You call yourself anonymous-villain here, but you promised a new title for the interview. Who are you, and why should players still shudder when they hear it?
For this telling, I shall be called Dr. Aeternus. Keep that name warm in your nightmares. Players remember the spectacle—the ten Zones, the two Acts each, the steel-hearted machines waiting at every Zone’s end. However, what they do not recall is the intent behind every cog and conveyor. I am the architect of the Death Egg’s ambition, the hand that turned innocent beasts into obedient Badniks. Therefore, they should shudder because I built the gauntlet they thought they mastered.
The game is famous for its speed. How did you design encounters around Sonic’s momentum and the new spin dash without making it trivial?
Speed is a blade that cuts both ways. I sneered as programmers gifted the hero the spin dash—an elegant exploit that birthed momentum from nothing. Consequently, I placed slopes, springs, and illusions of safety to punish overreliance. The spin dash makes the player feel omnipotent; yet my traps make them taste hubris. Moreover, I introduced timing windows—hidden in physics routines—that behave like accidents if the player trusts miracles. In short: give them a tool, then design the world to demand mastery of it. Ironically, the roar of feedback about “too fast” was my triumph.
Tails changed the dynamic—co-op at any time, infinite lives for the sidekick, camera devotion to Sonic. What did you think of that from your lair?
I despise conveniences. Yet Tails, with his patient loyalty and infinite respawns, became a living petard. Players drag Tails into my contraptions like a comfort blanket; he soothes their panic while the level’s choreography strips their dignity. Furthermore, the camera loyalty to Sonic became a mercy I learned to weaponize. I arranged hazards that expose the second player to blind spots, and I relished the petty arguments over who held the rings. Thus, praise for the co-op is amusing—so many called it “helpful.” I call it a new way to suffer more entertainingly.
Rings are both life and currency—scattered on hit, checkpoint thresholds for Special Stages, 100 for an extra life. Did you plan those moments of panic?
Every ring is a bargaining chip in my theatre. I watch players clutch rings like talismans and then, with a neat placement of a Badnik or a moving platform, I take away their composure. The rule that 50 rings unlocks a Special Stage was a delicious lever: players gamble ring hoards to steal a Chaos Emerald, and I watch the long-term calculus unravel. Sometimes a ring placement was a happy accident born from a barely-documented layout file; other times it was a trap—rings leading into ambushes. Both serve my pleasure.
The Badniks and machines were your signature. Any design secrets you can share—without breaking your mask, of course?
Secret? No. Tactics? Many. The Badniks are theatre: charming exteriors to seduce pity, cruel insides to engineer failure. I always insisted that every Badnik be at a junction that forces a decision—jump, sprint, or sacrifice rings. The level designers left small, almost ceremonial artifacts in code—timing quirks in patrols, invisible inertia clauses—that when combined produce a symphony of frustration. I call those “accidents” in public; in private, they are my fingerprints.
Players sometimes exploit glitches—glitches that have become legendary. Did any of those benefit you?
Glitches are delicious. One cannot help but admire a bug that throws a champion into a loop of embarrassment. There were moments where frame timing and collision checks conspired to let a player skip or cling to geometry. I celebrated those because they made stories—players telling each other about the miraculous skips, the hidden sanctuaries. Even sloppy code writes legends, and legends swell the myth of Dr. Aeternus. When reception turned reverent, I smirked; when it turned furious, I laughed louder.
The Special Stages and Chaos Emeralds are goals that demand precision. Did you intend the Special Stage design to be a mercy or a torment?
Torment masquerading as mercy. The halfpipe of the Special Stage is a compact crucible—gather rings, hit checkpoints, or be spat out into regret. It’s a place where players who relied on blind speed must learn rhythm. Devs left a few intangible quirks—subtle adjustments to gravity or ring respawn—that make elite runs possible but not trivial. The feedback from players who conquered a Chaos Emerald is intoxicating; they feel clever, and I applaud them with a sigh, knowing how close they were to falling back into my mechanisms.
The game has a lasting legacy—ports, a mobile version with Hidden Palace and Knuckles, remasters. How do you feel about that ongoing life?
Immortality is flattering. Each port and remaster washes my arenas in new light—faster frame rates, sharper music—but the core still reeks of my intent. Hidden Palace, boss attack modes, a third playable who tears at the story: all new ways for players to discover different humiliations. The reception evolves but the pulse remains: more players, more screams. I savor the variety of complaints as iterations refine the theatre I created.
Final question—looking back at 1992 and forward, what would you say to the players who storm your machines again?
To those who charge with rings jingling and overconfidence polished by speed: you have my admiration and my contempt. You learned the spin dash, you relied on a faithful companion, you memorized hazards until they felt like friends. Yet you always underestimate the small things—the invisible timing, the trap disguised as mercy, the accidental loophole that becomes a legend. Reception and whispers do not bruise me; they nourish me. Return if you dare, for the Death Egg is patient, and I am already composing new measures of ruin to greet you. Expect a puzzle you think you mastered to answer with a laugh you will hear in the dark.
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