suggests, there are no randomized battles. Because of details like your need of food and sleep, or the encumbrance limit, though, it’s a deep relief to return to a town after some exploration in a way that reminds one why this trope of wilderness vs. domesticity caught on. You might just find yourself exhaling when your enter an inn. In another game, your character’s attack would likely be assigned a hitbox straight ahead of the sprite, but Super Hydlide locally assigns it to your right arm/hand, and it’s a welcome quirk in a game with super basic combat. There is no in-game map (or, if there is, I haven’t found it yet), and so -- as with Simon’s Quest -- I’ve been drawing my own on a sheet of gridded paper.

Above: the same screen at different times of day.

I hope that this blog’s emphases and its audience make the claim that I think Super Hydlide looks amazing at least appreciable. Everything has just enough detail to render the object, being, or space as categorically legible while retaining ambiguities, and there’s a variety where you might not expect it, like the grass around the building above, that gives each screen a kind of visual grain that an ornate and time-worn carpet might have. Complementing this is a soundtrack that seems unaware of the console’s audio capabilities in a way that another contemporary Mega Drive release, like Sword of Vermilion, certainly was not. That’s fine, though; the sound’s smallness, with those lite approximations of exclamatory synth brasses and the percussion’s dusty, dinky punches, enhances the cute visual aesthetics: people, monsters, and buildings you could hold in a pair of cupped hands. Especially remarkable is the overworld theme, “Chaos Separator” -- almost three minutes long, a duration that was basically unheard of at the time.

Atomic Runner Chelnov (1992)

Chelnov has me torn between wanting to share either as many screenshots of it as I can or as little. It’s so stunning to behold that exposing anyone who hasn’t played it to its sights seems like a disservice. It’s in extreme contrast to the game’s original arcade version, too, which may as well be a different game. Every stage is a stream of layered ornaments, and continuing to play to see more of this is motivation alone. At first I thought the graphic theme was one of a general “exoticism”, with ziggurats settled above lava giving way to stepped Mayan pyramids, but then the penultimate stage threw architecture designed by Antoni Gaudí my way, making me wonder if the theme is more broadly “eclectic” -- choosing certain settings and motifs for their dazzling power alone. This is one of those run ‘n’ gunners where your character will keep running unless you stop them -- but you soon have to start running again anyway, since the screen keeps moving right and only stops for bosses. It took me playing through half of the game to figure out how to turn around. Please, if you want to give Chelnov a look: consult a controls FAQ.

El Viento (1991)

If you’re looking for level design that’s a mixture of the mundane and the out-of-control, El Viento might be for you. One moment you’re walking through an open sewer channel, exploding the occasional fish; the next, you’re navigating a bundle of platforms that feel way too closely packed together for your character’s sprite size as you attempt to outrun a never-ending flood of rats that move at speeds never before recorded. One moment you’re going through an apartment’s door into an empty interior; the next, a tank bursts through the opposite wall and just starts hammering you with missiles and bullets, giving you only five feet of space to work with. It’s the second in a trilogy of games, which includes Earnest Evans, a game perhaps most notable for all of its footage making it appear that the players are incompetent on purpose, but which in fact plays more or less the same no matter how good you are. Grave sacrifices were made so that the titular character could be a composite sprite. El Viento’s level design hews closely to Earnest Evans’, with the important difference that its protagonist, Annet Myer, is controllable.

Even with its problems, El Viento is charming. It’s nice to play a videogame with a female protagonist who’s not creeped on by the artist(s) (perhaps we can, in part, thank technical limitations for this). The palettes and style of pixel art bear an uncanny resemblance to Master of Darkness, released for the Game Gear and Master System, and give each stage a distinct, almost dirty granularity. For me, El Viento gets especially interesting around the fourth stage, a ship’s engine room (or... factory?) that’s preceded by a short segment that has you crossing water on top of a cartoon-eyed dolphin. The level design transitions to looking like a network from Metroid Fusion -- a knotty maze with small destructible points that cause chain reactions, oddly small platforms, moments where you’re not sure what’s interactive and what’s not, and low ceilings underlined by spike-beds that necessitate you make use of a crouch-dash mechanic that feels like it shouldn’t work the way it does. It’s a hardly perfect yet precious occurrence of extinct, or endangered, level design, and the developers apparently had a confidence in letting it, as it were, speak for itself, because there’s not a single enemy to defeat throughout.

Jewel Master (1991)

Wanting to hear Motoaki Takenouchi’s incredible score, one of the Mega Drive’s best, in its intended context was almost totally my incentive to play Jewel Master. It’s a fine, somewhat haphazardly designed action game; not bad, not memorable, but for the music. You acquire different rings, some optional, as you go from stage to stage, and can assign them to a total of four active slots on an equipment menu. Different combinations will lead to different effects -- or you might want to leave a ring on one hand on its own. It’s a neat idea in the abstract. In practice, you’ll often be better off sticking to one set-up per stage until a boss demands a switch. The level design is pretty uninspired, and it increasingly makes artificial attempts at challenging the player by burying you under swarms of suddenly-appearing monsters. When this happens, you just have to hope that you can make it out alive. There’s not a whole lot to look at, either: the stages’ environmental peculiarities and palettes are minimal to an extreme, although I do love that the protagonist’s sprite seems to take a cue from Rastan’s by only moving his legs when he walks.

Gynoug (1991)

My experience with, and interest in, shumps, is next to nonexistent, so I don’t have a ton to say about Gynoug. Why’d I bother? Well, because of the weird and grotesque enemy and boss sprites, which combine the mechanical, exoskeletal, and visceral. The first miniboss is like a floating snapping turtle... except without legs, and a head that’s a toothed skull. Later, in stage two, you’re confronted by the bow and head of a ship that reveals itself to be the hat atop a colossal, wrinkled face. Maybe it was expecting too much to hope that the settings would match the bestiary’s inventiveness, but only stage three and four wowed me. If it’s not a game I’m going to be returning to any time soon, it was worth going through once.