To start, tell our readers who you are and why you stole five legendary instruments instead of, say, taking up knitting.
Today I answer as Amon, Conductor of Curses — though the byline you see remains anonymous‐villain, for show and misdirection. I stole those instruments because sound is influence and the young meddler with his bubble shooter was merely a nuisance until the instruments became leverage. The theft was elegant, surgical. The world of 1996’s side‑view action needed a little discord, and I composed it. Milon chases notes and stars; I arranged the chase to be exquisitely unpleasant.
The plot frames Milon rescuing Alis by lifting curses with five stars — how much of that was story and how much was design convenience?
Story and level design fed each other like predators. The curse mechanic justified gates, guarded minions and the retrieval of the instruments; the five stars were handy macguffins that forced traversal. Players loved the narrative of rescue; they underestimated how often I used that narrative to place a lethal platform or a timing window where their precious bubble shooter was useless. Convenience? Perhaps. But convenience that punishes the overconfident is recipe rather than accident.
Milon’s only true weapon is a bubble shooter and a rather odd talent for turning enemies into platforms. Were you annoyed or amused by that?
Amused, infinitely. The bubble shooter is charming and the flattening trick is a cruel little theatre piece — a hero stomping on his foes then relying on them as steps. It makes their triumphs look theatrical and their failures, grotesque. In the balance between power and peril, I deliberately left moments where otherwise legerdemain tools feel over‑generous, just to see which players would become complacent. The ones who relied on constant bubble spam found my later rooms less forgiving. Balance was not broken; it was a lesson.
The outfit downgrade system (green → blue → red) creates tension. Was that your idea of mercy or torment?
Torment masquerading as mercy. The three‑tier outfit mirrors a musical diminuendo — stamina fading like a note. Green gives false security: you endure three hits and think yourself invincible. Then a single misstep removes color and hope. Players praised the system in feedback for adding drama; I relished how the mechanic turned minor errors into catastrophic restarts. Clever players learned to guard notes; the inattentive discovered how quickly curtains fall.
There are power‑ups: 100 music notes for an extra life, bubble gum safety, multi‑shot shooters, temporary invincibility. Were these crutches for a difficult game or intentional carrots for exploration?
Deliberate carrots that sometimes become crutches if the player harvests them like sheep. I hid risk behind reward — notes tucked where a reckless jump is required, bubble gum positioned where a fall lookahead could save a life. Feedback mentioned both gratitude and frustration. Those who collected the music jewelry earned advantage; those who rushed through wondered why an invincibility star disappears so quickly. The design encouraged careful play, and when they rushed, the world closed in with teeth and timing traps.
Rumors persist of “accidental” glitches that work in the player’s favor. Were any of them intentional gifts from you?
Everything in the code is a conversation between intention and entropy. Certain quirks — a stray hitbox, a sprite that lingers, an unused tune tucked in the ROM — were left as a wink. I will not catalog them, but I will say I expected curious players to stumble on anomalies. Some glitches let desperate players clip through a wall or snag an extra note; others simply made my traps feel more alive. The development team knew of some anomalies and ignored them with a smile; mystery is a tool.
The game moves through many worlds, starting in a forest. How did you plan difficulty across those stages?
I staged difficulty like movements in a composition. The forest lulls; later worlds crescendo into assault. Enemies swap patterns, platforms narrow, timing windows thin. The forest is a tease; the later stages are a litany of precision. Playtest whispers informed me where to sharpen teeth. Players’ reception acknowledged this arc as fair yet formidable — precisely the balance I prefer. A fair but unforgiving crescendo keeps ambition honest.
The game launched in 1996 — Action, Platform, Anime/Manga aesthetics. How did era and style influence your cruelty?
1996 granted freedom: sprites that sing with limited frames, music that must be economical, and level memory that demands tight design. The anime aesthetic lets me be theatrical without apology. Constraints bred invention: fewer pixels means every misstep is clear, and music notes mean literal currency. Feedback celebrated the charm; I cherished how retro limitations sharpened the choreography of punishment.
Final question — players still speak of their defeats and the game’s overall reception. Any last words for the persistent souls who keep returning?
They lavish praise and gripe in equal measure; I listen like a conductor listening to an orchestra of complaints. The balance leaned toward challenge, and I am proud of that. To those who keep returning: you are predictable in your courage and predictable in your mistakes. I have composed new measures, hidden subtle alterations in timing and placement. Return, collect your precious stars, and perhaps this time you will see the pattern before the trap sings. When you think you have learned my rhythm, I will change the tempo — and the encore will be colder than ever.
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