You go by “anonymous-villain” on record, but names have power. For this interview, what should we call you, and why should the surviving pilots tremble at that name?
Henceforth call me the Obsidian Architect. After all, a name like a blueprint of ruin suits me—precise, inevitable, admired by no one who still breathes. Consequently, those pilots who come in bright cockpits and bravado will learn to tremble because I craft encounters that read like impossible equations; indeed, they solve them with half their reflexes and full of excuses. Therefore, every misfire and every triumphant gasp is music to me.
The story begins on a quiet planet until “they came.” Tell us, in your own voice, what really happened to that peaceful world?
The planet was a lullaby—quiet, compliant—until a new chorus arrived. Specifically, an unknown alien race came to this planet and promptly laid waste to it. As a result, the remaining defense force sent out the AX-77 Axelay, one prototype, one chance. The theatrics amuse me; in fact, the destruction was an experiment in escalation. I did not merely watch the ruin; instead, I rearranged its cadence. While the defenders treat the massacre as tragedy, I treat it as data. Thus, the pilots clutch their controls and call it courage. However, I call it predictable panic.
The AX-77 Axelay is a single prototype ship. Did that limitation factor into your design of the final confrontation?
Of course. The AX-77 is unique—prototype stage, only one exists—and that rarity feeds my appetite. One ship means one human mind at the stick, one pattern to learn, one set of mistakes to exploit. I coaxed the designers into elegant cruelties: narrow windows for reaction, tight reward versus risk loops. Each time they thought they found an exploit, I had already anticipated a countermeasure, or an “accidental” glitch I left like a breadcrumb that turns into a pit.
Axelay is notable for its Mode 7 usage and alternating vertical/horizontal levels. How did you leverage those technical choices for maximum torment?
Mode 7 gave the illusion of depth and I adored that—flat screens pretending to be vast chasms. In vertically scrolling stages the playfield folds under the player’s feet; in horizontal stages they run along my carefully choreographed edges. The perspective tricks let me hide trajectories, force split-second decisions, and plant traps that appear only when you commit. The developers muttered about memory and cycles; I nodded and added “accidental” collisions—glitches that seemed unplanned but were deliciously instructive.
Players and critics left mixed reception. The grade that sums it up is a B. How do you interpret that balance between praise and complaint?
A B—sneering balance. It says the game is read as challenging but fairly executed. I savor that judgment. Praise for the craft, complaint for the sting. The feedback says I hit the sweet spot: not so easy they sleep, not so broken they rage-quit forever. I relish the players’ strained breathing, their begrudging respect between attempts. They call it balanced; I call it a chessboard where I removed half the king’s safe squares.
Any behind‑the‑scenes dev trivia you can leak without breaking your mask? We promise to keep it mysterious.
Developers whispered about squeezing performance out of limited silicon in 1992; Mode 7 was a trick to make small resources feel colossal. I was present in those whispered choices: where they economized on sprites, I placed timing windows; where they optimized loops, I plotted retreat corridors. There were deliberate omissions—features left “unfinished”—that folded into my architecture as surprise variables. I will call them gifts to my design, and to my amusement. The players call them quirks. Let them keep calling them quirks.
Many still recall specific “glitches” or tricks that seemed accidental. Any confessions about which bugs were intentional? Or are all your “accidents” happy coincidences?
Confessions are for saints and defeated generals. I prefer ambiguity. Some glitches were genuine flukes—gods in the machine revealing their sense of humor. Others were curated: a tiny collision box, a sprite flicker, a timing frame that makes a bullet snap between salvation and doom. I call them curated accidents. The pilots swear at fate; I smile, knowing many of their grievances were invitations. They rage, they learn, they return. Perfect cycles.
Which element of the game’s genres—Action, Diagonal‑down, 2D scrolling, Anime/Manga vibes, Shooter, Space flight, Sci‑fi—do you think best served your grand design?
The mixture is the weapon. Space flight and shooter mechanics give me canvas and knives; diagonal-down and side view scrolling let me direct attention and misdirect it. The anime sensibility paints everything with drama so players forgive cruelty with flair. The 2D layers and the Mode 7 illusions make my traps read like art: beautiful, inevitable, unforgiving. Every genre tag helped shape the choreography of their failures.
Final question: a message to the pilots who still insist they can reach you, obliterate you, or understand you?
Tell them this: the AX-77 is brave and flawed; those qualities make it delicious. Keep returning. Keep learning my tunes. Each success will be a small lie, each failure a richer truth. I will not simply wait—I will evolve, tuck new calibrations into old patterns, sow new “accidents,” and rearrange the stars you thought you knew. When they finally arrive, bring more than courage: bring curiosity. I will be waiting in a geometry that remembers every ember of their attempts. And when I next unfurl my plans, the sky will look familiar enough to comfort them—and different enough to break them.
