From the Memory Bank: My History with Video Games

Mega Man 2 - Rocking My World
How the Blue Bomber's astonishing action title changed the way I looked at game-ownership.

If I had to describe my younger self in one word, I would most certainly go with oblivious. The sad truth is that I didn't pay much attention to the outside world. I had very little knowledge of what was going on outside of my little bubble, which encompassed only a tiny portion of Dyker Heights, Brooklyn. All that mattered to me were the domestic affairs in which I was currently engaged and the news, trends and games to which my friends or my brother were introducing me.

That's how it was when it came to my entertainment choices and especially when I was making decisions as to which video games I wanted to play. Mostly, I'd stick to what I knew, and for the first ten years of my life that boiled down to the Atari 2600 and the Commodore 64, both of which belong to my brother. All of my home gaming was done on these two systems, and I played only those games that were included my brother's current collections. And, really, I was fine with that arrangement; I was content with the games that were available to me. I loved them. I replayed them dozens of times over the years. They never got old.

They were all I needed. The way I felt, I could have played Megamania, Toy Bizarre, Trolls and Tribulations and Dino Eggs forever.

This continued to be my mode of operation even after I became an NES owner--an event that marked my finally branching out and embracing something new. Though, that was about as adventurous as I'd get. In following, I quickly returned to old habits. And once again I was playing only what I knew; my interests were limited to the games I already owned--all of those I received as gifts--and whichever games I'd played or was currently playing at my friends' or cousins' houses. And since I had access to former type almost everywhere I went, I didn't feel the need to buy any of them for myself (also, I was kinda cheap). "Why bother?" I thought.

If not for the actions of my spendthrift brother, James, my collection probably would have long been limited to the three games I received on Christmas Day of 1988 (Super Mario Bros., The Legend of Zelda and Metroid). James, who appeared to have limited interest in the console, for some reason spent the next few months loading up on NES games and rapidly expanding my collection for me. Were it not for his strange penchant for amassing toys and items he seemingly didn't want or need, I might never have discovered many of the games I came to hold as cherished favorites.

I wasn't hurting for game options, no, but still my interests were so very narrow. If I wasn't already familiar with a game, then it didn't mean anything to me. I didn't feel it necessary to look outside my bubble. What I had would always be enough.

Eventually my attitude changed and I came to abandon this mindset, but the shift wasn't immediate. Oh, no--this was a slowly developing evolution and one whose particular mode of progression required the very timely introduction of certain games.

The gears were set in motion in early September of 1989. That's when my friend Dominick bought a new game with which he was so impressed that he just had to show it to me. So I followed him over to his house on 911, 85th Street, eager to find out what it was.

The game in question was Mega Man 2, which was apparently a high-profile sequel. Though, I was entirely unfamiliar with it. In fact, I couldn't recall ever hearing or reading anything about a game series called "Mega Man." While Dom set up the NES, I looked over the game's box art, which depicted, as much as I could tell, some guy in a blue jumpsuit and a visored helmet firing a laser at highly nimble Paul Lynde as decked out in a purple jumpsuit and a boomerang-emblazoned helmet. It could have been the artwork for any generic action title, really--any drab-looking, serious-toned run-and-gun side-scroller.

However, it turned out that this illustration was hardly representative of the actual game, whose tone and art style told a very different story: Mega Man 2, instead, starred a diminutive arm-cannoned hero--a uniquely styled fighting robot whose appearance and animations were dripping with character. And everything about his world was pleasing to the senses; I took immediate notice of its eye-catching visual presentation, wonderfully luminous color-schemes, adrenalizing music, and slick, fluid animation. As the verbally limited 12-year-old version of me would have put it: Its graphics were amazing, it had a rockin' soundtrack, and its action looked super-fun!

