So begins Super Metroid, the pinnacle of 2D adventuring. Never since has a game provided so much freedom along with such depth of control, nor produced such a finely tuned tension, solitude and a sense of impending doom without resorting to cheap scares.  And somehow, it succeeds simultaneously as both a sequel and a reimagining of the original game.

A matter of minutes later, after your panicked flight from the collapsing ruins of Ceres Station you arrive on the surface of Zebes, the caves and passageways of which form your playground for the rest of the game.  With a heroic jingle you emerge into a hostile environment, desperately underequipped and uncertain of what to expect.  The obvious path lies silent and uninhabited, just as you left it all those years ago when you first escaped the firey destruction of the planet’s interior, your two-button NES pad gripped in triumph.  And as you delve a little deeper, you rediscover the shattered remnants of your final battle; Mother Brain’s glass tank, shattered and broken; your escape route, burned and decayed from a decade of disrepair.

Or as in my case, you miss all the relevance of this historical retread as you didn’t play the original, but even then the all-pervading silence and lifelessness – other than the tiny scavengers scurrying away at your approach – leaves you breathless.  I already knew I was in for an epic; that they included the complete map and strategy guide for free in the oversized box suggested that this was going to be no straight shooter.

What I didn’t expect was a masterclass in extraterrestrial potholing, mixing the old tradition of leaping from ledge to ledge with squeezing through the tiniest of cracks with the help of an ever-increasing arsenal of technical wizardry and high-payload weaponry, working ever deeper into the heart of the planet, down into the flooded environs of Maridia and the magma caverns of Norfair.  And with each rediscovered technology, you feel just a little more prepared for the incredible odds that await you round the next corner.

It’s not even that Super Metroid’s particularly hard – with a bit of careful exploration you rapidly become such a badass that only the most cackhanded playing will result in your untimely demise – but that even as a fully equipped power-suited badass you feel strangely vulnerable, trapped deep beneath millions of tons of rock, entirely alone.

Yet as the sirens wail and the unexplained planetary destruct mechanism ticks down, you know you’ll be back, stalking the corridors of Zebes, revelling in the solitude.

At the same time, while JRPGs often have the most complex stories found in gaming, they too tend to rely on endless comfortable repetition of certain basic genre tropes, the band of young archetypal – often painfully emo – heroes pitted against the might of a military establishment with the fate of the world in the balance. Toss in a smattering of faux-mysticism, preferably a bunch of crystals or similar plot tokens to be fought over, then garnish with a frustratingly high occurrence of random encounters which can easily be surpassed by repeatedly hammering a single button.

And in many ways, Skies of Arcadia is a devoted follower of tradition.  Moon-crystals that hold the key to ruling the world – check. Team of archetypal young heroes – check. Military establishment bent on world domination – check. Bundles of forgettable random encounters – check.

So why is Skies of Arcadia one of those rare games I return to year after year? Where is the appeal amidst the cliches?

The setting has a great deal to do with my affection for the game. Airships may be a staple of JRPG technology, but rarely has the concept been realised so completely, as our heroes sail upon an ocean of sky between floating islands and continents, populated by flying fish and great arcwhales, pirates and explorers.  The story may be old hat, but it quickly becomes obvious that the plot, such that it is, is merely an excuse for an extended travelogue taking you to all four corners of the sky and beyond, and the world itself – while regularly appearing naive and a little idealised – is a pleasant enough reality that it genuinely is enjoyable just seeing what’s over the horizon.

It helps that the desire to see what’s over the horizon is the guiding philosophy behind the game.  The world map starts off restrictively small, but each time you set sail for the edges of the world, the map pulls back to reveal undiscovered lands just begging to be explored, and as your airships grow increasingly more technologically advanced more and more of the sky becomes your playground.

But it’s the company you keep while on your journey that proves to be the clincher. Vyse, the very archetype of the teenage hero, is immediately likeable by virtue of both his eternal optimism and assured self-confidence, a persona the player is encouraged to bond with by the game’s reputation system, rewarding heroic but realistic choices while punishing both cowardice and overconfidence in equal measure. There’s a wonderful dynamic between the other primary characters under your control, and somehow they succeed in remaining fun and upbeat throughout without becoming saccharine or grating, while the cast of colourful bit-players are a consistent delight, many showing a certain degree of depth not immediately apparently from the broad strokes they’re initially painted with.

