36: Legend of Mana
Square, 1999: PSX Points: 384 Votes: 10
Legend of Mana is art. Not because it’s made from gorgeous watercolor backdrops and a stunning Yoko Shimamura soundtrack. Not because of its novel, sophisticated take on storybook whimsy. And certainly not because of any merit attributed to its gameplay or systems. No, what elevates this game from a B-list PlayStation action RPG—one that doesn’t even have the good graces to let three people play at once—into something we dare label with the lofty designation of “art” is, of all things, its use of obscurity.
It works like this: Legend of Mana puts you in the role of a divine avatar tasked with reviving the barren world of Fa’Diel. You are initially presented with an empty stretch of continent and an Artifact to plop down. Doing so transforms it into a location you can visit to find more Artifacts, which, in turn, transform into more visitable locations. By continuing to discover and place Artifacts you eventually plant the Mana Tree, repopulate the continent, and win the game. Yet, throughout this process it's hard to shake the feeling that everything’s a little… thin. For all of its stunning locales and oddball characters, there’s a shallowness permeating everything. For example, bits of story and character dialogue are unexpectedly terse, as if half the script were missing or the player were expected to have context they were never given. Quests begin and end abruptly and without any cathartic payoff. And worse, without an active quest to provide story events and direction, locations become empty candy shells, pretty to look at but devoid of any substance.
Even more unnerving are the various gameplay systems that start popping up. At its core, Legend of Mana is a fairly shallow beat-em-up. Enemies appear in some regions. You walk up to them, whack them a few times with your weapon of choice, maybe activate a showy special move if your meter is full, and continue in this manner from start to finish. But then as Fa’Diel is reconstructed, more and more subsystems and optional extravagances start crowding in on the base gameplay: Artifact placement, weapon mastery, special technique development, movement tech development, material farming, produce gardening, musical instrument crafting, musical performance, gear blacksmithing, gear tempering, robot crafting, pet raising…and more. Yet, all these systems feel tertiary at best. They can be quite convoluted, often confounding, and don’t seem to add to the experience in any essential way. For all the options and customizations these systems open up, none of them meaningfully contribute to the beat-em-up combat. Why spend time learning how to build a battle golem when hammering on the attack button is so much more expedient and effective?
So, Legend of Mana presents itself as a nice-looking but simplistic and easy game, with a terse and weightless story, and a ton of purposeless appendages.
Eventually, the game will funnel the player into one of three primary questlines, focusing on a specific group of NPCs, their backstories, and finally one of three final bosses. Afterwards, the player might feel compelled to see one of the other questlines or other content they might have missed. Upon restarting, they find they now can access the game’s two difficulty options: either significantly powering up enemies, or pushing them all to max level. And now the game begins to make sense. Under these new difficulty conditions the excess subsystems become necessary. And, by being necessary, they demand attention. Given full attention, they reveal depth of complexity, scope for player expression, and become objects of awe and wonder.
Many games purport to create a livable experience, a place the player feels like they really inhabit. Sometimes they do this via highly detailed world simulation, such as an Elder Scrolls; or sometimes via social and customizable life simulation, like an Animal Crossing. Legend of Mana achieves it by obscuring all its depth and complexity, to an artful degree. This is a game content to hide its light under a bushel for an entire playthrough—and even then requires the player to seek out and set the difficulty settings that make all its joyous and enriching subsystems even relevant. For the curious player—the player who sees the thin surface as an invitation—the game rewards with a magnificent discoverability and inhabitability.
As one begins to pry into all the deep crannies and nuances of its gameplay they feel like they belong in and are of Fa’diel. Suddenly the terse dialog and truncated story scenes begin to make sense as events happening in the world independent of the player, where the player starts to feel they’re being told exactly what they need to inhabit the story as an observing actor, rather than a central narrative focus. Like the gameplay systems, the sparse story invites the player to conjecture about what’s left unsaid in order to discover hidden context and depth.
This design philosophy of obscurity is present in all good Kawazu games—and Legend of Mana is a
good Kawazu game—but married with the Mana series’ sense of whimsy and aesthetic it sings. Legend of Mana pulls you into another, wondrous world: one that opens like a flower, revealing more and more hidden depth and magic the more you live in it. It’s a remarkably brave game, willing to be misjudged, but one that matches player inhabitation beat for beat. The more one inhabits it, sinks into its peculiar world and operations, the more one is rewarded with wondrous discovery and finds a home.