It's possible that I may have played Metroid Fusion first. But somehow I doubt it. I don't think I would've gotten through that game and then had trouble with Metroid Prime's atmosphere. There was something too immersive about that lifeless space station that scared me away. I scared easily as a kid, so I tended to avoid anything that would get under my skin too much. Although I did used to read as many R.L. Stine books as I could...perhaps because their terrors were imaginary, while audiovisual terror felt more immediate.
But eventually, after avoiding it for a while, I decided I was ready for Metroid Prime after all. It was important that I approached it on my own terms without feeling pressure to toughen up. The wait paid off: I thrilled to its moody ambience, and Metroid quickly became a favored franchise to me thereafter. Its vast empty worlds must have struck a chord with me, living as I did in borderline-rural Pennsylvania. Being the lone lifeform in a forbidding wilderness wasn't such an alien experience after all.
In those adolescent years where video games were an all-consuming passion, few loomed larger in my imagination than the Metroid series. My favorites formed an indelible quartet: Prime, Fusion, Prime 2, and Zero Mission. Two from 2002, two from 2004, each one a key experience in the shaping of my teenage sensibility.
This was also an unusually fertile moment in a franchise that often goes dormant for years without warning. Nintendo seems baffled by the success of its Metroid games, commissioning a few before getting skitish once again. After the hostility that greeted Other M's release, Nintendo held off on Metroid games for a full six years before releasing the reviled Federation Force. Only with last year's Samus Returns did they find the critical and commercial success they were seeking. At least one new game is in active development now, but if history's any guide, this hot streak can't be taken for granted. It could go cold just quickly.
As for me, my own video game mania coincided with that small window's opening. Metroid became a vital part of my life, simulating in electronic form the oppressive hugeness of an adult world I was just beginning to glimpse. I'd long since barricaded myself inside my childhood home to keep out my unkind peers. I think that early retreat from the social world marked me more profoundly than I even knew. To this day, I can only feel emptiness around me despite the world's infinite busyness. Living in a big city hasn't altered my perception of being the only person around for miles. Outside my apartment walls, humankind is a vanishing abstraction hidden somewhere far away from me.
I want to try and describe the experience of my four favorite Metroid games. But my perception of them is inextricable from my own self-perception. I have to backtrack and make sense of myself before I can talk about them.
Here's my impression of playing Metroid Prime. Hot creeping vines. Stagnant water. Desiccated skies hanging over dusty, dry fields. Crumbling sandstone pillars. Underground tombs full of magma. Scorching cold winter air. Softly blowing snow that hides toothy bipedal monsters. Corrosive chemicals tearing apart the DNA of indigenous creatures. An alien race watching with sadness as its culture is melted into burning blue plasma. The incongruous confidence of walking across melting icebergs. The melancholy of a world sleeping beneath permanent cold. Waterlogged regret. A ship knocked out of orbit, consigned to purposelessness. Steroidal marauder-warriors who undergo forced mutilation to achieve new levels of rage and hatred. The creature of pure growth they worship for its limitless appetite. Envy of a pettier, weaker species. Those yellow eyes glaring with inarticulable emotion. Dodging the plasmic beast as it patrols its territory. Intelligent but wordless.
There are moments of total emptiness in Metroid Prime that are hard to convey in words. Even the cinematic time-image can only convey so much empty space. To really feel your aloneness, you have to move through a space that can't feel your presence. You must walk over the inert metal that's been wedged into the crust of a frostbitten planet. Spelunk the scientific facilities of an alien race whose primal need for power scars the pristine icy surfaces. The three-dimensionality of Metroid Prime is key to its desolate affect. It's the traversal of a dying world, moving from lush swamps to blistered ore mines, that tells you just how vital your own life is. Samus is a latecomer to this entropic scene, and that's very much the point. All the ferocious turmoil of invasion and rebellion has already happened. All that's left is to walk among the ruins and piece together what happened.
Metroid Fusion is somewhat more stark. There are plenty of ominously open spaces, but the lines are crisper now. Its sharper graphics are a metaphor for the limits built into the game. Here you can see the edges of the screen because every artificial room you enter has circumscribed limits. And while the game's excitement lies in watching nature "find a way" through such a sterile environment (a lot like JURASSIC PARK, now I think of it), Samus remains confined to an enclosed space station. We are watching a microcosm of video game ecology, a simulation of a simulation.
Fusion seems well-liked by fans who, admittedly, don't have many other options to choose from. It feels rather like a remix, combining various environmental themes (hot, cold, tropical, water) into one unnaturally pristine space. The RESIDENT EVIL: RETRIBUTION of Metroid games, you could say. But just as that film is my favorite of its series, I find a lot to like in Metroid Fusion. The computer narrator, tedious for some, is for me an essential part of the game's tension. There is a dialectical relationship between the computer and its domain, where the A.I. is constantly trying to make sense of the uncontrollable energies blasting through walls. Samus and her digital advisor are always one step behind the viral lifeforms, which makes the game's flow feel more urgent than in the other entries. Some find that approach too linear for a famously non-linear series, but I think it's a clever innovation. The uneasy anticipation of Fusion comes directly from its written prompts.
