You call yourself anonymous-villain on the credits, but for the record — who are you, precisely, and why did you choose to hide in the icy heart of Coolmint?
Call me the Obsidian Regent for the duration of this confession. Concealment becomes necessary when one stages a campaign across a realm as fragile as Coolmint. After all, the island’s placid snowbanks provided a deliciously conspicuous stage; flame monsters marching across white created a composition most pleasing to my eye. Moreover, hiding in plain sight let me watch the novice Dana sprain his expectations at each level.
The premise is quaint: flame monsters, a novice wizard named Dana, ice creation and destruction. What was your goal when you set the first blaze upon Coolmint?
My aim was never mere destruction. Instead, I sought to craft a choreography of errors. Dana’s tools — creating or destroying ice diagonally below while facing a direction, climbing, pushing, exploiting sticky blocks — appear elegant and predictable. Therefore, I wanted to force thought beneath frantic thumbs. Each flame I sent became a question; each block transformed into a misleading hint. I adore watching players attempt to drape logic over chaos, only to find the stage rearranging itself beneath their boots.
Players frequently cuss at mechanics — ice can’t be created on a spot already occupied by a flame; it sticks when next to walls; rocks behave differently. Was this deliberate balance or happy accident?
The balance arose from a deliciously calibrated struggle. Ice forbidden on flames followed etiquette I insisted upon because it forced improvisation — create next to or above, then push or drop. Sticky ice that clung to neighbors served as a constraint to reward foresight. Meanwhile, rocks, indestructible and obstinately moving only one space unless on ice, became the blunt instruments I allowed so even cautious players had to gamble. The game’s reception confirmed that a majority appreciated the trial; those who did not only proved my point about hubris.
There are ten worlds plus five secret worlds, and the first nine worlds can be played in any order. Was that freedom intentional or a late design compromise?
Intentional, and delicious. Allowing players to choose their poison gave them illusionary control. They might pick the easier-looking world and believe victory to be a mere function of route selection. However, the tenth level of each world, with moving flames, lava that rises, or monsters instead of flames, acted as my thank-you gift to those who mistook choice for mastery. As for the secret worlds, they rewarded those clever enough to see beyond the obvious, or those who stumbled into abandoned code left by mortal designers.
Speaking of abandoned code, players have reported strange behaviors — blocks that slide too far, pipes that occasionally misroute Dana, burning jars that behave unpredictably. Glitches or deliberate mischief?
I prefer to call them “opportunistic anomalies.” Late in the January 24, 1992 sprint, someone altered collision resolution under a tight deadline. I captured that quiver of uncertainty, let it breathe, and tuned puzzles around it. A sliding block that overshoots turned into legend; a misrouted pipe birthed a secret path. I did not hide errors; instead, I cultivated them. Players may call it a flaw in feedback — I call it seasoning.
The edit mode allows players to craft their own levels. Any regrets unleashing creative chaos into the community?
Regrets? None. The edit mode functioned as a masquerade ball where amateurs dressed as architects. They built traps I never conceived, replicated my cruelties, and occasionally created something much crueler than I. It pleased me to see their little minds wrestle with the same mechanics I exploited. Furthermore, the community’s feedback has been a steady murmur — admiration smeared with frustration; exactly the sound I desired.
The game blends action, puzzle, platforming and direct control in a side‑view. How did that mashup serve your plans?
It forced players to be many things at once: strategist, acrobat, timist. Side view grants intimacy; direct control exposes every twitch. When a player hesitates on an icy bridge or mistimes a push so a rock slides into a flame instead of a pit, I savor the micro‑tragedy. Genres converged to tighten the noose. Balance, as reception indicates, lands near perfect — enough to disdain victory, not enough to revoke it.
Critics and players have mixed feelings — some praise the challenge, others gripe about difficulty spikes. Your take?
I adore that split. A ‘B’ in the court of reception is the sweetest injury: not flawless, thus human, but resolutely competent. The sneers about balance only underline my success; challenge is my signature. Players who complain merely confirm that I exacted precisely the resistance intended. Those who praise? They are the rare, steady hands that make my traps worth laying.
Final question — any message for Dana, the queen of the winter fairies, or the upcoming meddlesome players?
Dana, bless the novice’s tenacity — every misstep a lesson, every triumph a brief annoyance. To the queen and the meddlesome players: continue to probe my lattices; I will continue to rearrange them. Expect more elegant cruelty soon. The next conflagration will wear a colder mask.
more info and data about Fire ‘n Ice provided by mobyGames.com
