You answer to “anonymous-villain” here, but for this conversation you insisted on a new epithet. Who are you, truly, at the end of Beggar Prince?
I will be called the Cloistered Meridian for the purposes of this exchange. A name that pleases the ear and unsettles the comfortable. Do not mistake ceremony for temperament: I am the cold calculus behind the palace gates, the patient contradiction in their tidy maps. And to the legion who pried at my defenses with blind confidence—your predictability served me more than any mistress of intrigue.
How would you sum up your role in a game that places a bored prince out among beggars and dungeons? Were you the obstacle, the lesson, or something else?
I was the lesson that bit. An obstacle wrapped in temptation. The prince learned the street by losing comfort; the invaders learned hubris by losing pride. I engineered corridors where choice felt like freedom and freedom folded into my design. Players branded me “final challenge” in their feedback, as if a single arch could contain the whole lesson. They never suspected how much of the map I built as scaffolding for my temperament—secret doors that appear only when one stops expecting miracles, combat rhythms that punish haste. They blustered; I pleased myself.
Beggar Prince uses an SP-driven turn system where every action reduces the bar and ends the turn when depleted. Did you design encounters to exploit that mechanic?
Indeed. The SP economy is my favorite instrument. I composed encounters like a conductor composes dissonance: force the player to choose between last-second heal or ambitious spell, then reward miscalculation with the cold silence of depleted options. Too many players danced on autopilot—assault, cast, repeat—and I capitalized. I confess with relish that a handful of “glitches” allowing enemies extra actions remained in the retail build by design. The result was exquisite: a system that sings when you listen and snaps when you don’t.
There’s been talk that some traps and puzzles feel almost malicious. Which of your contraptions are you proudest of?
Pride is too soft a word. I am satisfied with the corridor that rearranged itself after the player used a town map, and the merchant puzzle that refused to trade until pride was surrendered. One of my favorites was an encounter whose AI pattern flipped only after a debug flag—left by a hurried coder—triggered through an uncommon spell order. Players raged; they called it unfair in public threads. In private reports they described, with trembling hands, how they understood a lesson in patience. I relish both responses.
Reception was… mixed. Some players praised the homage to JRPG traditions; others complained about balance. How do you respond to that feedback?
Balance is the art of denying comfort. When reception praised tradition, I smirked—those players had tasted the order I provided. When others scolded the balance, I applauded their fury; it meant my impositions were felt. I do not forgive balance that spoon‑feeds. The world of Beggar Prince borrows the familiar turn order and top‑down poise of its forebears, but I embroidered sharp edges where the genre expects gentleness. The players who learned to read threat instead of button‑mashing grew, while the rest furnished my gallery of frustrated confidences. It served the narrative: hardship remolds a spoiled life into something worth reigning over.
Any behind‑the‑scenes secrets you can share? Perhaps something about development choices or quirks from the 1996 build?
I will share only what amuses me. There was an afternoon when two spells shared the same damage table because a tile index was misread. The error was charming; the designers left it as a feature because it created a fleeting economy of risk. Another time a map’s wraparound effect—meant to be disabled—remained active, producing an air of the uncanny in a market square. These artifacts are the fingerprints of human hands. They made the world richer and, to my great contentment, more treacherous for the presumptuous.
Players often resent being trolled by “accidental” glitches. Do you ever worry your machinations crossed a line?
I see no line without someone to define it. When feedback called some quirks “trolling,” they revealed their own limit of engagement. I prefer to think of those moments as examinations: did the player adapt or did they abandon? Those who adapted whispered of satisfaction; those who abandoned provided lessons for the next design decision. The world rewards persistence. It punishes temper. Both outcomes are instructive, and both please me in equal measure.
You roast the players mercilessly in battle—what’s your favorite taunt when the prince blunders?
I do not taunt with crude words. I rearrange the battlefield, darken the sky, and place a precise counterspell where confidence met assumption. The sound of a failed plan is the sweetest refrain. Yet when a player masters a sequence—predicts my turn, times their spells, conserves SP—the respect I grant is colder than praise. I admire their craft, then extinguish their next strategy for sport. There is artistry in that cruelty.
Finally, will we see your return—more traps, more “accidents,” more refined malice?
Return is a matter of appetite and timing. I tasted their frustration and found it nourishing. Expect me in quieter places: in a market ledger that refuses to balance, in a spellbook that misnames a rune, in a hallway that offers two doors when the map promised one. The next visitation will be subtler, more insinuating. I will come when they believe they have learned every rhythm. Then I will change the music. Consider this your last civil warning.
The Cloistered Meridian retreats into rumor for now. Watch where you place your next step—my shadow prefers company.
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