With Metroid Prime 2's release, the yawning void at the series' heart literally entered a new dimension. This time Samus was tasked with exploring a bleak world and its blackened clone, hidden on the other side of a dimensional rift. The familiar expanses of barren earth now had an even darker complement.
It's been a while since I last played this game, though the urge occasionally retakes me. Several years ago, I suggested to my step-brother (who spoke little English at the time) that we play Prime 2 together. He agreed, and so we took on the task together, slowly building a relationship with one another meanwhile. Before that, I delved deep into this game in middle school, ensconced in the guest bedroom where the family GameCube was located. I spent a lot of time in that room as a teenager, somewhat more exposed to the rest of my family but still absorbed in my own pursuits.
It was progress though, I suppose. As a child I hid in my room most days, passionately drawing, building, and writing to my heart's content. Adolescence made me bolder than I'd been as a shy, sensitive child. I kept my guard up around others, but at least my curiosity about the world was leading me into new spaces. Still, I could only grasp my place in the world by seeing myself as alone in it. Metroid Prime 2 visualized that feeling more profoundly than I could've expected. I am haunted even now by those moments of utter stillness on the dark planet, far removed from life itself. Stranded in un-reality that feels as if it could collapse at any moment, and with me inside it. Perhaps that's why the game ends as it does, with the dark planet folding back into its "real" originator. The exceedingly tenuous reality carved out by Prime 2 is too fragile to last forever. But like all art, its effect/affect can linger in one's mind far longer.
Now, I'm finishing up Metroid: Zero Mission. This one always recedes into a haze of memory, reflected in its fuzzier graphics. The whole game feels more like a fantasy re-imagining of the original game than something real. Another simulation, another retromanic rewind. And it is that, but there are things to like about it too. The music is top-notch as ever, and some boss fights (Kraid, the Imago larva, Mother Brain, Robo-Ridley) are memorably surreal. I enjoyed the experience, even if it all feels a bit like inhaling the vapors of someone else's fading memory. A secondhand nostalgia that becomes, in time, my own nostalgia.
What really piques my interest about Zero Mission now, though, is the prospect of playing Metroid: Samus Returns. The latter game is a direct sequel to the former, and so I felt I should end my recent Metroid replays on Zero Mission. The Metroid series is always retracing its steps, doubling back twice for every cautious step forward. I suspect that's another reason Metroid Fusion gets a pass: despite being little more than a mash-up, it also remains the farthest leap into the future that Metroid has yet taken. We're all still waiting for Nintendo to push past the line in the sand drawn by that 2002 entry.
I'm not much of a gamer these days, yet I can still find time to enjoy reliving memories of old favorites. I almost wish I liked video games more, except I already feel sheepish about the amount of time I spend on movies. I don't need to add another medium to my repertoire. So for now I'll give Samus Returns a try, and hopefully my copy of Metroid Prime 3 will show up someday (it's lost in my apartment at the moment). As reluctant as I am to "get back into" video games, I can't deny the formative influence of Metroid. I will forever return to these games, listening to their music, soaking in their affects, retracing my steps on their familiar lifeless terrains. Sometimes it's hard not to feel like the best days of Metroid are behind it, but who knows what the coming years will bring. For a series so bound up in sci-fi possibility, it seems only right to keep waiting for another dose of that old future shock.
As for me, my own video game mania coincided with that small window's opening. Metroid became a vital part of my life, simulating in electronic form the oppressive hugeness of an adult world I was just beginning to glimpse. I'd long since barricaded myself inside my childhood home to keep out my unkind peers. I think that early retreat from the social world marked me more profoundly than I even knew. To this day, I can only feel emptiness around me despite the world's infinite busyness. Living in a big city hasn't altered my perception of being the only person around for miles. Outside my apartment walls, humankind is a vanishing abstraction hidden somewhere far away from me.
I want to try and describe the experience of my four favorite Metroid games. But my perception of them is inextricable from my own self-perception. I have to backtrack and make sense of myself before I can talk about them.
Here's my impression of playing Metroid Prime. Hot creeping vines. Stagnant water. Desiccated skies hanging over dusty, dry fields. Crumbling sandstone pillars. Underground tombs full of magma. Scorching cold winter air. Softly blowing snow that hides toothy bipedal monsters. Corrosive chemicals tearing apart the DNA of indigenous creatures. An alien race watching with sadness as its culture is melted into burning blue plasma. The incongruous confidence of walking across melting icebergs. The melancholy of a world sleeping beneath permanent cold. Waterlogged regret. A ship knocked out of orbit, consigned to purposelessness. Steroidal marauder-warriors who undergo forced mutilation to achieve new levels of rage and hatred. The creature of pure growth they worship for its limitless appetite. Envy of a pettier, weaker species. Those yellow eyes glaring with inarticulable emotion. Dodging the plasmic beast as it patrols its territory. Intelligent but wordless.