Dominick, who was eager for me to experience its exciting action for myself, handed me the controller and let me play through Air Man's stage. And in that short span of time, Mega Man 2 put on the greatest exhibit possible: It showed itself to possess a Super Mario-level sense of controllability; a fast-paced, free-flowing style of action that was reminiscent of Contra; unmatched vivacity; and a whole lot of interesting, innovative level design. In addition, it introduced a simple-but-brilliant weapon-stealing mechanic the likes of which I'd never seen in a game; this mechanic, Dominick informed me, was the essential ingredient in the game's equally inventive weakness-chain system, which invited the player to experiment with newly acquired weapons and through trial-and-error discover which bosses (or "Robot Masters," as we'd come to know them) were vulnerable to which weapons (we'd learn later on that this system was inspired by Rock-Paper-Scissors, the knowledge of which only reinforced our notion that its was a simple brilliance).

I was absolutely blown away by the experience. Mega Man 2, in just a few short minutes, successfully made the case that it was one of the best games on the NES. I couldn't believe that I'd never heard anything about it previously.

All I knew was that I had fallen in love with Mega Man 2. For the next few weeks, it was all I could think about. I was so enamored with the game that my future visits to Dominick's house were largely fueled by my desire to spend more time with it--to spend as much time as I could traversing my way through the Robot Masters' awesomely designed, aurally and visually stimulating habitats. I didn't want to go home; I didn't want to be away from Mega Man 2. I needed for it to be a part of my life.

I'd never before felt that way about a piece of digital entertainment. For the first time ever, I was so taken with a game that I knew I had to have it in my collection; I had to be in a position where I could play it anytime I wanted.

Now, up until this point, I'd largely refrained from buying new games with my own money, since they tended to be pricey, and I was, well, kinda cheap. It had always been the case that I asked my parents to buy a newly released game for me. However, I didn't want to resort to doing as much at this particular moment in time because I felt that they had already been far too accommodating over the previous ten months--a span in which they had bought me an NES and at least eight games; my sense was that I'd be shamelessly taking advantage of their kindness were I to request anything more. I was much more comfortable with the idea of buying the game with my own money.

Unfortunately, though, I was a little short on funds, having squandered all of my birthday money on other ("lesser," I'd say in retrospect) types of entertainment products (action figures and toy cars, mainly). So I decided that I should take action and scrounge up some funds any way that I could.

After two long months, I managed to accrue upwards of $50 (to be honest, though, a large part of that sum was comprised of a combination of the change I found while couch-digging and what remained of the money I won during the holiday-season poker games)--about what I needed to cover the cost of the game and the sales tax. And so it came to be: Finally I had the means to buy myself a copy of Mega Man 2!

Still feeling somewhat self-conscious, I meekly asked my parents if they could drive me over to the Toys R Us at the Caesar's Bay mall (I felt bad about asking them to waste fuel on my account). I wasn't surprised, though, when they said yes. I mean, my mother was always looking for a reason to get near a mall, and my father was (and still is) the most obliging, generous person around. So we hopped into his black Cadillac Fleetwood and head off to Geoffrey's multicolored wonderland!

I tell you, man: I was stoked about the fact that I was about to become the proud new owner of Mega Man 2, about which I'd been dreaming since the first day I saw it. And then it so happened that my excitement-level shot up even higher because my parents suddenly, unexpectedly offered to buy the game for me, as an early Christmas gift! But right then the feelings of self-consciousness resurfaced, and I had to think about what I was accepting; after taking a moment to reflect--to consider how I'd been overindulged over the past year--I decided that it was proper to put up some resistance to the offer. Yet they insisted that they wanted to do it. "Don't worry about it!" they said. Furthermore, they worked to allay my feelings of unease by providing me what I found to be a strong rationale: They suggested that things would balance out nicely if I were to instead use my money to buy a gift for someone in need--do for someone else what they were doing for me.

"That makes sense," I thought. "Good deal."

So we entered the store, and I, being the hyperactive little fellow that I was, speed-walked my way to the games section and promptly grabbed one of the few remaining Mega Man 2 tags from the associated slot. My subsequent mad dash toward the glass-protected checkout counter was halted for a few moments when my surprisingly attentive mother saw the original Mega Man right next to it and shockingly inquired as to whether or not I wanted that game, too. But, really, that's another story.

