Sakura Quest is Unexpectedly Pragmatic for a Slice of Life Anime
A few weeks ago there were signs around my neighborhood that spring had finally sprung. Warmer weather and flowers and probably some other stuff, I wasn’t looking because more importantly, spring means new anime. During spoiler season, P.A. Works’ Sakura Quest made it to my “I’ll give it a couple episodes” list. The slice-of-life concept intrigued me, but it also had the flags of a squishy moeblob anime (a cast of hyper-saccharine girls doing cute things for the sake of being cute; for some people that’s their jam, but I had a near-fatal overdose of it circa 2008 with K-ON! and Lucky☆Star).
I just played through my favorite character exit I’ve ever seen in person, and I’d love to tell you about it. It might brighten your day.
A local friend kicked off a 5th Edition D&D game a while ago, set in a Dark Souls-style dark fantasy setting. The other players were playing an orc hardboiled detective, a tiefling warlock whose familiar was a best-selling author, a kor cliff-acrobat, and, for some reason, a shifter monk who was basically the robot gorilla from the cover of the FATE Core Rulebook. I decided to play counter to the tone of the setting a little bit and made a firbolg druid, exiled from his forest home for political reasons. Firbolgs (which in 5e are blue-skinned forest-dwelling demi-giants, like how an elf might picture a giant) don’t have names, but the party ended up calling him Red, after his red hair. Red loved nature. Like, really loved it, with giddy enthusiasm. Think Leslie Knope from Parks and Rec with none of the organizational skill. He was the party’s two-hundred-fifty-pound medic and chef (he took the Gourmand feat), who could talk to animals and plants and be understood, but couldn’t receive a response without further magical aid. His spellcasting focus was a live squirrel. I decided to roll for my ability scores instead of doing point-buy, and ended up with pretty fantastic stats in everything but Intelligence. Red knew how to use every plant he’d ever seen, but had no idea what any of their names were. Firbolgs don’t have names, y’know?
So, BLP hosted its first DEATHWRITE yesterday (4/23/17) with a fully-functioning site and social media channels.
As for me, I ended up not even breaking 3k. But that’s alright, because I still got three articles written, that y’all will be seeing here in the coming weeks. My goal this time was not to produce a quantity of content in an aim for 10k; I wanted to take the content I had already produced from past DEATHWRITEs and polish it up into something I felt good about publishing.
I can’t speak for our other Contributors directly, but it seems all who participated had satisfying results, though no one got near the 10k mark this time. A friend of ours came over and made good headway on penciling for a new comic.
I wanted to write this to show that even though DEATHWRITE calls upon participants to “produce without excuse”, the spirit of the event lies in pushing yourself to make something that you might not have otherwise. To turn those “I should”s into “I did”s. We want anyone who’s interested in DEATHWRITE to feel encouraged to participate, rather than be daunted by the scale of the challenge. If you have something you want to make, come write it. Draw it. Record it. Plan it. We’ll be here.
Let’s kick this off with something uncontroversial: the ability to create and portray NPCs is one of the game master’s greatest tools, and NPCs can easily become the most memorable part of a tabletop roleplaying campaign (heck, BloodLetterPress is named after an NPC from a game that Nagi ran a few years ago). Here’s the problem: NPCs need to be written under a different set of principles from every other part of an adventure. Let’s look at how even the big names stumble, and how we can dodge or alleviate those problems and create some useful and memorable NPCs.
Welcome to Jamicom! In this (hopefully somewhat regular) feature, I’ll be talking about music from all eras of video games. While many pieces of VGM are iconic and beloved, my hope with Jamicom is to shine a spotlight on tracks, games, and composers that deserve wider recognition as well as the occasional Greatest Hit. I’ll be talking about the tracks in both a compositional sense and in the context or their original games. Fair warning though that my technical musical knowledge is extremely pedestrian! Anyway, enjoy the tunes!
With the Castlevania series, an absolute goldmine of amazing music, recently celebrating its 30th anniversary (and publisher Konami doing practically nothing to recognize it), I thought a Castlevania track would be the perfect way to kick off my Jamicom column. Now, the core Castlevania tracks are some of the first things you’ll find if you go looking for the generally agreed-upon Best Video Game Music ever. Just search for “bloody tears remix” on Youtube, the pages and pages of results prove how beloved the music of this series is. Today though, I’m going to focus on a track originating from Castlevania: Bloodlines for the Sega Genesis: Sinking Old Sanctuary.
Breath of the Wild, and Zelda games in general, are games in which there is a skill disparity between the canonical character and the player controlling them.
Legend of Zelda games are narrative-structured games; the story is the organizing device and the driving force behind all the elements the player encounters in the game. And unless you’re reading a choose-your-own-adventure book, there aren’t many narratives outside of video games in which the protagonist encounters a bunch of anticlimactic demises (and spontaneous resurrections unmentioned by the narrative) before striding confidently into the final showdown. If any Zelda game were a book, Link would go from his bed to the steps of Ganon’s fortress without a single “game over”.
So how do we rationalize the two narrative realities, the “perfect run” that represents the canonical course of events, and the multitude of hours we spend watching our character ragdoll from an explosion we can’t pretend we didn’t see coming?
I don’t have a good answer, but this train of thought came to me with the image of Zelda sitting tight in Hyrule Castle for a century, waiting for Link to get out of his regen tank, and fully assuming he’s going to surpass every single difficulty and trial along the way to get to her… i.e. not expecting the news that her most trusted and capable knight has perished after accidentally dropping a five-ton iron ball on their head once they were done utilizing it in a physics puzzle.
The conclusion I’ve reached is that the “canon-narrative” version of Link is the one who makes it from cryochamber to castle without a single game over; but who then are all the versions of Link that die tragic/stupid deaths from our own lack of skill? Aren’t they, in a way, more representative of us as players, as we spend way more time embodying them than the one time we get it all right?
There are many other video games that unite the narrative with the player experience by utilizing the “growth of a hero” narrative; you start shitty and git gud over the course of the game, just as you the player learn the controls, strategy, and in-game systems. I wonder what games out there effectively incorporate the meta-reality of game-overs? (Besides Undertale of course, y’all calm down).