I also feel the need to make particular note of how utterly refreshing it is to have a game where: a) the teenage characters don’t whine about how much their life sucks at every opportunity, and who don’t let life get them down even when things aren’t going their way, and b) the writers didn’t feel the requirement to overburden the plot with a romance/love triangle, but actively show that men and women can be trusted friends and colleagues without going all fluttery-eyed and trying to get into each others’ pants.

I could go on all night discussing the highlights of Vyse’s journey – the ‘worst-case scenario’ imaginings of what lurks in each new land, the rewarding conversion of a desolate rock into a fully-functioning secret base of operations, the incredible (if slow-paced) airship battles, topped off with one of the most stirring (and underappreciated) soundtracks gaming has yet to offer – but I wouldn’t want to spoil the delight of discovery which is such a part of this classic. Sure, it has its faults, but if you can look past the occasional frustration, Skies of Arcadia is a confident, uplifting, life-affirming journey into the blue sky.

In these dark times, Vyse and friends may be just what we’re looking for.

Skies of Arcadia Legends is fully compatible with the Wii, and can easily be found on Ebay (although you may have to fight for it). A sequel was rumoured back in early 2008, but we’ve been left holding our breath since then.

Somehow, amidst the bloom lighting and the illegible subtitles, the shadow beasts and the desolate cliff-bound castle, ICO made you care. And Ueda and his team went back to work on crafting their next intricate masterpiece. The gaming world waited with bated breath to see whether Team ICO could do it again.

When Shadow of the Colossus opens, the damsel in distress is already dead and slung across the back of the hero’s horse, Agro.  Carrying over the minimalism of exposition which made ICO such an understated joy to play, the reasons for Mono’s death are never made fully clear, nor are Wander’s motivations for doing whatever it takes to bring her back.

Carrying his love – for that much is apparent – into the Forbidden Land, Wander encounters the disembodied spirit Dormin, whose essence has been sealed into sixteen great colossi across the land.  Destroy the colossi, and Dormin will return Mono to life.  Spurring Agro down the steps of the temple that dominates the centre of the land, Wander prepares to do what he must, no matter the cost.

It’s at this point, as you ride out into the barren wasteland, that you realise this is no ordinary game.  There are no grunts to bar your progress, no endless hack-and-slash on your way to your destination.  You ride through an empty desolation; the only sounds are the howl of the wind and the rhythmic thunder of Agro’s hooves.  Other than occasional trees and grass, the only living things are tiny lizards skittering out of the way and eagles soaring high above.

At first it feels like you’ve been thrown into a Zelda game with all the incidental content ripped out, and it’s a decidedly discomforting sensation.  The controls don’t help in those first five minutes of puzzlement; they seem overly complex – what other games need a button for ‘hold on for dear life’? – and counter-intuitive, and Agro fights your heavy-handed hold on the reins with every step.

Even though the world is so desolately beautiful, it shouldn’t work.  And it’s a miracle that just a few minutes later, it begins to soak through your preconceptions, and then at last it clicks.  Agro’s fighting you because you’re trying to drive him like a car, just like you have to in every other game.  He’s a horse; point him in roughly the right direction and give him his head.  He’ll take care of the little things like steering round obstacles and not leaping into chasms.  You need a ‘grab’ button because when the beam of light shining off your sword points towards an sheer cliff-face, and you have to leave your trusty – and newly appreciated – steed behind, you scramble from outcrop to outcrop, platform to platform up the cliff, relying on catching hold off ledges and vines, having complete control over your climbing ability.

And because once you encounter your first Colossus atop that cliff, you understand that this is not a game about hacking your way through hordes of faceless grunts.  This is a game about climbing and clambering, hanging upside-down from the armpit hair of a hundred-foot tall behemoth, and thrusting your sword frantically through hair and flesh as it swings its head from side to side, equally desperate to dislodge you before you bring a cruel and violent end to its ancient life.