For the next couple of days, I was in my glory. I spent many an hour joyously jumpin' and shootin' my way through those awesome stages and re-assailing Air Man and friends. All the while, I had great fun experimenting with the Robot Masters' cool weapons and discovering all of the enemy weaknesses. If ever the action came to a pause, it was only because I was stopping to marvel at the graphics or listen to a stage's incredible musical theme. I was in gaming heaven.

Soon, for the first time, I was infiltrating Skull Castle--Dr. Wily's multi-stage fortress--whose strikingly rendered, wonderfully menacing map image would forever remain etched in my memory. As I advanced through its first stage and beyond, I took notice of two notable variances: The first was a clear jump in difficulty, the spike mostly attributable to platforming challenges built with Dr. Light's three specially crafted transportation items (two flavors of ascending platform and a horizontally-moving jet) in mind; the training wheels were off, I quickly learned, and the game was now demanding that I exhibit advanced platforming skills and mastery over these items. Initially that tasked seemed quite overwhelming--particularly in the case of a sequence that challenged me to somehow find a way to reach a ladder that was placed way atop the screen, in the opposite corner; all I could do was scratch my head and spend minutes wondering what the hell the game wanted me to do. And even when I figured it out, there was still a matter of executing the required tactic, which was a mighty struggle. I mean, I've long mastered the art of smoothly placing three Item 1s in succession, but back then my skill-level just wasn't quite there, and so challenges of this type were among the most stressful I'd ever faced.

Also, there was a general shift in tone. Suddenly the visuals had a more muted, perceptibly foreboding quality to them, and the music had a more serious texture to it, the stage themes now conveying a sense of urgency and ominousness. This variance turned out to be the more significant of the two because it established permanence; whereas the challenge would eventually evaporate as my skills improved, the visuals and music would never lose their ability to render a remarkably distinct air of intimidation--a tense, oppressive atmosphere that would forever come to define Mega Man 2's Skull Castle. There would never be another one like it.

Skull Castle may have featured only two-stage-themes' worth of musical accompaniment, yeah, but each was so perfectly encapsulating--so far-reaching in its conveyance--that the inclusion of a third track would have been superfluous. The Wily 1 theme, in particular, was a brilliant piece of 8-bit music--perhaps the most rockin' video-game tune I'd heard in my eight years of playing. It did such an amazing job of guiding me along and informing me of how I should feel about my trek; its inspiriting opening verse spoke of bravely scaling towers and castle walls, and its bridge was soaked in the type of melancholy that brought to mind struggle and reminded you that this was only the beginning. It was encouraging yet cautionary. Lively yet wistful. It was, quite simply, the new standard for final-fortress opening-stage themes.

It was the power of their resonance that afforded the final stage its startlingly disquieting air of culmination. That is, the sudden absence of such was what so meaningful exacerbated the cold silence that greeted me when I fell into that creepy underground cavern. The message couldn't have been any more clear: The evil force that lurks beyond this point is like nothing else you've ever encountered. Things are now deathly serious.

Wily 6's was the most impactful silence I'd ever experienced in a game. It told me a story that music couldn't. "What a bold move," I thought, "for a game whose personality is so heavily derived from its energetic, expressive music." (Though, the 11-year-old version of me probably used smaller, simpler terms.)

And man was Capcom's ambition ever on full display here. Skull Castle was hitting me with one spectacularly executed, instantly classic boss encounter after the next; these battles were inventive, visually stunning, and so very impressive in terms of their size and scale. The designers clearly desired to wow me with their creations--with their screen-filling robotic terrors; and they succeeded in that mission. I would never forget the first time I observed and participated in awe-inspiring scenes like the one wherein a gigantic, destructive robotic dragon chased me across a harrowing platform section, the green menace tearing through the platforms upon which I'd previously traveled, before spraying me with streams of flame. Like the one wherein I was frozen with surprise as I found myself under attack by the room, itself--pairs of its tiles breaking off from the surface and conjoining to form troublesome drones. And like the one wherein I watched on as the massive, invincible-looking Guts Dozer slowly rolled its way in from the screen's right side, its delayed advancement working to induce a state of worried paralyzation ("How am I meant to approach this thing?!" I wondered in the trepidatious moments that preceding the battle).

Each clash was epic in its own way. Each would resonate as a highlight of my 8-bit-gaming years.

