ShenGCH
Who the fuck is Coco, bitch?!
- Joined
- Jul 27, 2018
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Favourite title
- Shenmue
- Currently playing
- Yakuza: Like a Dragon
Some time ago, I decided to sit down and articulate to the best of my ability why Shenmue means as much to me as it does. Well, it has just been sitting there in a word document, unattended, for months, so I thought I would post it here to see what you guys make of it. Perhaps we can even get a discussion and elaboration going 
---
Shenmue is the game I attribute to my continued respect, admiration, and adoration for video games. Of the hundreds of games I have played over the course of my life, Shenmue means the most to me. This is not just because it is an excellent game – a landmark title, for sure – but because it became something of a comfort blanket during many tough, miserable, and unstable times during my youth, and remains as such even today. Not necessarily a vital crutch or a “happy place” in the traditional (i.e., iron lung or “quick fix”) sense – I have never found myself frantically attempting to boot up the game, raring to huff the fumes of tranquillity, just because I was suffering from a case of the glums, for example – but something closer to reassurance on account of the great sense of succour the game provided during those troubled times.
As a youngster, I was a meek, timid, socially awkward, oversensitive, crybaby milksop who was too afraid to stand up for myself, never felt quite “there” in the world, and generally felt uncomfortable in my own skin. Despite knowing no different, having no experiential frame of reference from which to draw comparison, I was nonetheless acutely aware this was by no means normal. Something was missing; something I never had, but, as deduced from my observations of those around me, knew it existed, and I longed for it. It was just a case of finding whatever it was that would fill this void. At nine years old, in comes Shenmue, whose world I very quickly acclimatised and connected to in a way I found impossible with the one around me. At long last, I was home.
Grounded to reality by design, the game's protagonist is not a suave secret agent with an abundance of brilliant gadgetry in his arsenal, a demon-decimating space marine with an assault rifle in one hand and a shotgun in the other, a staff-wielding mage with a magnificent beard, or even a shadow-dwelling-and-rooftop-hopping ninja with a belt of throwing stars. Nope, Ryo Hazuki is just a regular eighteen-year-old student living in an unremarkable Japanese city who, one snowy November afternoon, witnesses the murder of his father, Iwao, at the hands of a Chinese black market cartel leader named Lan Di in an act of revenge for Iwao's alleged murder of his father twenty years prior.
This tragedy leads Ryo to swear vengeance for, and uncover the truth behind the events surrounding, his father's murder, and so the journey begins.
The game, which takes place across four areas of the sleepy city of Yokosuka, Japan – a very welcome change of scenery from the feudal or super high tech setting we have seen a trillion and one times before – is, outside of the occasional QTE sequence or Free Battle, very chilled and easy-going. Conversing with NPCs, sleuthing, partaking in side activities (such as feeding an orphaned kitten, playing games in the arcade, or training Ryo's moves), the odd puzzle-solving sequence, and, of course, forklifts. This is how the majority of the player's time is spent, and it is so surprisingly refreshing compared to, say, traversing the world in an RPG in search of the next quest or a piece of loot, with danger potentially springing up anywhere along the path and lurking around every corner.
What some would argue as one of the game's biggest flaws, the pacing, is arguably less of an objective flaw than a love-it-or-hate-it passive element of the game world that flows in harmony with the intentional realism and gaming-up of the mundane. Instead of simply going from A to B without a second thought, with everything waiting right there at the destination, as is the case with games built around a linear (and even semi-linear) backbone, the time of day and the requirement to wait in anticipation of time-sensitive events play a vital role in Shenmue.
It is during this periodic downtime, before embarking on the next time-sensitive event, the player is presented with a choice: put the controller down and twiddle their thumbs or soak up what the world has to offer in the interim. Just some of these activities include paying games in the arcade, practising Ryo's moves, buying mostly useless crap from Tomato Convenience Store and Abe Store to partake in the raffle, feeding the orphaned kitten at the shrine, wasting thousands of yen on capsule toys, and, perhaps most engaging (yet most easy to miss) of all, conversing with NPCs, with the content of these conversations tied to the player's place in the story at that particular moment in time.
The choice is entirely up to the player, and the composition of the time spent is whatever they choose to make it.
In time, and as if by magic (or exemplary game design), the player is made to feel at home very quickly – and although Ryo, himself, is familiar with many of the locals and (three out of four of the) locales, the player is a complete stranger to each in equal measure. With both the places and the lives of the people living and working in those places gradually familiarised with through conversation, observation, and hearsay as the story progresses, however, the player becomes clued in on the lives, knowledge, and expertise of any number of individual NPCs – some mandatory, with the rest being at the player's discretion – with regards to what they know, who they know, what is going on in their lives, what is going on around town, the nature of their profession, the passage of their daily routine, or whatever else happens to be on their minds or constitutes their character.