There are moments of total emptiness in Metroid Prime that are hard to convey in words. Even the cinematic time-image can only convey so much empty space. To really feel your aloneness, you have to move through a space that can't feel your presence. You must walk over the inert metal that's been wedged into the crust of a frostbitten planet. Spelunk the scientific facilities of an alien race whose primal need for power scars the pristine icy surfaces. The three-dimensionality of Metroid Prime is key to its desolate affect. It's the traversal of a dying world, moving from lush swamps to blistered ore mines, that tells you just how vital your own life is. Samus is a latecomer to this entropic scene, and that's very much the point. All the ferocious turmoil of invasion and rebellion has already happened. All that's left is to walk among the ruins and piece together what happened.
Metroid Fusion is somewhat more stark. There are plenty of ominously open spaces, but the lines are crisper now. Its sharper graphics are a metaphor for the limits built into the game. Here you can see the edges of the screen because every artificial room you enter has circumscribed limits. And while the game's excitement lies in watching nature "find a way" through such a sterile environment (a lot like JURASSIC PARK, now I think of it), Samus remains confined to an enclosed space station. We are watching a microcosm of video game ecology, a simulation of a simulation.
Fusion seems well-liked by fans who, admittedly, don't have many other options to choose from. It feels rather like a remix, combining various environmental themes (hot, cold, tropical, water) into one unnaturally pristine space. The RESIDENT EVIL: RETRIBUTION of Metroid games, you could say. But just as that film is my favorite of its series, I find a lot to like in Metroid Fusion. The computer narrator, tedious for some, is for me an essential part of the game's tension. There is a dialectical relationship between the computer and its domain, where the A.I. is constantly trying to make sense of the uncontrollable energies blasting through walls. Samus and her digital advisor are always one step behind the viral lifeforms, which makes the game's flow feel more urgent than in the other entries. Some find that approach too linear for a famously non-linear series, but I think it's a clever innovation. The uneasy anticipation of Fusion comes directly from its written prompts.
With Metroid Prime 2's release, the yawning void at the series' heart literally entered a new dimension. This time Samus was tasked with exploring a bleak world and its blackened clone, hidden on the other side of a dimensional rift. The familiar expanses of barren earth now had an even darker complement.
It's been a while since I last played this game, though the urge occasionally retakes me. Several years ago, I suggested to my step-brother (who spoke little English at the time) that we play Prime 2 together. He agreed, and so we took on the task together, slowly building a relationship with one another meanwhile. Before that, I delved deep into this game in middle school, ensconced in the guest bedroom where the family GameCube was located. I spent a lot of time in that room as a teenager, somewhat more exposed to the rest of my family but still absorbed in my own pursuits.
It was progress though, I suppose. As a child I hid in my room most days, passionately drawing, building, and writing to my heart's content. Adolescence made me bolder than I'd been as a shy, sensitive child. I kept my guard up around others, but at least my curiosity about the world was leading me into new spaces. Still, I could only grasp my place in the world by seeing myself as alone in it. Metroid Prime 2 visualized that feeling more profoundly than I could've expected. I am haunted even now by those moments of utter stillness on the dark planet, far removed from life itself. Stranded in un-reality that feels as if it could collapse at any moment, and with me inside it. Perhaps that's why the game ends as it does, with the dark planet folding back into its "real" originator. The exceedingly tenuous reality carved out by Prime 2 is too fragile to last forever. But like all art, its effect/affect can linger in one's mind far longer.
Now, I'm finishing up Metroid: Zero Mission. This one always recedes into a haze of memory, reflected in its fuzzier graphics. The whole game feels more like a fantasy re-imagining of the original game than something real. Another simulation, another retromanic rewind. And it is that, but there are things to like about it too. The music is top-notch as ever, and some boss fights (Kraid, the Imago larva, Mother Brain, Robo-Ridley) are memorably surreal. I enjoyed the experience, even if it all feels a bit like inhaling the vapors of someone else's fading memory. A secondhand nostalgia that becomes, in time, my own nostalgia.
What really piques my interest about Zero Mission now, though, is the prospect of playing Metroid: Samus Returns. The latter game is a direct sequel to the former, and so I felt I should end my recent Metroid replays on Zero Mission. The Metroid series is always retracing its steps, doubling back twice for every cautious step forward. I suspect that's another reason Metroid Fusion gets a pass: despite being little more than a mash-up, it also remains the farthest leap into the future that Metroid has yet taken. We're all still waiting for Nintendo to push past the line in the sand drawn by that 2002 entry.
I'm not much of a gamer these days, yet I can still find time to enjoy reliving memories of old favorites. I almost wish I liked video games more, except I already feel sheepish about the amount of time I spend on movies. I don't need to add another medium to my repertoire. So for now I'll give Samus Returns a try, and hopefully my copy of Metroid Prime 3 will show up someday (it's lost in my apartment at the moment). As reluctant as I am to "get back into" video games, I can't deny the formative influence of Metroid. I will forever return to these games, listening to their music, soaking in their affects, retracing my steps on their familiar lifeless terrains. Sometimes it's hard not to feel like the best days of Metroid are behind it, but who knows what the coming years will bring. For a series so bound up in sci-fi possibility, it seems only right to keep waiting for another dose of that old future shock.