There was one exception, though. I wasn't particularly fond of the Boobeam Trap (the "security system," as I called it back then) battle, the execution of which perplexed me. "How do you include a boss that can't be beaten in one go?!" I questioned in my understandable ignorance. For years I approached this encounter with the same strategy: (a) blow up all of the destructible walls and then let the beam turrets kill me; (b) restock my Crash Bombs by farming weapon energy; and (c) after re-initiating the battle take out the now-defenseless targets. I believed this to be the intended method. I was assured of such by Dominick, who agreed that mine was the correct solution; I mean, that's exactly how he handled this battle whenever I watched him play through Mega Man 2.

It wasn't until the mid-90s that I engaged in some actual observation and realized that there was indeed a method for destroying the Boobeam Trap in one go--that you should leave some walls standing, use Dr. Light's transportation items to circumvent them, and destroy only those that are clearly obstructive. That's when I came to understand the true nature of this battle: It was obviously puzzle-based, and I should have been cognizant enough to recognize as much. But even then, it wasn't a very good puzzle; even if you knew how to approach it, it would still work out to be one big messy cluster. It didn't help that Mega Man was completely defenseless when a transportation item was on screen, since the player was restricted from pausing the game for as long as one of them was visible. And it was almost impossible to evade the beam turrets' collective blast! Often we'd say "Screw it" and avoid taking damage by using the rapid-pause technique to cheaply lock Mega Man into an incorporeal state.

A pox on whichever sadist thought that it was a good idea to put this "Boobeam Trap" in, like, a video game.

At the time, though, it was a non-issue. Really, I was so spellbound by the game that never once did I take a moment to consider the possibility that it had flaws. My opinion was that Mega Man 2 was perfect; it was worthy of 10s in every category. I was thoroughly impressed with every aspect of it.

There was no doubt about it: Mega Man 2 was my new favorite game! I couldn't get enough of it. I returned to it so many times in the days and weeks ahead that play-throughs of Mega Man 2 were almost a daily ritual. I loved it that much.

As did other beloved classics--like Super Mario Bros. 2, Contra and Double Dragon II: The Revenge--Mega Man 2 became one of the go-to games to which my friends and I would return month after month, year after year, for as long as our group remained together. We'd play it in a variety of ways: Sometimes we'd challenge each other to clear the game by taking on the Robot Masters in unusual orders--those in which we'd have no choice but to fight a certain percentage of them without their weaknesses. And other times we'd play it cooperatively--swap the controller between stages and give each person a chance to participate; all the while, each of us would focus on two things: trying not to fail and look bad in front of the others and praying not to be the poor sap whose job it was to play through Heat Man's stage without Item-2.

Even when people weren't in control, they'd remain engaged. Those who weren't playing at the time were likely providing humorous commentary or slapping a couch's arm in rhythm to the game's jammin' music--and always to the drum beats of Wood Man's hot theme.

On the subject: Mega Man 2 was the game that sparked my interest in video-game music. It showed me the power of 8-bit chiptunes, with which I grew so enamored that I desired to have ready access to them; so I started recorded them by pressing my tape recorder up against the speaker on my 20-inch Sony-brand television. It meant a lot to me to have ready access to them--particularly to Mega Man 2's awesome stage themes; it was the best thing in the world to be able to listen to them while I was writing, drawing or playing with my action figures. Though, I'm not sure that my making my Pee-Wee's Playhouse figures dance to Bubble Man's theme--my personal favorite--relates well to this piece, so I'll delve into the topic at, uh, some other time.

Mega Man 2 was an endless source of entertainment. I was able to extract value from it in so many ways. Indeed I got maximum return on one of my first and greatest purchases.

