How Samus Aran defiantly emerged from the dark, murky depths of development hell and earned herself the title of conqueror.
It just didn't make any sense to me. Since the very beginning, it had always been that a Nintendo system hadn't lived a fully productive life until it had played host to at least one entry from each of the company's trio of pillar franchises: Super Mario Bros., The Legend of Zelda and Metroid--the "Big 3," as we referred to them. Yet here we were nearing the end of the N64's life-cycle, and the Metroid series was nowhere to be found! "How is such a thing possible?!" I vehemently questioned, bothered by the fact that my favorite video-game series was continuing to be inexplicably absent.
And the problem was that no one could give me a straight answer as to why the issue was being ignored: Nintendo Power was content to remain silent on the matter. Nintendo's executives were loath to acknowledge the series' existence. And game journalists, who should have been asking all of these same questions, were otherwise too busy parading around in leather jackets and talking about how cool it was to play nothing but M-rated games.
Routinely scouring the Internet in pursuit of news about an N64 Metroid sequel proved to be pointless; I could find nothing--not the faintest allusion to a next-generation Metroid game. And soon it would become apparent to me that the writing was on the wall--that I'd have to resign myself to the fact that the Metroid sequel I'd long been craving just wasn't in the cards; rather, it would remain true that if I was hungry for some Metroid action, I'd have no choice but to keep returning to the classics, all of which were several years old by now. If I wanted to visit the Metroid universe via one of my modern systems, I'd have to settle for playing the shooter mini-game in Galactic Pinball or controlling Samus in Super Smash Bros.
That Nintendo had consciously passed up the opportunity to harness the N64's power and bring the Metroid series roaring into the 3D era seemed crazy to me. "Hasn't Metroid always been one of their biggest sellers?" I wondered as I looked over the roughly tallied figures, the data suggesting that the three games had on an average sold about two million apiece. "Isn't it true that Metroid is just as important to them as Mario and Zelda?!"
Apparently it wasn't.
As we moved into the 2000s, it had been so long since the release of Super Metroid that I began to consider the possibility that the Metroid series was finished, though I couldn't imagine how such a thing could happen. "That's no way to treat one of your grandest, most-influential game franchises!" I protested.
That's why I wasn't so quick to abandon cynicism when gaming sites started reporting that Nintendo was working on not one but two new Metroid titles--six years too late, I was tempted to say. The company was promising to deliver two distinct products: The first would be a Super Metroid-style 2D Metroid for the Game Boy Advance; though I wasn't a big fan of the platform, I was willing to overlook its technical shortcomings and troublesome lack of backlighting if it meant that I'd finally get the chance to experience a brand-new 2D Metroid. In following the company would release a large-scale 3D title for its newly arriving GameCube console.
Frankly, I couldn't find reason to be excited about the 3D title, whose ambitions weren't as clearly articulated ("There will be a change in perspective!" was hardly revolutionary on its own). In fact, none of what I was reading about the game's development was encouraging: R&D1, the creative force behind the trio of Metroid games I so adored, would not be involved in its production; instead, it'd placed in the hands of a newly founded Texas-based group called "Retro Studios," which had absolutely no track record--not a single game to its credit. And, most bafflingly, it was going to be a first-person shooter, the game condemned to inhabit one of my least-favorite genres. "What could they be thinking?!" I wondered, my thoughts centered on what this shift in genre meant for the future of the series on console.
As the months dropped off, the news never got any better; all I'd read about was how the game's development was plagued with setbacks--missed deadlines, continual staff turnover, and even frequent resignations by studio higher-ups. And all we could do as a community was watch on from afar and wonder, "What the hell is going on with this game?"
