Addy's NES Pages - Section II

Castlevania 2: Simon's Quest probably has the best dialogue of any NES game.  Even in Japanese, it wasn't much more coherent than the Zombie Nation story, but after it got translated by retarded monkeys screaming into a pitchblender*, it became totally impossible to follow what little plot the game had in the first place.  Since none of the game's stated clues match up with the puzzles that are really programmed into the cartridge, the game is completely impossible if you attempt to use logic to solve the problems of the hero, one Simon Belmont.  Just as Shadowgate becomes a test of your ability to guess which casket the creators' diseased minds expected you to open, Simon's Quest becomes a test of your ability to decipher the clues you receive and shape them into the clues you actually need.   For example, a skilled player of this game, upon being told "Hit Deborah Cliff with your head to make a hole," will immediately conclude that he needs to go kneel next to the fifth stone in a graveyard.  Since the citizens of the world speak solely cryptic half-English and spend about half their time making threats and demands (see below), it's clear why Simon's motivation in this game is not to save the world, but to (I'm serious) relieve his chest pains.  Nobody in his right mind would risk his life for the sake of these gibbering maniacs without an ulterior motive.

Typically, the American staff realized at the very last second that the game they had was not only impossible, but impossible without an explanation why.   Rather than acknowledge the failure to adequately Americanize the text, Konami just decided to cover themselves and insert a excuse into the game's instructions.  So, the manual includes a line warning you that sometimes the townspeople may try "to deceive you."  I wish they'd continued this process and explained away some specific examples of nonsense dialogue run rampant.

The same goes for the person who says "Take my daughter, please!!" and I figure there's also a tie-in with "When I was your age, women loved me,"  "I'll see you at midnight on the river bank," "I've been waiting for a good looking guy like you," etc.  Again, none of this would be quite so annoying if there were at least a poorly-coddled-together rewrite tossed in the back of the manual.  Even I have been able to come up with a few plausible scenarios they could have used.  For example: the endless come-ons from total strangers are actually an indication of the corrupting effect of Dracula's presence on the populace.  This would also explain the bum traders, and, again, the deceptive advice.  The only problem with this excuse is that it doesn't really delve into what Dracula hopes to gain by this, since many of his pawns seem to exhibit nothing more than diseased paranoia, which, while disconcerting, isn't likely to deter you from your quest.  Examples of this kind of dialogue include "Don't look into the death star, or you will die" and "Don't make me stay.   I'll die."  Of course, this type of babbling is vastly outnumbered by the more specifically bad advice, as when Simon is told that the way to live longer is to get a silk bag from the Graveyard Duck.  So, as usual, Dracula's plans make sense by just the barest of margins. 

We're about done with this game.  But allow me to make an observation: in playing Simon's Quest (and also Rygar), we encountered dialogue that was useless and bizarre in context, but was at least comprehensible if viewed from a distance - that is, it mostly followed the rules of English grammar and could be parsed into subject-verb combinations, etc.  However, this is by no means the norm on Nintendo.  The game makers knew we'd buy anything, and that we really didn't have a choice if they hyped a game up in Nintendo Power, a magazine that I realized too late was owned and operated by Nintendo, who stood to gain in some fashion by giving even horrible titles glowing reviews.  Hell, I could be convinced to buy a game just by seeing hints that implied that it was at least playable, such as "Don't get caught in Cyclopticus's tendrils!" or "Status Report: Avoid enemy bullets!" 

So there wasn't too much attention paid to basic grammar needs, as this shot from Astyanax demonstrates.  After a lot of experimentation I figured out that this cryptic image is just an early attempt at upping a game's sales by including a cute chick.  Unfortunately, the 8-bit pallete wasn't quite suited to this task, and we were all prepubescent anyway, so it was a mute point.   The game itself was actually pretty enjoyable, but this one shot deserves international attention for its sheer linguistic impenetrability - especially now that the babbling duck shopkeeper from Milon's Secret Castle (nominated for Seanbaby's "Most Helpful Game Character" award) has gotten so much recognition.  It is not known, incidentally, whether the shopkeeper duck is related to the Graveyard Duck from Castlevania 2.