Not only do these facets make for some interesting and immersive conversational material that would otherwise go unheard and remain in stasis for evermore, but select pieces of this very information can prove invaluable in aiding the player in their current objective. Need help translating a letter written in Chinese? “Oh, I'll have a word with Tao-san at the Ajiichi!” Trying to locate a shady character, with one of the only clues to go on being his beloved motorcycle? “The owner of the motorcycle shop might know a thing or two.” Trying to get to Hong Kong, but having no way to afford the extortionate price of the plane ticket? “Nozomi travels overseas a lot – perhaps she will be able to provide a solution.” So on and so forth.
The right person for the task at hand is happy to provide assistance, but the player must never look a gift horse in the mouth; without reciprocity, they will only be able to get so far before the stumbling blocks begin to sprout and cause cuts and bruises, and those same people who were, at one time, willing to extend a helping hand are nowhere to be found with the bandages and disinfectant.
For example: helping the manager of Hokuhoku Lunches track down her wayward sister will grant Ryo the opportunity to ascertain the guard pattern of the warehouse district he plans to infiltrate that evening. Keeping in regular contact with Nozomi, one of Ryo's best friends and love interest, will result in some endearing and intimate moments between the two, compared to paying her no mind aside from the mandatory events alone. Helping a homeless man being harassed by some bikers at the Harbour will lead to the former teaching Ryo three moves later on, as well as providing information about the Harbour's resident gang, the Mad Angels, when the need arises.
For one to expect their every want and whim to be taken care of without even the slightest inclination to return in kind is not the way to make friends or remain in people's good books for very long, as is the case in the real world. Shenmue does an excellent job of establishing this notion by making Ryo the initiator of the bulk of these acts – done so by presenting the player with two choices following a hint or request from the other party: do or don't – all of which are returned in kind; sometimes instantly, sometimes further down the line.
In harmony with the progress made over the course of the game, what feels like a real connection and sense of solidarity with the game's world – the environment and its inhabitants – begins to take form. It is both curious and enlightening, yet makes complete sense given the circumstances. That the developers were able to distil, configure, and execute a world, grounded in reality, without all the bells and whistles of the fantastical or style over substance (the latter of which many open world games have since devolved into), relying instead on the gameplay and happenings of that world, is a testament to both director Yu Suzuki as a visionary and the medium itself as an art form.
The sense of community, familiarity, contentedness, belonging, and comfort the game delivers is unlike anything I have ever experienced in any other game before – or since, for that matter. Shenmue has something very magical flowing through its veins – fans will attest to this, and still no-one has been able to nail down exactly what it is that makes it, or even us, feel the way it does, which is why “magical” is perhaps the most appropriate description – and every day I am truly thankful not just for having the game in my life, but for the game being part of my life, especially at a time when I needed it most. I shudder to think how or where I would have ended up without it, which might sound pathetic to some and over-exaggerated sentimental mush to others, but, hey, it worked for me.
Thank you, Shenmue.
---
Shenmue is the game I attribute to my continued respect, admiration, and adoration for video games. Of the hundreds of games I have played over the course of my life, Shenmue means the most to me. This is not just because it is an excellent game – a landmark title, for sure – but because it became something of a comfort blanket during many tough, miserable, and unstable times during my youth, and remains as such even today. Not necessarily a vital crutch or a “happy place” in the traditional (i.e., iron lung or “quick fix”) sense – I have never found myself frantically attempting to boot up the game, raring to huff the fumes of tranquillity, just because I was suffering from a case of the glums, for example – but something closer to reassurance on account of the great sense of succour the game provided during those troubled times.
As a youngster, I was a meek, timid, socially awkward, oversensitive, crybaby milksop who was too afraid to stand up for myself, never felt quite “there” in the world, and generally felt uncomfortable in my own skin. Despite knowing no different, having no experiential frame of reference from which to draw comparison, I was nonetheless acutely aware this was by no means normal. Something was missing; something I never had, but, as deduced from my observations of those around me, knew it existed, and I longed for it. It was just a case of finding whatever it was that would fill this void. At nine years old, in comes Shenmue, whose world I very quickly acclimatised and connected to in a way I found impossible with the one around me. At long last, I was home.
Grounded to reality by design, the game's protagonist is not a suave secret agent with an abundance of brilliant gadgetry in his arsenal, a demon-decimating space marine with an assault rifle in one hand and a shotgun in the other, a staff-wielding mage with a magnificent beard, or even a shadow-dwelling-and-rooftop-hopping ninja with a belt of throwing stars. Nope, Ryo Hazuki is just a regular eighteen-year-old student living in an unremarkable Japanese city who, one snowy November afternoon, witnesses the murder of his father, Iwao, at the hands of a Chinese black market cartel leader named Lan Di in an act of revenge for Iwao's alleged murder of his father twenty years prior.
This tragedy leads Ryo to swear vengeance for, and uncover the truth behind the events surrounding, his father's murder, and so the journey begins.
The game, which takes place across four areas of the sleepy city of Yokosuka, Japan – a very welcome change of scenery from the feudal or super high tech setting we have seen a trillion and one times before – is, outside of the occasional QTE sequence or Free Battle, very chilled and easy-going. Conversing with NPCs, sleuthing, partaking in side activities (such as feeding an orphaned kitten, playing games in the arcade, or training Ryo's moves), the odd puzzle-solving sequence, and, of course, forklifts. This is how the majority of the player's time is spent, and it is so surprisingly refreshing compared to, say, traversing the world in an RPG in search of the next quest or a piece of loot, with danger potentially springing up anywhere along the path and lurking around every corner.
What some would argue as one of the game's biggest flaws, the pacing, is arguably less of an objective flaw than a love-it-or-hate-it passive element of the game world that flows in harmony with the intentional realism and gaming-up of the mundane. Instead of simply going from A to B without a second thought, with everything waiting right there at the destination, as is the case with games built around a linear (and even semi-linear) backbone, the time of day and the requirement to wait in anticipation of time-sensitive events play a vital role in Shenmue.
It is during this periodic downtime, before embarking on the next time-sensitive event, the player is presented with a choice: put the controller down and twiddle their thumbs or soak up what the world has to offer in the interim. Just some of these activities include paying games in the arcade, practising Ryo's moves, buying mostly useless crap from Tomato Convenience Store and Abe Store to partake in the raffle, feeding the orphaned kitten at the shrine, wasting thousands of yen on capsule toys, and, perhaps most engaging (yet most easy to miss) of all, conversing with NPCs, with the content of these conversations tied to the player's place in the story at that particular moment in time.
The choice is entirely up to the player, and the composition of the time spent is whatever they choose to make it.
In time, and as if by magic (or exemplary game design), the player is made to feel at home very quickly – and although Ryo, himself, is familiar with many of the locals and (three out of four of the) locales, the player is a complete stranger to each in equal measure. With both the places and the lives of the people living and working in those places gradually familiarised with through conversation, observation, and hearsay as the story progresses, however, the player becomes clued in on the lives, knowledge, and expertise of any number of individual NPCs – some mandatory, with the rest being at the player's discretion – with regards to what they know, who they know, what is going on in their lives, what is going on around town, the nature of their profession, the passage of their daily routine, or whatever else happens to be on their minds or constitutes their character.
Not only do these facets make for some interesting and immersive conversational material that would otherwise go unheard and remain in stasis for evermore, but select pieces of this very information can prove invaluable in aiding the player in their current objective. Need help translating a letter written in Chinese? “Oh, I'll have a word with Tao-san at the Ajiichi!” Trying to locate a shady character, with one of the only clues to go on being his beloved motorcycle? “The owner of the motorcycle shop might know a thing or two.” Trying to get to Hong Kong, but having no way to afford the extortionate price of the plane ticket? “Nozomi travels overseas a lot – perhaps she will be able to provide a solution.” So on and so forth.
The right person for the task at hand is happy to provide assistance, but the player must never look a gift horse in the mouth; without reciprocity, they will only be able to get so far before the stumbling blocks begin to sprout and cause cuts and bruises, and those same people who were, at one time, willing to extend a helping hand are nowhere to be found with the bandages and disinfectant.
For example: helping the manager of Hokuhoku Lunches track down her wayward sister will grant Ryo the opportunity to ascertain the guard pattern of the warehouse district he plans to infiltrate that evening. Keeping in regular contact with Nozomi, one of Ryo's best friends and love interest, will result in some endearing and intimate moments between the two, compared to paying her no mind aside from the mandatory events alone. Helping a homeless man being harassed by some bikers at the Harbour will lead to the former teaching Ryo three moves later on, as well as providing information about the Harbour's resident gang, the Mad Angels, when the need arises.
For one to expect their every want and whim to be taken care of without even the slightest inclination to return in kind is not the way to make friends or remain in people's good books for very long, as is the case in the real world. Shenmue does an excellent job of establishing this notion by making Ryo the initiator of the bulk of these acts – done so by presenting the player with two choices following a hint or request from the other party: do or don't – all of which are returned in kind; sometimes instantly, sometimes further down the line.
In harmony with the progress made over the course of the game, what feels like a real connection and sense of solidarity with the game's world – the environment and its inhabitants – begins to take form. It is both curious and enlightening, yet makes complete sense given the circumstances. That the developers were able to distil, configure, and execute a world, grounded in reality, without all the bells and whistles of the fantastical or style over substance (the latter of which many open world games have since devolved into), relying instead on the gameplay and happenings of that world, is a testament to both director Yu Suzuki as a visionary and the medium itself as an art form.
The sense of community, familiarity, contentedness, belonging, and comfort the game delivers is unlike anything I have ever experienced in any other game before – or since, for that matter. Shenmue has something very magical flowing through its veins – fans will attest to this, and still no-one has been able to nail down exactly what it is that makes it, or even us, feel the way it does, which is why “magical” is perhaps the most appropriate description – and every day I am truly thankful not just for having the game in my life, but for the game being part of my life, especially at a time when I needed it most. I shudder to think how or where I would have ended up without it, which might sound pathetic to some and over-exaggerated sentimental mush to others, but, hey, it worked for me.
Thank you, Shenmue.
