Shiren The Wanderer didn't quite invent the traditional roguelike genre, but this long-running, rarely localized Japanese series sure as heck came to define it:
- Environments have to be grid-based
- Everything must be scavenged from monster-filled dungeons.
- And above all else, a true Shiren game (and thus a true old school roguelike) must be challenging, and its players must suffer
That means everything carried is lost upon death, and all of Shiren's experience must go down the drain with it. Every single floor must be navigated in full again—no shortcuts—and their randomised layout and loot means they're exactly as dangerous and unpredictable as they were the first time.
The latest entry in the 30-year-old series, The Mystery Dungeon of Serpentcoil Island, is no exception to these harsh rules. Its freeform nature, heaps of weird items, and expansive ruleset make it an intimidating and often deadly experience at the best of times, and its minimalistic approach to Shiren himself, a silent avatar-hero of the classic Dragon Quest variety with few real opinions or even expressions of his own, leaves enough room for my imagination to get to work. I get to decide if he's bravely facing down a horde of monsters, panicking at the sight of them, or reaching into his pack for some table-turning item.
Every game is as unique as a fingerprint. A new run is a chance to do something different and surprising, to build a very personal story out of lucky finds, near misses, and brilliantly stupid ideas.
Like that time I got cornered by a powerful behemoth in a dead-end room. I didn't have the hit points or items to take it on, and there was nowhere to run. Things were looking grim… until I remembered I had a wall-destroying scroll in my pack. Every wall and corridor on the floor vanished the instant I unfurled it, and all I had to do afterwards was walk in a straight line to the exit. I have never felt so smug in my life. So smug I forgot that as soon as there were no barriers to stop them, every single monster on the floor could rush straight towards me.
I honestly didn't mind watching Shiren crumple in a heap a minute later. I'd invented the problem myself, after all, and for one whole second felt really clever about it too. Besides, Shiren the Wanderer knows it's tough—it expects me to fail. Many, many, times. And just like everyone's favourite Grecian roguelike, Hades, many of the game's engaging plot threads only move forwards when I hit the dirt. But unlike Supergiant's god-bothering dungeon loop, the flexibility and wilful absurdity of Chunsoft's game (thieving seals, anyone?) allows me to invent new stories of my own, something fun and meaningful that happens between the bouts of dialogue boxes.
Nothing is more confidence-boosting than a great start after a hard fall. I was only a few floors in and already carrying around armfuls of great equipment, meaning everything from cute critters to colour-coded ninjas fell without a fuss. It was almost relaxing.
So when I came across a courier—someone prepared to take one item (or magical pot filled with items) back to town so I can use it on a later run—I cheerfully handed over the shiny sword that had carried me this far. No problem, I'd just fall back on one of my many more ordinary spares for a short while and, thinking with my current luck I'd find something even better than what I'd given up. I had plenty of scrolls and items and so many tasty restorative onigiri stuffed in my inventory I'd had to munch down a few just to free up some space.
It was around this point the game started to introduce Hoppin' Hitters—samurai grasshoppers wielding bamboo baseball bats—and without that powerful sword I wasn't quite as tough as I should have been. And those things hit hard. Hard enough that one hit was unpleasant, and two could be fatal.
But this was my story, and Shiren had supplied all the tools I needed to shape it to my liking. A Windblade scroll could do enough damage to kill these menaces before they got too close, and Jittery scrolls forced any that came within hitting distance to waste their turns attacking the space to their rear, as if they were afraid someone was sneaking up behind them.
When those ran out I switched to staves, magical items capable of paralysing enemies on the spot, amongst other things. I just had to point and shoot the right thing at the right monster. It was more than just another way of staying alive—it felt like I'd reached the second stage of Shiren-ing. I'd gone from simply dealing damage to anything that got in my way to outsmarting them with an almost bewildering selection of interesting status effects. I was learning how to hold my own in a relentlessly unforgiving game, and do it creatively too.
The feeling didn't last long. The Hoppin' Hitters' baseball bat wasn't just a funny weapon, it actually functioned as a bat. I'm not sure why I expected anything less of a game so mechanically dense it differentiates between tapping the side of a pot, putting something in it, throwing it against a wall, or placing it gently on the ground, but it still surprised me when they casually batted away everything I tried to hurl at them.
Magical shots included. I even tried to throw a rotten onigiri at one just because I was that desperate to keep it away, and all it did was neatly smash it straight back in my face. The damage and status effects that came with that blow didn't really matter, because I was too busy having an improvised food fight with a violent grasshopper to care.
By some miracle (and the sort of panicked mad dashing I normally save for survival horror games) I eventually ended up in the next safe village. Objectively it was just the next stopping point in a long adventure, but thanks to the unscripted and partially self-inflicted trials I'd experienced on the way there, it felt like I'd reached heaven itself.
With renewed confidence and a shiny katana in hand, I bravely set forth on the next leg of my epic adventure.
And died to the first enemy I ran into.
Same again next run? Shiren wouldn't let me even if I tried.