It wasn't long before I committed the entire game to memory and developed the routines and playful antics that would long remain staples of my Mega Man 2 experience. There would rarely be a time when I didn't tackle the eight Robot Masters in the following order: Air Man, Crash Man, Metal Man, Bubble Man, Heat Man, Wood Man, Flash Man and Quick Man. When I didn't strategically coax the final Air Tiki into appearing at just the right moment so that its horns would lower in sync with the previous Air Tiki's and allow me to cleanly pass between them and escape before the pesky Gremlins could start emerging. When I didn't stop and wonder if the flashing energy pellets embedded into the Air Tikis' foreheads would replenish health if I could somehow procure them--maybe with the help of a custom Game Genie code. When I didn't recklessly hop over to the lower-positioned Lightning Lord platform while it was currently obscured by clouds. When I wasn't taking advantage of the conveyor belts' forward push in an attempt to outrace my Item-2 jet--reach the energy tank before it could hit the right wall and dematerialize. When I wasn't exploiting the jet or the icy property of Flash Man's stage in an effort to find new and interesting poses for Mega Man to strike while transitioning through boss doors. When I wasn't using a Leaf Shield for protection when riding around on those lifts in Wily 4.

There were so many of these, really, that I'd be here for hours if I attempted to list them all. Twenty-five years later, I still repeat most of these routines.

Also, the way in which I perceived and thought about its world would never alter. To this day, I consider the manner in which it presents Skull Castle to be a vital world-building element. The iconic Skull Castle map image, the classic route-tracing sound effect, the emotive musical themes, the stages' powerfully suggestive visuals--back then and even now, they unfailingly express to me the conflict's momentous nature and make me feel emotionally connected to the action--make me feel as though I'm an infiltrator in a inhospitable, coldly functioning complex that could only have been diagrammed in the mind of a dark, depraved madman. You see the clear logic in its construction; you take note of the fortified outer wall, the central cooling system (which features those large fan animations that I love), the sewage system, and the roughly carved cavern that serves as Wily's secret bunker. Together they form an indelible portrait of a wonderfully organic-feeling creation; they leave a powerful lasting image of a place whose structures and emanations so accurately characterize the struggle. Really, this was the last time a Wily castle felt truly special.

Out of all the Mega Man games, Mega Man 2 had what I felt was the most profoundly memorable cast of enemies. And I'm not just talkin' about its exemplary Robot Masters and Skull Castle bosses. No--I'm very much including its minor enemies, all of which were overflowing with character and so finely tailored to each stage. I find it impossible to separate them from my mind's renderings of the Robot Master stages. I simply can't forget Metal Man's gear-reading clowns; Air Man's bulky (and somewhat-glitchy) Fan Fiends; Bubble Man's giant shrimp-spewing Lantern Fish; Wood Man's incomparable flame-spewing Hot Dogs; and all of those other creative, beautifully designed metallic minions. Their collective stood out to me as a defining element of Mega Man 2, whereas enemy casts in later entries were so blandly presented and so uninspiringly derivative that they started to blend together. Here each cast member was distinct in appearance and played an important role in helping the game to construct an unmistakable aesthetic.

Only a select few of these enemies were identified in the manual and in game magazines, so my friends and I made up our own names for most of them. The robotic jellyfish were "Metal Metroids," for instance, and the large robot-eating fish in Wily 3 was "Ginetta" (I'll explain why in a future piece). Also, the Sniper Joe-controlled mech--which we considered to be the last great "Big Man" of the Mega Man series, even if it was only half as terrifying as the previous Big Eye--was "Stilted Joe," because, I guess, we couldn't think of anything more uncreative.

Oh, the ways in which we helped each other learn about and appreciate Mega Man 2. For as long as I live, I'll never forget that it was Dominick who taught me how to safely pick off higher-positioned Sniper Joes by situating Mega Man on the top rungs of ladders in such a way that his head is resting just below their line of fire and then shooting their legs when they're in attack mode. Also, it was he who informed me that I could kill Metal Man with his own weapon--in a single shot, no less! I was able to reciprocate by teaching him the tricks I discovered, like how you could hug the right wall while dropping into the Wily 6 cavern and therein use Mega Man's far-right positioning to charge through the cavern's separate screens and stay ahead of the acid pools--preempt the acid-dripping cycles. And then there were those times when we'd analyze the game's "obviously symbolic" ending sequence, wherein a solemn-looking Mega Man leaves his helmet on a hill in a grassy meadow, and craft theories as to what it was trying to tell us ("Is he giving up on being a hero?!" we'd speculate).

