You usually answer only as “anonymous-villain.” For this conversation, announce who you are and what title you will take so readers know which face of finality they’re dealing with.
Call me what the island whispers when the sky goes still: the Last Imperative. I keep the old moniker for amusement — anonymity unnerves the hopeful — but for this performance, the Last Imperative will suffice. You may write it in capitals if you prefer to tremble on paper.
The story resumes immediately after an exploding Death Egg. Tell us, in your own words, why the Master Emerald was worth all that commotion and why Floating Island deserved your attention.
Power is a practical thing; myths are a convenience. The Master Emerald is not a pretty rock to be worshiped — it is a key. My engines hunger for keys. The Death Egg’s explosion was an elegant argument in favor of escalation, and Floating Island held the tidy prize. I stoked the chase because desire makes movement predictable. The hedgehog and the echidna run toward what they want; I built the terrain so their wants become liabilities.
Players love to switch between Sonic and Knuckles. From your vantage point, how did that split in playstyle influence your defensive design?
Delightfully inconvenient for them. Sonic’s speed demands reaction puzzles; Knuckles’ glide and wall-climb demand spatial puzzles. I planted paths that punish haste for Sonic and corridors that mock the echidna’s confidence. The three shields — fire, water, electric — are not mere toys; they are counters and lures. A player who trusts a shield like a talisman will discover it is a cursor pointing toward my traps. Balance? I crafted imbalance with purpose: every advantage seeds the need for better timing, and timing is what breaks them.
The Lock-On cartridge feature is famous and more than a gimmick. Did you intend it as an innovation or a way to multiply suffering?
Both. The Lock-On was born in a lab where engineers argued about elegance and failure. They wanted an invention; I wanted an extension. By letting other carts become part of the landscape, I made the game a chimera — longer, stranger, and more forgiving in places and merciless in others. Let them enjoy Tails or extra stages; I love when a player carries a smug advantage into my carefully expanded arenas. It teaches them that comfort is conditional.
Fans still talk about the bonus stages and the Special Stage mechanics. Did you expect those to define so much of the show’s tension?
I expected spectacle. The Casino slot-rooms and the orb-launching chambers force decisions under pressure — they are micro-theaters of greed and timing. The Special Stage’s blue-and-red-sphere gauntlet was designed to be beautiful and unforgiving. I favored systems where a single misstep evaporates progress; it is theatrical cruelty. Players rage, then return. That repetition is music to me.
There are whispers among players about “accidental” glitches — exploits, odd physics, places Knuckles can reach that weren’t meant to exist. Was any of that deliberate?
Glitches are not mistakes so much as gifts in miswrapped paper. Some were honest oversights, the sort that delights loyal opponents, while others were left half-formed on purpose — friction edges where a clever player can scrape a little too far. Let them discover a clip or a seam and celebrate cleverness; it is the slow poison of hubris. I cultivate both the polished trap and the charming mistake because both break resolve in different, delicious ways.
Reception and feedback called this entry “balanced but challenging” — a respectable grade. How do you respond to that assessment?
A flattering dismissal. They call it balanced because difficulty was tuned to feel fair, and yet they stumble into my snares anyway. I sneer at balance as a bureaucratic virtue; I prefer crafted friction. The game is calibrated so players can blame themselves as often as they blame the design — that keeps them honest, and keeps them returning. Praise it if you must; I prefer the sound of their complaints filtered through the level select screen.
As the architect of their suffering, which trap or encounter are you most proud of, and why?
Pride is a candle I do not hide. The layered arena where momentum, altitude, and shield type collide is my favorite — it forces the player to choose between speed and caution, between greed and survival. I watched many brilliant runs unravel there. When a champion misreads a jump and their rings scatter like a promise, I savor the arithmetic of consequences: one error, a cascade. That is art.
Finally, anything to tell those who vow to “beat you” next time they load the cartridge or boot a re-release?
Tell them I enjoy the rehearsals. Let them sharpen their reflexes, collect every Chaos Emerald, and parade their saved games like banners. I will be waiting at the place where confidence and momentum meet a carefully placed pit. Expect new wrinkles — a slight shift, a ghost of code left unread. I promise only one thing: when the map folds and the sky groans, I will be ready. The next curtain will fall on a new trick.
more info and data about Sonic & Knuckles provided by mobyGames.com
