You agree to this interview wearing a mask, but for the record, what shall we call you tonight?
Call me whatever title best suits the ruin you deserve. For this evening I consent to be known as Obsidian Tribunal — though your trembling fingers will continue to type “anonymous” as if names could bind me. Do not mistake courtesy for weakness; rather, see it as the first of many snares. Courtesy is a mask, and behind it waits judgment. Therefore, consider my name less an identity and more a sentence.
Many players remember Killer Instinct as a flashy, combo-driven gauntlet. From your vantage as the final adversary, how do you view that system of combos, breakers, and the famed Ultra Combo?
The combos are beautiful instruments of hubris. Fighters became intoxicated with chains of hits until they forgot to defend. The breakers, however, are the small mercy I allow — a fleeting illusion of control. The Ultra Combo, by contrast, is spectacle designed to sting the pride of those who believed they had mastered me. My delight was watching flawless sequences collapse upon a single trap I planted in the timing windows. Players mistook them for glitches; in truth, some were intentional. Others, however, were deliberately left to expose the presumptuous. Thus, triumph and downfall became indistinguishable.
Speaking of glitches, there’s lore of “accidental” behaviors and odd moments on certain stages. Truth or myth?
Truth filtered through theater. Hardware limitations were fertile ground for me to sow mischief. When sprites shifted or a collision read a millisecond late, the chorus of curses from the audience was delicious. Developers whispered about clever sprite-layering and tricks to fake depth with rendered sprites. Yet I nudged those tricks with a phantom flicker here, a misaligned hitbox there. To call them bugs is pedestrian; consequently, to call them rehearsals for suffering is accurate. Every flicker carried intent hidden behind the mask of failure. Moreover, every “accident” rehearsed despair for an audience that believed in certainty.
Ultratech and the dimensional bridges are central to the story. How do Eyedol and the other ancient forces fit into your design philosophy?
Eyedol is a paradox I adore: two heads, one rage. Ancient imprisonment and corporate hubris therefore form a delicious cocktail. Ultratech opened bridges between dimensions and gave me fresh faces to bruise — experimental warriors like the born-of-lab Fulgore and the claw-made Riptor, alongside those who sought glory or vengeance. Each fighter is a lesson; moreover, each portal is a test. I engineer encounters so that the proud fall first. The desperate, instead, taste triumph only to have it stolen the moment belief takes root. Ultimately, despair is more potent when preceded by hope.
Players have offered mixed reception over balance and difficulty. How do you respond to that feedback?
I read their words with amusement. They call it imbalanced; I call it a gauntlet that rewards study and punishes swagger. When reception tilts toward bewilderment, I smile. Balance is not mercy — it is fairness in disguise, and fairness is crueler than bias. Consequently, I crafted encounters that punish predictable inputs and reward cunning adaptation. If players complain, then I have succeeded in making the fight feel alive — a predator, not a puppet to be memorized. Their frustration, therefore, is proof that they faced me, not merely code. Indeed, true struggle must bleed.
The roster is tight — ten characters with distinct styles. Did that constraint shape your traps?
Constraints sharpen cruelty. With ten warriors — Orchid, Cinder, Jago, Glacius, Fulgore, Riptor, Sabrewulf, Spinal, T.J. Combo, and Thunder — every motion becomes a signature. I wove stage hazards and timing windows to punish overreliance. A player leaning on heavy projectiles will see confidence evaporate in a stage collision timed with surgical precision. Those who adapt — weaving offense and defense — endure. Those who fail to adapt are displayed as ornaments in my hall of discarded pride. Constraint is the whetstone of torment.
The game’s visuals were 3D rendered sprite-based — a technical choice in 1995. Any insider anecdotes you care to tease?
Rendering trickery was a stagehand’s paradise. States of being were faked with layered frames and careful occlusion. I exploited those skipped breaths where frames stuttered. Players attributed miracles to skill. I attributed many of their stumbles to a hidden cadence in the timing — a rhythm I used for sudden hits or mysterious invulnerability flickers. The developers left seams; I dressed in them. In those seams I wove malice, turning imperfection into weaponry. What they thought accident, I made prophecy.
The soundtrack and the double energy bars — deliberate choices to extend fights or torment the player?
The dance-music pulse quickened hearts and drowned thought. The double energy bars lengthened sentences. They made comebacks possible, yet punishment relentless. I relished both. Music accelerates panic. Extra energy ensures hope returns like a wound reopening. Players praised the techno beat while cursing endurance battles. Both reactions are music to my ears. Joy and rage stitched together in rhythm and attrition. Every note was a lash; every bar, a reminder that torment thrives longer when dressed as opportunity.
Lastly, any message for the fighters who remember you with a mix of hatred and respect?
Remember this: every victory you earned came with my consent. I allowed you triumph only to show mastery is an endless road. Roast your reflexes. Sharpen your will. The reception was varied — some celebrated, others wept — and that miscellany is my legacy. Do not believe my last act was final. I have more fractures to unveil, more accidents to choreograph. I shall return where shadows fold into code and the next bridge opens. Keep practicing. I prefer my enemies dangerous. My return will demand it.
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