Linguistic impenetrability works because it hits us below the belt; a sentence that fails to even pay lip service to human syntax is, paradoxically, not a sentence, and this logical contradiction stabs deep into our brains.  But to be satisfied with this assault on sense is thinking small.  Why settle for a self-destructive and fruitless piece of writing when an entire game can be erected in defiance of all that games stand for?

Because the Legend of Kage already did it, that's why.  In this game, you play an insecure young ninja in old days of Japan.  I say "insecure" because he was uncomfortable with history's use of his name - hence, whenever "Kage" is referred to in the game's text, it appears in quotation marks.  Most likely, his real name was something embarassing like Monkey Punch, or Namakubi.  But if he wishes to be called Kage, so be it.  I think I can understand why he's so concerned about his life and his legacy; I shall now explain, by retelling my own version of the Legend of Kage.

Kage is some sort of royal retainer, it seems, and he has about the worst luck in the world.   Video game retainers go into their jobs with the expectation that the princesses they will protect will be kidnapped maybe once - four or five times if the game becomes popular and spawns sequels.  Kage didn't figure it'd be any different for him, and so he was excited when he learned that the princess "Kiri" had ineptly stumbled around for a while, only to have an evil ninja swoop down from the trees to kidnap her.  All he had to do was rescue her this one time, and the rest of his life would be filled with celebrations of his heroism, and all the perks that go with it.

After hacking his way through a number of nerve-wracking, ninja-crammed stages, Kage finally rescued the princess, and, with her in his arms, leaped  from the top of the evil tower.  When they reached the forest floor, though, what happened?  Yes, another evil ninja swoops back down to kidnap the princess again!

Kage, mustering his determination and figuring that the sequel to the game had begun without him knowing, made his way through the stages again, and I guess the princess got kidnapped by a different warlord this time, because all the stages, including the palace, had different color schemes.  Occasionally, Kage would find himself in a strange substage where he was challenged to make a butterfly change colors by hitting it.  I think this is one of those concentration exercises that show you are a master swordsman, like when Bishop in Aliens slammed a knife into the table between his outstretched fingers at rapid speed.   This seems a little unnecessary after a while, though; once you've killed a few hundred ninjas, you shouldn't have to prove your worth as a master of the Tiger Style or whatever.  Kage was stupid, though, and sat through it every time.

Anyway, though, Kage rescued princess "Kiri" again, and the same thing happens.  Ninja, swoop, kidnap, more identical stages, etc.  At this point Kage began wondering if he was trapped in one of those old-school, Space Invaders-style videogames where there's no progression or change, but the game gets harder and harder.  

"It's like a whirlpool, and it never ends..."

But after four rescues, Kage stumbled upon an inspirational plot-segment that implied the end of his mission and total success.

However?

..yes.  She gets kidnapped again.  For all I know, if Kage had run through four more rescues you get another vague hint of eventual success.   But after the "however" screen, Kage committed warrior's suicide rather than continue to face this wretched nigthmare.  Or at least that's what he did when I played the game.  Probably the quest just keeps grinding on, automatically producing faster and more numerous enemy ninjas.

Speaking of enemy ninjas, the game helpfully includes a "cast of characters."  This is of interest to me, mainly because I love reading Nintendo manuals to see what kind of malformed names the creators came up with for the vague pixellated blobs that make up the game's bestiary.  It doesn't really work in Kage; for one thing, the names aren't at all funny.  Also, it seems like we're supposed to believe that, for example, every single samurai we meet is named Yôshirô.    It doesn't matter.  The only purpose of these enemies is to fool you into thinking that the Legend of Kage is a video game, its actual purpose being to teach suburban kids that being trapped in an infinite loop of unsatisfying, pitiful tasks is somehow entertaining.  Who says games can't be educational?

The legend of Kage, then, is a chilling story of disappointment and futility in old days of Japan, but at least I can use it on English essay questions asking me to cite a "work of world literature" for part of my answer.  As a video game, though, it's a little frustrating.  I like it that I can jump about fifty feet in the air, but after a few rounds, all I really want to do is hold Kage underwater in the moat stage until he drowns.  As usual, though, the programmers couldn't make room to squeeze in this feature.

Go on to Arkanoid

* - Again, credit to Bloodwhine for this phrase.