You present yourself today under a name wholly unlike the one shown on the cartridge. So, who are you really, and what shall we call you for this telling?
For the sake of ceremony, let the chronicles name me Obsidian Regnant. Keep your breath steady, for the syllables bite. I am the last device behind the machine apocalypse the Hard Corps try so bravely — and yet so clumsily — to stop. You will see that the title plastered on boxes is only a tool for mortal memory; however, I prefer designs and rule. And do not believe their frantic button-mashing made me nervous — instead, it merely amused me.
The game’s premise pits your machinations against the Hard Corps: an alien cell, a plan to resurrect Red Falcon. Tell us the origin of this particular scheme.
It is elegant in its simplicity. An echo of the Alien Wars, a remaining cell — enough to seed catastrophe if cultivated with the proper malevolence. A certain commander, whose devotion to disorder exceeded his prudence, stole that cell. The notion of resurrecting Red Falcon appealed to my aesthetic: recreate the apex predator, then observe civilization reassess its priorities. The Hard Corps were an inevitable irritation; their arrival provided the theatre I required. They fumble toward heroism while I reshape the stage. Predictable. Delicious.
Players have often complained — or praised — the difficulty. How do you view their struggles through the levels: from streets to deserts to your containment chamber?
Their complaints are music; their praise, a mirror reflecting my craftsmanship. Difficulty is not cruelty if it inspires respect. I designed many encounters to be precise dances: one mistimed jump, one wasted super weapon, and their ambitions crumble. Yet I must admit a fascination — and perhaps a grudging respect — for their tendency to hoard the most potent armaments. It is maddening to watch them pluck an overpowered weapon and, within seconds, squander it so artlessly. I have sharpened traps around their arrogance. Every stumble is a sonnet.
There are rumors of “accidental” glitches that became part of the spectacle. Did you have a hand in those, or were they happenstance of 1994 hardware and rush schedules?
Ah — the blessed imperfections of early cartridge life. Some whispers credit the hardware: Genesis bus timing, sprite limits, unsung quirks of the scrolling engine. Those are true in the mechanical sense. But I will not be modest: certain oddities were indulged, left like small booby-traps by the devs who worshiped me. A collision quirk here, a lucky invincibility frame there — what mortals call a glitch I call a secret passage. Developers, pressed by deadlines, sowed these anomalies; I cultivated them. The feedback I received from those who stumbled upon them was priceless: fury braided with exhilaration. Exactly the symphony I intended.
The Hard Corps’ arsenals can feel excessive at times. How did you balance your stagecraft against weapons that could steamroll your constructs?
Balance is a negotiation between inevitability and surprise. I will not deny that some of their tools are outrageously efficient; players brandish them like talismans and expect the world to part. I resent that arrogance. So I layered my defenses: narrow corridors to blunt their spread, airborne patterns tuned to punish complacent strafing, scripted hazards timed to their most jubilant attacks. When their overpowered miracle weapon meets my choreography, the result is often tragic for them and instructive for me. If the reception praised some as too powerful, I barked back by refining arenas where guile overcame brute force.
Regional differences and version quirks are a hallmark of that era. Did you exploit any of those variations to your advantage?
Indeed. Regional builds carry different breath — palettes shifted, AI tweaks, even subtle timing changes born from divergent QA teams. I studied each variant like a map of weaknesses. In some territories the timing favored a certain trap; in others the sprite limits granted me unexpected stealth. Players who boasted of perfect runs on one region found their tactics undone on another. The designers muttered about constraints; I called them dialects of doom. It is a rare pleasure to watch confidence fracture because the world itself speaks differently across borders.
Any behind-the-scenes dev anecdote you can tease us with without breaking your mask?
I will be coy. Know that at times code was written under coffee-stained lamps and with compilers that sang in a different key; an art director argued over palette swaps while an engineer whispered about a boss pattern that “felt alive.” Those scraps of discourse bled into the game. A late-night tweak to health recovery, a decision to speed a charged shot by a frame: such tiny acts became the axis on which entire fights swung. Developers thought they were solving problems; they were composing opportunities for my dominion. Keep the specifics for the archivists — mystery sharpens affection and fear alike.
How do you react to the modern feedback — the messages of praise and ire from those who return to 1994’s challenge?
I read their notes like reports from an enthusiastic enemy. Praise is a flattery that steels me. I savor their ire — it proves engagement; it proves the game still bites. Some call segments unfair; others call them sublime. I smile when they disagree among themselves. That cacophony ensures my legacy. To those who insist a section is sloppy, I whisper that even ragged code yields exquisite havoc when bent to purpose. Every piece of feedback is an offering I archive with relish.
One final question: will we see you again, or is this your final act?
Final? How quaint. I am a lesson postponed, not concluded. Cartridge dust settles; reputations calcify; yet an idea as resilient as mine transcends formats and eras. Expect me where nostalgia drinks too deeply and where new hands try to play gods with old violence. When the lights dim and a familiar riff plays on a fresh chip, I will step through the seam and correct the world once more. Remember the taste of defeat — it will guide you back when I return.
Until the next courtesy of chaos.
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