You call yourself anonymous-villain, but what should readers know about the shadow behind Ashura? Who are you, truly?
I answer as the Sovereign of the Rift. Do not expect softness. I engineered Ashura’s games of torment when the world still trusted tidy progression. Moreover, I became the architect of the gauntlet that awaited Sky as he climbed walls and clawed through kaleidoscopic skies for Arianna. Therefore, tell your readers that I prefer precision to pity, and I see players as poor navigators of my carefully placed indignities.
Skyblazer has a reputation for its colorful stages and dramatic backgrounds. Did you design those vistas to inspire awe or to lull players into a false sense of security?
Both. I favor the theatre of distraction. I painted technicolor horizons and parallax clouds to relax hands and distract eyes—then I struck. A shimmering platform became a trap. The prettiest backgrounds in this 1993 confection always worked as accomplices; beauty concealed the terrifying rhythm changes I planted. Fans loved the spectacle, yet I delighted when admiration turned into the sound of another chastened controller hitting the floor.
Players often complain about balance—some spells feel too strong, others useless. Was that intentional?
Yes, I read the reception and smiled. Balance never drove my design. I calibrated Sky’s magic points and potions so the versatile became bored while the cautious grew desperate. I seeded a few spells that flirted with overreach, tempting the confident to overplay them while forcing the clever to discover nuance elsewhere. The result became a dance of hubris and humility—exactly what a final adversary craves.
There are whispers that some “glitches” in Skyblazer were not mistakes at all. Truth or taunt?
Truth wears a costume of ambiguity. Some faults emerged accidentally, born from exhausted late-night builds in 1993; others I requested as subtle nudges—a slip-through or a timing window designed to chew up confidence. I call them instruments. When a player blames fate for an untimely fall, I applaud their theatrics. Those “accidents” taught restraint and muscle memory. If the community calls them glitches, I call them lessons with an edge.
Sky can cling to walls and scale vertical surfaces—was that freedom, or another way to funnel him into your snares?
Ingenious of you to notice. Wall-clinging served as both liberator and leash. I granted the protagonist vertical agency so players would feel inventive, encouraging new approaches and confident climbs. Then I designed sequences where clinging meant exposure—enemies aligned like thorns, background gusts shifted hitboxes by a hair’s breadth. The mechanic looked generous, but in my domain, every generous thing carried a tax. Those who praised the trick later rued the bill.
Many remember collecting potions and juggling magical resources. How did you intend those systems to shape play?
Resource economy functions as psychology, not arithmetic. By scattering potions and rationing magic points, I forced choices: waste a potion and walk arrogantly into disaster, or hoard it and die from hesitation. Players complained about stinginess, then praised bursts of triumph. That oscillation in feedback became music to my ears. I designed the system surgically, and the result turned into a carousel of second guesses followed by triumphant claws into victory.
The side-scrolling combat blends action and platforming—what was your favorite encounter designed to do to the player?
I aimed to break rhythm. I enjoyed contriving rooms where timing, stamina, and pride collapsed together. One arena in particular—walls to cling to, waves of enchanted foes, shifting floors under a dramatic backdrop—transformed a confident run into a cautious crawl. When the player finally discovered a sequence and executed it, I relished the gasp; when they failed, I savored their humility. Either outcome entertained me equally.
The reception called the game challenging but fair by some, uneven by others. How do you respond to those divided opinions?
I read their words like maps. Favorable comments adore the sting; critical notes obsess over balance. I prefer the split. Uniform praise is dull; uniform hatred is boring. Division proves engagement. I engineered challenge as an art—sometimes ruthless, sometimes cunning. The praise is satisfaction; the sneers are fuel. Both ensure my traps are remembered.
Finally, would you ever let Sky or Arianna find true peace, or is torment your craft’s only reward?
I read their words like maps. Favorable comments adored the sting, while critical notes obsessed over balance. I preferred the split. Uniform praise felt dull; uniform hatred grew boring. Division proved engagement. I engineered challenge as an art—sometimes ruthless, sometimes cunning. Praise gave me satisfaction, while sneers fueled me. Both ensured my traps remained remembered.
more info and data about Skyblazer provided by mobyGames.com