I could come to only one conclusion: If Metroid was going to be farmed out like this--dismissively shoveled off to some no-name developer--then Nintendo really didn't care all that much about the series' future on consoles. The real Metroid series would instead be relegated to portable devices, slotted as secondary. Meanwhile, it seemed, the 3D game (whose finalized title was "Metroid Prime") would be used not to expand upon the Metroid universe or open up new venues in which the series could further blossom but instead to lure in the Halo crowd and those who were enthusiastic about first-person shooter genre, which was currently producing a large portion of the hottest games on the market. Apparently Nintendo desired to expand its reach--court the "hardcore" types who normally rejected the company's "kiddie" systems--and Metroid, its most "mature" series, was the key to accomplishing this.
Oh, Miyamoto and crew assured us that Prime was actually going to be a "first-person adventure game," but it came off like lip service; all of the evidence pointed in a different direction. It seemed certain that Prime was going to be a derivative shooter. And if that was the way it was going to be, then there would be no reason for me to have any interest in the game.
From then on, Metroid Prime was all but absent from my radar. I no longer cared to know about how its development was progressing. I was happy to avoid reading about it. If I was learning new things about the game, it was only because I was gleaning bits of information while skimming through headlines. I was just fine with focusing all of my attention the GBA game (Metroid Fusion, titled as such at E3, 2001), which was being made by the actual Metroid people--by those who clearly understood what it was.
Of course, my defensive shields were riddled with all of the usual gaping holes and integrity issues, so much so that I wasn't even going to attempt to lie to myself: I knew that no amount of skepticism or pessimism was going to stand in the way of my gullibly heading over to an online store and pre-ordering Prime as soon as it became available. The reality was that I'd already committed to buying a GameCube, a console for which I had little enthusiasm beyond Super Smash Bros. Melee, and I needed to justify my purchase by keeping a list of potentials. Luigi's Mansion, the console's showpiece title, just wasn't doing anything for me; it was clearly no substitute for a true next-generation Mario game--in no way worthy of being the follow-up to one of the most transformational video games ever made. And I wasn't much interested in Super Monkey Ball, Wave Race: Blue Storm, or any of the other launch games. So as a consequence of my apathy, Metroid Prime somehow found itself atop the list.
To its credit, Nintendo's marketing had done an excellent job of creating the sense that the dual release of Prime and Fusion constituted a landmark event--that I'd be missing out on the chance to celebrate the the glorious, momentous return of the Metroid series if I chose to ignore either game. So yeah--I'd been roped in. I was going buy Metroid Prime regardless of what it was--regardless of my low level of interest. At worst, I rationalized, Prime would be a neat little consolation prize--a game with which I could mess around for a few hours on a boring Sunday.
So when the two games went up for pre-order during the middle months of 2002, I clicked my way over to Amazon.com and reserved myself copies of both. Mine were mixed emotions, yes, but it didn't matter; I was still at a point in life where loyalty trumped reason.
By the time the games had arrived in my mailbox, I'd already made the decision that I was going to play Prime before Fusion, as I'd formed a detailed narrative of how this experience was going to play out: Prime was essentially going to be the Metroid series' Castlevania 64. I'd endure it as best I could--all the while lamenting the fact that Nintendo had passed up the opportunity to blow us away with an expansive, revolutionary Metroid title in favor of tossing out a shallow, imitative assembly-line shooter that was of loose relation--and then quickly discard it. And then there would be Metroid Fusion waiting for me with open arms, ready to save me--ready to supply me the true Metroid experience for which I was now starved. "Pain before pleasure," I'd say.
So with little enthusiasm, I popped the Metroid Prime CD into my GameCube and readied myself for some watered-down "Metroid" action. Not even the title's screen's cool visual--a zoomed-in view of a Metroid's innards, pulsating tendrils and all--or its remindful musical theme could convince me that I was about to experience something authentic. Mine was proving to be solid intuition: The opening moments aboard the Space Pirate's derelict frigate were wholly underwhelming. Everything seemed off: The controls were a worrying combination of complicated and somewhat unwieldy, which had never been the case in a Metroid game. For however technically impressive the game was, its environments were bland and sterile. And the ambiance was such that Prime felt more like a space-based horror game what with all of those gravely injured, near-zombified Space Pirates stalking about--basically Doom without any of the fun, frantic shooting action. Truly, nothing about the game's atmosphere screamed "Metroid" to me.
I mean, I could admit that using a special visor to gain access and gather information was a cool feature and that the contents of the pirate logs were actually quite intriguing, but for now they were mere dressing on an unsavory dish. The battle against the Parasite Queen, whose defeat was a matter of strafing around in a circle and pounding buttons, did little to dispel the notion that Prime was a shooter and not an "adventure," as Miyamoto had promised. This was Metroid in name only. The escape sequence in following, though it had its moments (not among them the three-minute period when I found myself stuck in one of the larger rooms because it was too dark to spot an exit point), felt like a token addition--a desperate attempt to make the most reductive of links to the 2D games. "So this is what the whole game is going to be like," I concluded, "an exercise in the most basic forms of derivation."
As I watched Samus' ship chase Meta Ridley down to the neighboring planet, I felt nothing; my level of investment had dropped to near zero.
But then something strange started to happen. Suddenly the game's tone started to change significantly as did my way of observing it. As Tallon IV came into view, my senses started to tingle. Suddenly there were encouraging signs: Samus' ship was cutting its way through an ominous gray sky, its rainy, thunderous conditions highly reminiscent of those that greeted her back on Zebes. As her ship gravitated toward the chosen landing point, the camera began to circle slowly and dramatically, its every angle revealing a tantalizing snapshot of a surface whose rainfall-besieged foliage and undisturbed nooks and passageways spoke of an ostensibly desolate planet that was no doubt hiding endless mystery and unseen danger. This was something else entirely; the world that lay before me, now, was conveying with confidence that Metroid Prime's were going to be far from a series of dull, mundanely rendered metallic corridors. Its atmosphere was reminiscent of Crateria's surface, yes, but coated with a sense of wonder; I could feel it all around me as I surveyed the landscape from atop the ship.
And when that invigorating, goosebumps-inducing music kicked in, I nodded and said to myself, "Yeah--this game is for real."
As if history were repeating itself, here I was locked in place, helpless against the power of a Metroid game's aural conveyance. All I could do was put the controller down and listen. That's when I realized, to my great astonishment, that I was caught under the influence of a slower-tempoed, more-enchanted recreation of the NES original's Brinstar theme! I let it pour over me for the next several minutes, which I spent wandering about the opening area and exploring all of its watery crevices; excitedly testing out and experimenting with the game's vaunted technology, which reviewers had rightly raved about, and marveling over every little effect, like how individual raindrops would splash against Samus' visor whenever I looked up; acclimating myself to the game's control scheme, which made a lot more sense when given this whole new context; and generally taking in the sights.
I remember the visceral jolt I felt when those clawed Beetles emerged from the cavern's depths and began stalking me--how the dispersing-mist effect and the camera's violently shaking reminded me that we were in the next-generation, baby, and that Metroid Prime was going to be about experiencing breathtaking action sequences action scenarios and technological feats that were never before possible!
I vividly recall the moment when my 180-degree turnaround was complete: In the following cove, I put to use the free-aiming mechanic and pointed the camera at the top of the cave wall, at which point I found myself staring in awe at the sight of two waterfalls cascading down a series of cliffs as patrolled by honest-to-goodness Geemers, which were circling their assigned spaces as they always had. It was right then that all of my remaining doubt was cleared away and I said to myself, "This is it. This is Metroid."
I count these among the most memorable opening moments I've ever experienced in a video game.
By the time I hit that elevator room, whose familiar-sounding alien ambiance generated that unmistakable air of suspense, I was wholly invested in Metroid Prime. I knew that I wanted to fully immerse myself in its world. I knew that it was going to be a special game.
The game's sense of enormity was palpable. I could feel it even as I navigated my way through the Chozo Ruins' cramped connecting halls and insect-infected corridors, many of which were purely functional, yes, but invariably imbued with such anticipatory energy that I couldn't help but use the time I was spending within them to wonder about where they were taking me--to wonder about the nature of the alluringly exotic locations that surely lay ahead. This was something only a true Metroid game could do.