Each interaction represented an invaluable drop in a very rich pool of memories.

For all of these reasons, Mega Man 2 earned itself permanent residence in the pantheon of my all-time favorite video games. It was, in my opinion, a top-level masterpiece--an all-around perfect package whose every aspect held great allure. I counted it among gaming's unfathomable wonders--as one from a rare breed of games that was somehow able to achieve excellence in every category. And it would forever hold up; the eras would pass and the hardware power would continue to increase exponentially, but there I'd be, still playing Mega Man 2. Still playing one of the best action titles around. Its relevance would never wane.

I wasn't surprised to learn that Mega Man 2 was a passion project, because such a truth was at all times perceptible to me, from the first time I watched its captivating intro (that iconic, incomparable scene in which the camera leads us up to the foreground building's top, where we find a helmetless Mega Man standing vigilantly) to the moment when my epic encounter with the Wily Alien concluded and that spectacularly rendered hologram machine came into view. It was as if the developers were in constant communication with me--as if they were speaking to me through their creation--and truly I could sense how excited they were to showcase their product and impress me at every turn.

Playing the original Mega Man gave me greater context. It was then that I could see that Mega Man 2 was an ambitious refinement of a flawed predecessor. I could appreciate how it addressed all of the original's shortcomings and succeeded marvelously in elevating the Mega Man formula to the next level. True--the company was misguided in its response to fan complaints that the original was "too difficult" (a criticism that I say is overblown); the Western-specific "Normal" mode is simply a disguised easy mode, included because obviously us lowly, unskilled Westerners aren't able to handle a little bit of challenge in our games. It's quite insulting, really. But let's be honest: At the time, none of that mattered. Mega Man 2's action was so thoroughly satisfying that none of us even cared to think about or judge its difficulty-level.

So yeah--Mega Man 2 means a lot to me. It's a game that changed my life. It helped to shape who I was and who I would become. I give it as much credit as any for starting me on the path to being a heuristic console enthusiast. It might not have been the chief contributor to this eventual evolution, no, but it planted its share of seeds. Most importantly, it opened my eyes to the fact that I'd be missing out on some pretty amazing experiences if I continued to remain willfully ignorant about what was going on in the scene. I can't imagine how empty that 11-year-old's life might have been without it.

Hell--I can't imagine what any phase of life would be like without it. I mean, we're talkin' about one of the most reliably entertaining action games in history. It's as fun to play now as it was way back then, and it'll still be fun to play 30 years in the future! And even in 2050 it'll remain a case study of how short-but-fulfilling games can have more value and replayability than the era's $60 big-budget blockbusters, which you play for about a week or two and then never touch again.

That Mega Man 2's action is so satisfying is why I continue to revisit it on a regular basis and always when I'm on what's called the "Mega Man binge"--a (usually unplanned) spree that triggers when you decide that you want to play only a single Mega Man game but suddenly get the itch to play through all of the classic-series games in succession.

One of the big keys to its replayability, lately, is the "Difficult" mode, which I never bothered to sample back in the day (well, at least not for more than one or two stages). Its jump in difficulty brings it to about original-Mega Man-level, which makes a world of difference, as now-hairier battles with Air Man, Wood Man and Quick Man prove. I enjoy the added challenge; I find greater satisfaction in beating the real Mega Man 2--the game as it was originally intended. After all: Overcoming difficulty is what Mega Man games are all about. It's supposed to be that you get your brains beat out but persist until you've grown wise enough and strong enough to re-challenge and conquer foes who previously seemed indomitable. It's a lesson in how to grow, both in gaming and in life.

That's what I've taken from it, at least.

And that's the story of Mega Man 2 and me. That's how Capcom's masterwork has impacted my life. Now, it's true that Mega Man 2 has shifted about my "Top 3 Classic Series Mega Man Games" list over the years, often finding itself second or third instead of tops (at one time I considered Mega Man 3 to be the superior game, and currently I enjoy playing the original Mega Man more), but that's hardly relevant. What matters is that Mega Man 2 is a top-level video game and one of the most important pieces of my history.

I will cherish it forever.