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I'm a bit of an arbitrary gamer. I mostly enjoy retro games, but not for the challenge. I like games to be a mix of a book and a movie in that they are visually stimulating but still allow the player to fill in the voices and other elements with their imagination. I'm weird and awkward, which really makes me stand out among gamers.

Outside of video games, my other great passion is music. I'd consider myself a metalhead because it is what I gravitate towards most, but I don't consign myself to any one genre or style of music. My collection also boasts healthy helpings of darkwave, visual kei, neofolk, neoclassical, classic rock, prog rock, classical, and of course, video game soundtracks, along with smatterings of whatever else has caught my attention.

My favorite games include:

Bit.Trip series
Blazing Lazers
Bucky O'Hare
Castlevania II, IV, Symphony of the Night, Order of Ecclesia
Cave Story
Chrono Trigger/Cross
Cthulhu Saves the World
Enslaved: Odyssey to the West
Final Fantasy IV, VI
Fragile Dreams: Farewell Ruins of the Moon
Gargoyle's Quest
Kirby's Adventure
Link's Awakening
Lords of Thunder
Lost Odyssey
Megaman II, III, V, X
Mother 3
Rocket Knight Adventures
Seiken Densetsu series: from Final Fantasy Adventure to Legend of Mana
Silent Hill: Shattered Memories
Tales of Symphonia
Threads of Fate
To the Moon
Tower of Heaven
World of Goo
Xenoblade Chronicles

Player Profile
Xbox LIVE:Trevoracious
Steam ID:drlightateyourmagicite
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Dr Light ate your Magicite's sites

Though touted as one of the greater evolutions in gaming, I’ve never been a huge proponent of online gaming. Indulging in a game’s world and story is a personal experience for me. The voices and actions of other players, particularly when set against scripted plot devices, tends to dissolve the illusion of immersion. That said, I love hearing about the experiences of others, sharing my own, and helping others achieve their goals. In other words, I love playing games online, just not with other people.

I was once a dedicated World of Warcraft player. This is the only instance in the MMoRPG genre where I felt as though I could truly quest on my own (well, there are some MUDs that qualify as well but WoW is more relatable). I only worked with others when I desperately wanted some instanced dungeon reward and was otherwise content to explore at my own pace. But I loved wandering about and seeing other people doing things, or striding into a capitol city bustling with other players. Though I was a loner, the presence of other players made the world feel alive.

I was actually in a WoW guild, though we hardly ever interacted with one another and loved every moment. It was much like Ron Swanson's best friend.

Much as I loved the possibilities of WoW’s solo-yet-online gameplay, I’ve found something that seems almost custom-tailored to my style: the Miiverse. The first time a friend brought over his Wii U, I sat in awe of its Mii-filled breadth. I had read about this feature and dismissed it as pointless social media shoehorning, but when I watched all the Miis scurrying about to share their little slices of gaming experience, I felt an undeniable sense of kinship.

Since buying my own Wii U, the Miiverse has become my beloved little porthole into the gaming universe. There’s something invigorating about reading the message-in-a-bottle type thoughts from other players. Of high importance is the fact that the Wii U never harasses the player about these posts, such as popping up notifications or forcing a visit. There’s no agendas, no politics, trolling (aside from the occasional cock), or egotism. Truly this is the purest incarnation of gaming’s lifestream.

Though by far, my favorite use of this feature doesn’t involve direct interaction. So often in the past I wish I would have kept a journal of my thoughts as I experienced memorable and standout moments. Keeping a pen and paper nearby was generally too much of a hassle – not to mention I’m left handed and can’t handwrite for shit. Any time something amazing happens now, I can flip to the Miiverse and record my thoughts along with a screenshot. Nowhere is this advent more appreciated than with a game like Earthbound.

A common criticism of Nintendo tends to be the family-friendly approach (and therefore irrevocably anti-gamer), and this extends to the heavily moderated posts of the Miiverse. While I’d agree that the Wii era found the company catering to a new demographic, I’ll argue that the Miiverse is indicative of Nintendo understanding the essence of gaming better than any other company on the market today. A memorable experience to me will always outweigh a false sense of importance derived from arbitrary numbers and virtual trinkets, and that is why I am so very thankful for the Miiverse and the new dimension it has added to the way I play games.


I’m an insatiable magnet for fright. I was in my twenties when I saw The Grudge at a midnight showing, and slept with the closet light on for longer than I care to admit. The last time I went to a haunted house the ghastly actors had zeroed in on me within minutes, calling out “let’s get goldilocks!” as I screamed at their every jump scare. There’s a litany of videogames that have scared the daylights out of me (most notably the original Silent Hill), but one of the more surprising titles in that bunch happens to be Secret of Mana.

Though a jump scare or gory moment will never fail to hook me, they are largely fleeting and leave little more than an anecdotal impact akin to the prior paragraph. Context plays a huge part of how deeply a scary moment will cut into my consciousness. For instance, when I played Resident Evil, I knew I was in for something frightening as much as I was aware when I walked into that haunted house. It’s kind of like how you can’t tickle yourself – my brain prepares me for the scare which diminishes the effect.

What my mind can’t prepare for are those scary things which are entirely contrary in spirit to nearly everything else in the video game.  This is a certain pedigree in horror that, as far as I know, has no official nomenclature. I like to call this phenomena ‘terror by contrast’. Think about the ReDeads in Ocarina of Time: here you have a heroic adventure full of magic and wonder…then all of sudden there’s screaming corpses that slowly creep in to devour your flesh as you shudder from their sonic sneak-attack.

And don't forget about ol' