It's been awhile. Nevermind any commitments of actually returning to regular posting -- I've been busy, and will likely be busy again. Come to think of it, I'm still busy. I shouldn't even be writing this, or sleeping. I should be working.
But as it happens, I've been struck by something, and I need to vomit words somewhere about it. Sadly, Twitter only allows so many characters, and I'm much too inefficient a writer to be so constrained. Being that what follows concerns Shigesato Itoi's immortal Earthbound, I'll try not to tie that statement into a joke at Tim Rogers' expense.
So, Earthbound. I've talked too much about this game during the course of my career. Come to think of it, I've talked too much about this game period. I've been on podcasts about it, even faked my way through some investigative goddamn journalism over it. I wish I could stop. I wish I could stop. I can't stop.
One of my favorite things about the game is how it morphs into something new every time I play it, presenting itself ready for another romp and dissection. In my most recent travels through Onett and beyond, I found myself obsessing over the transition made by Ness and crew from fleshy humans to cold, steely robots near the end of the game. They do this because, as you may have heard, meatsacks can't make a leap through time intact, don't you know. The decision, like most major plot pitstops in Earthbound, is made unceremoniously. Why sure, I'd love to have the essence of my consciousness extracted, planted into a robot and sent hurtling into the past to square off against an intergalactic, shapeless, incomprehensible horror, a being of such infinite malice that you can't wrap your mind around his very existence. Wasn't I fighting hippies and animated trees some four or five hours ago?
Yes, the game does jump the shark a bit in terms of gravitas near the endgame, but that's always been something I rather liked about Earthbound, and not what had gripped me about that particular moment in the narrative. Rather, I was hung up on Earthbound's peculiar inability to determine whether or not its principle cast were mute or not.
There's really nothing worth dwelling on about The Mute RPG Hero, it's a worn out topic. Yeah, lots of heroes didn't talk in games back in the day, big deal. Where Earthbound is significant is how silent the heroes feel by virtue of the fact that, occasionally, they do talk -- but never to one another. They address the party, be it only Ness, or Ness and Paula, or Ness and Paula and Jeff. Poo, being the last party member to arrive during the course of the narrative, is never spoken to. The threshold, it seems, is this: If you're not an active member of the party, you're an NPC and may address the group. But once you're a part of the battle menu, shut your goddamn mouth and get to adventuring.
These are characters with backgrounds. Even if they're somewhat weakly developed, they're only as superficial and as fleeting as the rest of the game tends to be—characters don't stick around long in Earthbound. But beyond the introductions of the principle cast members—Hi, I'm Jeff, I came to help you because I heard your prayer, let's get this show on the road, destiny, et cetera—nary a word is spoken between them.
There are a few exceptions, though, and one particularly interesting one. In the Deep Darkness, near the entrance to the Tenda Village, the party encounters a ruined pile of what used to be a helicopter, commandeered by Pokey on the top of the Monotoli Building. When you examine it closely, Jeff actually speaks, and explains to the party that he simply can't fix it. Jeff's not remarking on his departure, as Poo does when he leaves the party temporarily to study a new PSI ability—he simply speaks his thoughts. In Earthbound, that's ridiculously rare.
So what are Earthbound's rules? What would compel Shigesato Itoi and his scenario scribes to keep the cast silent when faced with incomprehensible horror but pipe up when someone has to fuck off with a PSI study buddy or remark on a ruined helicopter?
Part of me likes to romanticize the idea, and suppose that Ness and company—in the face of destiny and irrefutable prophecy—never thought to question the challenge before them or wonder aloud, "Why the fuck am I supposed to do this?" That's not how a kid's mind works, the romantic part of my brain asserts. When a time-traveling bee warrior tells you to defeat a space tyrant, you just do it. But this is a very unlikely explanation.
Rather, it's probable that Itoi and his designers never established a hard-set rule. Perhaps there simply wasn't enough time to work on developing interpersonal connections and relationships between the party members, except for those moments of crucial exposition—like "I can't fix that goddamn helicopter." But that notion, that specter of deliberate design choice that hovers over the title, is what makes Earthbound a joy to revisit, no matter how old and stupid I get, no matter how small my attention span shrinks.
On an unrelated note, why in the hell does every M-rated game have to be showered in naked tits these days?
