You arrive here under the bland rubric “anonymous-villain.” For this conversation, what should we call you so your victims can tremble properly?
For the perfunctory minds that catalog me, I will indulge you: call me Nyx Protocol. Names are instruments; I prefer they strike fear. Now that you have something to write in trembling capitals, let us proceed—quickly, before the next player blunders through my deathtrap and claims victory by accident.
Batman Forever the game is a hybrid — side-scrolling platformer stitched to one-on-one fighting. Was that mashup intentional chaos or designer hubris?
Calculated mayhem, dressed as compromise. The designers wanted spectacle, so they grafted fighting engine bones onto a platforming skin. Consequently, the result pleases neither purists nor button-masher hopefuls — which is delicious. It forces players to adapt: platform, then duel, then platform again. Moreover, I enjoy watching them forget which skill to use and fall neatly into the rhythm I set.
Players complained and praised in equal measure. Reception leaned toward lukewarm — a C+ in the public court. How do you feel about that verdict?
A C+? I will accept the compliment wrapped in that sneer. After all, balance teeters; that is the point. If every tool were perfect, the hero would stroll. Furthermore, I engineered moments of unfairness — not to break the game, but to sculpt tension. When feedback calls it “unbalanced,” I hear admiration: the challenge bit back. I cultivated frustration like a weapon, and players learned to sharpen themselves against it. Few walk away unchanged.
The roster of threats includes Two-Face and The Riddler. Which of them made your job easier — or harder?
Useful pawns, each with a flourish. Two-Face is spectacular in spectacle: a coin toss, a stilted moralism, predictable but loud. By contrast, The Riddler is cunning and messy in equal measure — my kind of chaos. Together they create distractions while I inhabit the final chamber, watching their theatrics thin the hero’s resolve. Ultimately, their presence is less help than a perfect stage on which I may perform.
The game uses digitized actors and objects; none of the movie’s faces appear. Any behind-the-scenes morsels you can share about that choice?
Practicalities and permission slips. The team wanted the cinematic sheen without the licensing circus, so they digitized what they could and left celebrity likenesses out of reach. As a result, the engines stitched motion and frame like a surgeon sewing patterns; sometimes the seams show. Those seams are where I plant surprises — an “accidental” collision box here, a ghostly frame there. Players call them glitches. I call them delightful misdirections.
Speaking of glitches: were any of the infamous traps truly accidental?
In the theatre of villainy, every accident has a patron. Some bugs were genuine — late nights, collapsing deadlines, too many mechanics hugging the same memory. Nevertheless, others were left unresolved with malice aforethought. Imagine leaving a ladder that clips through a wall just so one desperate player might discover a shortcut and spread the legend. Ultimately, the best traps read as mistakes until it is already too late.
Players wield bat-gadgets and special move combos. Which of those tools made you most smug when they failed?
Gadgets are toys of hubris. I savor the moment a player, confident in their arsenal, executes the grand combination and finds themselves countered by an environmental sting: a platform that tilts, an enemy ramming where none should. Because those combos require rhythm, my arenas are offbeat. I designed rooms to punish predictability and reward improvisation — and then I watched the predictable become broken toys in my hands.
The genres listed for the game range from martial arts brawl to platform puzzle. Which did you prefer to inhabit?
I loved the liminal spaces: the transition from scuffle to leap, the threshold where a punch becomes a misstep. Beat ’em up arenas let me test endurance. Meanwhile, platform puzzles let me toy with timing. The martial arts segments were theatre of skill; the licensed trappings lent a veneer of familiarity that lulled players into complacency. Indeed, complacency is my preferred atmosphere.
Last question — you are the final boss in a 1995 release that still gets discussed. Any final words for those who spent quarters and years on your levels?
Tell them thank you for the practice. Remind them their bruises taught them patience. Assure them the applause from victory smells faintly of desperation, and that I enjoyed every stumble. Do not mistake my hospitality for mercy. After all, I will be rewritten and reborn long after their thumbs forget the exact timing of one cursed combo. Remember this: the map never truly closes. I am always editing the margins, waiting to corrupt another perfect run with a whisper of difference. Until the next patch, or the next mask — the same shadow will return with new signatures.
more info and data about Batman Forever provided by mobyGames.com