And there was Metroid Prime, true to its lineage, using ingenuity and new technology to blaze a trail, just as its progenitor did way back in 1986. To start, Retro absolutely nailed jumping in the first-person perspective; never before had a game of its type made me feel so in control as I effortlessly leapt my way across series of platforms without ever having to look down and check my positioning or worry about slipping of an edge in the run-up. It was almost miraculous how Prime's jumping mechanics felt as natural as any precision-based 2D game's. Also, there was almost no interruption in the action, as Retro had come up with an ingenious scheme for hiding loading times: upcoming areas would load as you traveled through tactically lengthened corridors, which were normally devoid of obstacles, yes, but never truly "empty," their residents the mysterious, thought-provoking ambiances that would never fail to generate anticipation and suspense.
Then there was the immersion factor. Prime had a way of making you feel as though you were in a constant state of interaction with the surrounding environment. There were, for instance, the many visor effects, the most memorable of which included the aforementioned raindrop-splashes, the condensation that would form on Samus' visor whenever she would navigate her way through steamy passages, the unsettling electrical interference that would obscure her view following any explosive attack, and the reflecting visage that would appear whenever she took damage. Switching between Morph Ball mode and the first-person view was seamless, with no break in the action. And the newly procured Thermal and X-Ray Visors allowed for Samus to interact with and track otherwise-invisible enemies and objects by reading heat signatures and detecting electromagnetic waves.
Everything Prime did was big and impactful. You just knew that every first-person game in following was going to use it as a source of inspiration.
Also, Prime's creators were proving themselves to be proficient at telling a story using environmental conveyance, which I recalled Super Metroid using to great effect. There were no flashbacks or patronizing cut-scenes here; rather, Tallon IV communicated its predicament via environmental conditions, its dilapidated temples, roughly hewn caverns, implicative ruins, and test-subject-filled laboratories providing explanation for who or what had been active within them. Scanning, which was turning out to be an invaluable aspect of the experience, also played a big role in how you extracted information about Samus' surroundings. I'd learn more about the Space Pirates and other Tallon IV inhabitants not via dialogue exchanges but through the decoding of encrypted data, which spoke of their histories, their ecologies, their struggles, and their machinations.
Most memorable to me were the Frigate Orphean and Control Tower computer logs in which the pirates spoke about their defeat on Planet Zebes and their failing attempts to replicate Chozo technology, their experiments often producing mangled and mortally wounded "volunteers." Theirs were only a few lines of text, sure, yet still they did so well to provide me context for Prime's placement in the series' timeline while informing me of the stakes.
As I continued to Morph-Ball my way around secret tunnels and discover all manner of alternate routes, it became apparent to me that Retro had succeeded wildly in creating an interconnected, organically branching 3D world. Before I'd even reached the game's halfway point, I felt comfortable in saying that Prime was basically Super Metroid in 3D--or the closest thing to it.
It had done amazingly well to capture the spirit of "Metroid"--to showcase a clear understanding of what it was that made the series so great. I didn't think it could be done, really. At most, I thought that a "great" 3D Metroid would earn such rank only if it were to follow the template set by Super Mario 64 and Ocarina of Time--only if it were to achieve such high quality that it didn't need to be aesthetically or spiritually compatible with its 2D predecessors to win over series fans. Instead, as it worked out, Prime came far closer than I could have ever imagined. In fact, I'd say that it stomped both Mario 64 and Ocarina of Time in terms of capturing the essence of 8- and 16-bit forebearers.
From then on, my experience was about excitedly progressing through Prime's world and marveling over each new discovery--over every newly introduced area, mechanic and musical theme. It was about finding appreciation for the game on two levels: I was eager to see just how closely Prime would adhere to established Metroid principles and how its ambitious creators would use their new technologies to expand upon them in a 3D space. It was about entering a new area and letting its environmental attributes and musical augmentation (a) inform me of its state and (b) suggest to me how I was supposed to feel about being there.