Each colossus is a puzzle in its own right, an integral part of the landscape, each requiring you to master different aspects of your abilities. And yet, much like ICO before it, there are no new weapons, no new items to gather and utilise (at least until the game is over). As with any game of this type, there are a few colossi who could be considered to be filler, but on the whole each encounter is different enough to be memorable for a long time to come.

Beyond the basic premise set out at the beginning, Shadow of the Colossus keeps additional intrusive storytelling to a minimum for much of the game, preferring instead to allow the player’s developing relationship with Agro and the Colossi themselves to take centre stage.  And with that comes the sense of unease, of guilt, of you being the intruder in this place, disrupting the lives of the Colossi for your own misguided ends.  As you thunder across the land in search of your next victim, your perspective of the landscape shifts from barren wastes to peaceful sanctuary, and your role in the story changes accordingly.

Somehow, Ueda and his team have succeeded again in telling more a more effective story through subtle touches of gameplay than most games manage in hours of cutscenes.  And for once, such impeccable craftsmanship appears to have been rewarded, with sales of three-quarters of a million in North America alone – in part thanks to a considerable marketing campaign – and considerable critical acclaim including a number of awards.

But you know, none of that really matters while you’re in the Forbidden Land, with eagles flying high above, the sun reflecting off your sword guiding you towards your goal.  And that is Shadow of the Colossus’s true success.

Team ICO are currently working on an unnamed PS3 title. Fumito Ueda recently sat down with Nick Suttner at 1UP for a post-mortem interview on Shadow of the Colossus, which can be found here. I’d also highly recommend the 1UPFM Backlog discussion of the game, linked in the interview.

Considering how much of an escapist medium gaming is, it often surprises me how seldom games actually succeed in making me feel like an all-powerful badass.  Perhaps it’s an issue of balance, perhaps it’s simply the difficulty of finding ways to challenge an exceedingly powerful character.  Otogi is one of those few games that gets the balance just right, and the result – though unnecessarily flawed in certain aspects – is an exhilarating flurry of destruction.

Brought back from the dead by a disembodied female voice, Raikoh is your fairly standard undead-samurai-silent-protagonist, and beyond that the plot trails rapidly away into nonsense – which is rather a shame, because they hint at lots of intriguing depth but never go into enough detail to extrapolate a sensical story. So you hack and slash in the best traditions of third-person action games, you blast enemies with suitably pyrotechnic displays of magic, and then you slowly come to realise that with a little practice on the part of the player, Raikoh can fly.

It’s hard work, of course, combinations of attacks, mid-air dashes and careful timing, but if you couldn’t feel the pull of gravity so strongly, perhaps it wouldn’t feel quite such an achievement.  Especially the first time you swoop down upon a demon and blast him through the walls of a nearby mansion, crumbling masonry and burning candlesticks going everywhere.

As terrain deformation and destructible environments go, it’s a little crude by today’s standards, but even so it adds a tangible edge to the swathe Raikoh cuts through the world. It’s only a shame that the game fails in part to realise that the pleasure of the effect comes from the creation of chaos  in the midst of a previously pristine environment, instead forcing the player to replay levels and methodically destroy scenery piece by piece to earn bonus items and weaponry, thereby sucking some of the fun from the conceit in the long term.

Also worth highlighting is the battle against the Crimson King around the half-way point of the game, which is one of the greatest boss fights in gaming history. It succeeds by following all the rules of a good antagonist – the Crimson King is just a little stronger, faster and more skilled than Raikoh, with no instantly recognisable pattern to his actions – and then placing you in an expansive pristine bamboo grove, just waiting for trenches and craters to be torn by magic blasts, for the ice atop the frozen stream to be shattered and for the combat to continue amidst the rushing water. It’s spectacular.

Unfortunately, Otogi falls foul of the same sin as the original Halo, and much of the second half of the game is a retread of previous levels but with different enemy placement. It’s still fun, but decreasingly so as the developers artificially extend the experience to breaking point. It’s a minor flaw, but one which could have so easily been avoided.

While by no means a perfect game, Otogi does enough things very, very right that it’s an easy recommendation. It’s simply a crying shame that at the time of writing (and for the foreseeable future), neither Otogi nor its sequel are backwards compatible on the 360, which is a considerable barrier. We can only hope that From Software chooses to resurrect the franchise on the 360 sooner rather than later.