You call yourself anonymous‐villain, but I hear you’ve taken a more colorful title for this conversation. So, who are you when you remove the mask for the press?
For the purposes of this little tête-à-tête I will be known as the Final Veil. Yet do not mistake ceremony for softness. I remain the last obstacle at the end of seven rounds, the architect of rooms where death is a curriculum. The name is only a courtesy; however, the pain remains unchanged.
Shinobi III: Return of the Ninja Master asks players to master a flurry of moves — double jumps that scatter kunai, wall jumps, drop-kicks, dashes. Which of those did you design to be the most annoying?
Annoying? Precision is more accurate. Indeed, the dance between wall jumps and drop-kicks was tuned to shred amateur confidence. Players love the spectacle of double-jump kunai; therefore, I tuned the layout so those elegant arcs become a choice between risk and reward. The dash-slash was placed where greed meets physics. Moreover, I revel when a perfectly timed wall jump becomes a barely-missed fall into a pit I very politely forgot to mention on the map.
The game lets Musashi collect crates with power-ups, time bombs that explode after 5 seconds, and different counts of kunai. Which of these elements was your favorite tool for torment?
Crates are fine theatre. However, the time bomb is pureatrics — a small, loud ultimatum. Plant it on a narrow ledge and watch deliberation become panic. Meanwhile, the alternating kunai counts force resource accounting mid-combat; I arrange rooms to tempt hoarding, then arrange enemies to demand waste. Therefore, the most satisfying moment is the deliberate miscount: a player thinks they have twenty kunai and discovers they had only five. Such pleasant astonishment.
Players often mention the four ninjitsu — Ikazuchi, Kariu, Fushin, Mijin. Did you design them as balance or as a safety net the way some players treat them?
They are both scalpel and trap. For example, Ikazuchi’s invincibility is a gross insult to careful placement; I place enemies to punish sloppy timing even under its glow. Kariu wipes screens and, consequently, humbles arrogance. Fushin teases players into impossible ascents. Mijin, that delightful self-sacrifice, is the textbook example of my psychology test: will they trade a life for spectacle? Thus, when players treat ninjitsu as a safety net, I rearrange the gauntlet so that safety becomes a higher-order risk. The reception called the abilities satisfying — I call them elegant ruination.
The game includes forced‑scroll stages — a horse ride, a surfboard, and a vertical rock climb. Were those level designs meant to frustrate or to test mastery?
Both. Forced scrolling is the purest lie: it claims to test reflexes while quietly rewriting the rules. The horse and surfboard segments are choreography for impatience; mistakes are fast and unrepentant. The vertical climb is my favorite — gravity becomes a judge and falling rocks are strict bailiffs. Players called these sequences exhilarating; I call them efficient sieves. The ones who survive either earned it or learned how to cough up a continue.
The maze section with doors that send you backwards — evil or inspired? How many hours of development went into shaping that frustration?
Evil wears the face of inspiration. The maze was a quiet conversation with patience. It rewards observation and punishes blind speed. Development whispers remain vague: a handful of late nights, a stubborn level designer with a fondness for misdirection, and a bug that became a feature. The feedback loved the sense of exploration; some voices grumbled. I smiled; both outcomes served the design.
Speaking of bugs, there are “accidental” glitches—did you conceal any on purpose?
“Accidental” implies innocence. I prefer to call them strategic irregularities. A sprite clipping here, a collision that reacts like a jerked thread — these are the seasoning of a living world. Some were genuine bugs that time and deadlines protected like children. Others were deliberate curiosities: an awkward bounce that starts a chain of misfortune. Players call them quirks; I call them the margin where legends are forged.
Reception praised the game’s speed and challenge. How do you feel about players who complain Musashi’s tools are too powerful?
I bark at that complaint. Musashi’s arsenal—kunai storms, fiercesome ninjitsu—often feels overpowered to those who face me, and yet they advance. If their tools are too strong, it is because I allowed them to think so; I counter with rooms that punish reliance and reward skill. Praise for speed is flattering; criticism of balance misses the point. The dance must feel unfair at times, or it would be dull.
Lastly, the game rewards style — beating a level without kunai or ninjitsu yields points. Is that an act of mercy or another test?
Mercy? No. It is a refinement of cruelty. The reward system tempts pride. Those who abstain from projectile aid or mystical shortcuts discover joy and terror in exposed combat. Extra lives for fifty thousand points lull players into a false sense of economy before I rearrange enemy patterns. The four difficulty modes offered broad invitations; normal with three lives and three continues is merely the polite seating at my banquet.
Any final words for those brave or foolish enough to attempt your return should the need arise?
Players will recount my tricks fondly and curse them in equal measure; that is the soundtrack I prefer. I have learned from reception, adjusted certain curtains, allowed a few glitches to thicken legend. Remember that every seemingly overpowered tool is also a point of failure — and every secret path I whisper about in development lore is designed to taste like triumph until it does not. I will wait beyond the last door. When I next draw breath, the shadows will remember my name. The Final Veil does not retire—only relocates.
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