Prime's topnotch audio and visual design always did the job. I'd enter, say, Magmoor Cavern and immediately know where I was and the level of danger entailed: This was clearly Prime's version of Norfair. The atmosphere's reddish tint and steamy corridors spoke of its toxicity while the music's urgent strains and deep percussion compounded the sense of danger. It helped that I was being guided along by an utterly familiar tune: It was Super Metroid's Lower Norfair theme! I was elated to hear it. I thought that the composer made a great move in bringing it back--in creating a nostalgic link to the beloved Super Metroid, which Prime had now earned the right to do.
Indeed the music played a vital role in helping Prime to convey its message. A great example of such was when I arrived at the snowy Phendrana Drifts and found myself under the spell of its melancholic, emotionally subjugating accompaniment, which did well to inform me of its quietly desperate state; also, whether intended or not, its remindful tone worked to evoke images of my experiences with Metroids past--of the now-long-gone simpler times when my friends and I would spend countless hours of our summer vacation exploring the worlds of those ol' 8- and 16-bit adventure games. For that reason I considered it to be the game's best track.
The Crashed Frigate (which at first I didn't recognize as the sunken remains of the Frigate Orpheon from the game's opening), Prime's underwater area, did much the same, its despairing tune functioning to describe the sense of hopelessness that pervaded this place--this planet that was struggling to survive the invasion of the poisonous Phazon menace.
For years in following I'd listen to these evocative works via downloaded MP3s and Youtube videos--let them provide shading to my thoughts and daydreams.
Metroid Prime's atmosphere was such that it had a way of making me believe that unseen forces were lurking within every visible space, even when the current location was observably vacant. That's how I felt about the Phazon Mines--the pirate's base of operations, which, while home to game's most intense action sequences, was sparsely occupied. Still, the disconcerting influence of its quietly sinister music had me convinced that evil was hiding around every corner, waiting to ambush me. That's what made it all the more intense when an actual surprise attack did occur; the result would be "stress piled atop tension," was an apt description of my trek through the area's exterior sections. Also, the music's understated tone added an eerie feel to the observing phase of the Phazon-subsisting Metroids, whose ostensible docility was all the more disquieting when witnessed from afar. Truthfully the Metroids were hardly a serious menace, yet the music's imbuing force belied such a notion, its enveloping influence working to magnify their threat.
Sure--I wasn't thrilled that Retro deviated from the canon and adjusted it to where frozen Metroids could be destroyed with a single missile blast, but by then the company had earned a ton of leeway.
Quite simply, the game was too phenomenal for me to waste time trying to find flaws. So what that the Chozo Ghost encounters were obnoxiously designed, the boss battles tended to drag on forever, and the doors sometimes took too long to open? These were minor offenses in a game that was wowing me with its awesome visuals, terrific music, impressive technical achievements, ingenious puzzles--many of which used the Morph- and Spider Ball mechanics to amazing effect--cool weapons, and grand adventure.
And long before I was ready for it to do as much, Prime was signaling to me that it was time for the game to draw to a close. I didn't want that to be the case. I wanted it to stretch on for as long as possible. That's why I didn't mind the Chozo Artifact hunt, which many in the gaming community dismissed as a "fetch quest." I wanted to spend as much time as I could in this world--travel across it again and again and admire its every environmental touch. Explore its every nook in search of secrets. That's what you were supposed to do in an adventure game!
Soon all that was left were the conclusive encounters with Meta Ridley and Metroid Prime (which either was or wasn't a real Metroid depending upon who you asked). Their battles were long and frustrating, yes, but tense and epic in their progression. The final clash, in particular, was a heart-racing affair, its proceedings marked by such chaos that I frequently fell victim to bouts of that ol' "gamer spazout," wherein you frantically pound away at the buttons and wind up executing every conceivable action except for the one you intended. I mean, all I wanted to do was run over to the pool of Phazon, equip the required visor, orient myself, identify the target, and fire. Instead I'd change beams, roll into a ball, activate the map, lay Power Bombs, nervously spin in circles, and put myself in a position where I'd have to spend minutes trying to shake off the endlessly spawning Fission Metroids.
I didn't want Metroid Prime to end. I was sad when it was over.
It had left me wanting more, so much so that all I could think about was what Retro could do in a sequel. I played through Prime multiple times over the next few months, and each time I'd extract immense enjoyment from the game, but it would never be enough. My appetite had grown near-insatiable, and the only nourishment I desired was a serving of more--more of what Prime was offering. Really, I couldn't wait for the announcement of the next Metroid Prime game.
That was Metroid Prime--a game that blasted its way through my shield of skepticism and pessimism and absolutely blew me away. Its mission was never to overcome doubt; no--rather, it sought to create its own grand expectations and then smash even those to pieces. Somehow those crazy cats at Retro had done it: They made Metroid work in 3D. They showed us that there really was such a thing as a "first-person adventure." Metroid Prime proved it.
Above all Prime was a "true" Metroid and an instant favorite. For a time I had Prime locked in a virtual tie with Super Metroid for "best series title," which was a remarkable feat considering my intense adoration for the latter. It had done everything those beloved 2D games did: It made me feel like an occupant of its world. It invited me to wonder about what was going on beyond its visible surfaces. It filled me with the sense that there a whole lot more to find if only I'd look.
And all I could think about was "Where are they going to take it from here?"
Unfortunately, Retro's much-anticipated follow-up didn't come close to meeting my expectations. I couldn't have been more disappointed with Metroid Prime 2: Echoes, which was merely a "solid" game when it needed to be so much more; its main issue was that it was bogged down by a heavily obstructive light world-dark world mechanic, whose presence wrecked the game's pacing (so many load times) and hampered the level designers' ability to create an expansive world; I was hoping to explore a continuous, wonderfully labyrinthine Metroid world, but instead they gave me two bland, largely disjointed settings.
Metroid Prime 3: Corruption, while superior, started to lose focus of what Metroid was. It scaled way too large, its emphasis on planet-hopping and the Galactic Federation working to minimize the sense of isolation and relegate the Metroids, which at one time were described to be the universe's greatest threat (I mean, the series is supposed to be chiefly about them), to minor annoyances--mere background players that would show up in a featureless room and just kinda float around near the corner. I mean, come on--are we really going to pretend that Metroids are a bigger threat than Phazon, Dark Samus, the Ing, and this particular incarnation of the Space Pirates?
Metroid Prime, I thought, would be a driving force behind console gaming's next glory period, but instead it signaled the end--at least for me. It was too grand a creation. It had created too high a bar. In gauging what its sequel had offered, my sense was that Prime's creators had neither the time nor the motivation to top it---to meaningfully evolve its formula (though, to be fair, Retro was likely short on both time and budget, which I should have taken into account). I felt the same about the sequels to all of the gen-6 games that so enraptured me, my list of favorites including but not limited to Metroid Prime, Ratchet & Clank and Grand Theft Auto III. None of their sequels were able to meet my expectations; they were solid and nothing more, theirs merely an increase in complication. So I could only conclude that console games weren't going to get any better; rather, they would simply iterate forever.
It was this long series of disappointing follow-ups that accelerated my falling out of love with consoles. I would continue to extract enjoyment from consoles in the future, sure, but I'd never truly love them again.
But if that was to be the end, then I could say that I went out having seen what stood atop the pinnacle. Metroid Prime, which our communities had once showered with derision, could now be hailed as one of gaming's greatest success stories. It had gone above and beyond in its endeavor to prove its value. It had done brilliantly to honor the name of its predecessors. And in the end, it was able to cement itself as not just one of the best Metroid games but one of the best video games ever created.
For that moment in November of 2002, though, all was right in the world. Metroid Prime was amazing, and it was a certainty that I would play through it many times in the future. And the best news was that there was more Metroid waiting for me! Now I could turn my attention to Metroid Fusion, which was surely going to prove itself to be the shining new 2D Metroid game for which I'd been yearning for more than half a decade!
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