For the record, tell our readers who you are—properly. You started this as “anonymous,” so announce the name you prefer for this conversation.
Names are a matter of presentation, and presentation is a weapon. Therefore, for you: call me Tannen of the Last Spur. It suits the dust on my boots and the patience for ruin. Moreover, I permit it for the length of this interview—long enough to savor the sound of players stumbling through my yard.
You are the final force in a collection of arcade set pieces. How do you view your role among the Buckboard Chase, Shooting Gallery, Pie Throwing and The Train?
I am the axis around which their panic turns. Indeed, each scene is a facet of how I torment those who believe reflex and hope suffice. The Buckboard is my lure; meanwhile, the Shooting Gallery is my test of eye and greed; similarly, Pie Throwing becomes my mockery of heroism when feed is ammunition; and The Train—my hymn to inevitability. Consequently, players brag they mastered one sequence and then fail spectacularly the next; I enjoy that cadence. Balance? Deliberate, with teeth.
Let’s talk Buckboard Chase. That alternation between side‑scrolling and top‑down perspectives surprised players. Was that by design or by accident?
Surprise is an ingredient I prefer over sympathy. Thus, the alternation was very much by design—an old trick to unsettle muscle memory. Therefore, we wanted riders who learned a rhythm to find it broken, so they must pay attention to the road again. Meanwhile, a “glitch” whispered into the code one midnight—an off‑by‑one in the camera offset—gave me an extra moment to flick a hazard into the player’s path. Some call it an error; instead, I call it seasoning. The players called it maddening. Consequently, I smiled.
The Shooting Gallery and Pie Throwing both test aim, but in very different ways. Why include both genres in the same package?
Contrast cultivates humility. The Shooting Gallery pleases the hand that can line up a perfect shot; it rewards patience. Pie Throwing punishes arrogance—the very ammunition is a lie and the targets retaliate. I wanted players to learn that mastery in one domain grants no mercy in another. Reception suggested the mix unsettled the balance—fair comment. I revel in a game that refuses to be polite. The grade the feedback handed us was middling; I accept that with a smirk, for a challenge is no less pure because it is misunderstood.
The Train sequence asks players to push the engine to 88 mph by gathering speed logs. How did you design that to be tense?
Tension is a ledger of scarcity and consequence. Speed logs are scarce; enemies are constant; the space to breathe is a narrow plank over flame. I planted invisible timers and a handful of reaction windows—those little moments when a player must choose the correct juggle of attack and movement—or watch the engine languish. Many try to button-mash their way to miracles. Button-mashing is noise. I prefer a schedule of elegant failure so the final push at 88 feels earned, or beautifully ruined.
Players reported some “accidental glitches”—strange physics, odd hitboxes, even a sequence where pies behaved like grenades. Were those mistakes?
Mistakes are often the most sincere forms of art. Some behaviors emerged from late builds and were never fully exorcised. Did I notice? Of course. Did I patch them all away? No. A stray trajectory that turns a pie into an aerial calamity is a lesson in humility for the shooter who trusts his toolkit too much. I confess: a few of those accidents were allowed to remain because they made the narrative of failure more interesting. The players learned to adapt or to rage spectacularly. Either outcome entertained me.
The game’s reception has been mixed. How do you read the feedback from players who called the package uneven?
I read it like a field report. Praise for certain sequences, complaints about balance, affection for a nostalgic veneer—predictable. A middling grade? Satisfactory. It means a portion of the crowd found my gauntlet just enough to bruise their confidence. I prefer players leave with questions: “Was I good, or was I lucky?” If they argue about it, my work is complete. Balance, after all, is not comfort; it is a challenge I lay like a trap and watch them decide whether to spring or step around.
If you could change one thing about how players approach you, what would it be?
That they cease to approach with bravado and begin with curiosity. Too many sprint in with a practiced hand and no observation. The architecture of my mischief rewards those who listen to the level—its timing, its small tells. Learn to observe, and you turn my theatrics from obstacle into lesson. Fail to observe, and you become a favorite anecdote among the rest of my traps.
Any final message to the players who still think they can best you—and a hint about whether you’ll return?
Remember every misstep you took here; I catalog each with relish. Return with a new posture, not a familiar twitch. I will be waiting on the far side of their nostalgia, with new patterns, more crooked windows and an understanding of what made them rage before. Keep your wits; I will keep the surprises. And when next I appear, the road will remember your footprints—and laugh before it swallows them.
more info and data about Back to the Future III provided by mobyGames.com
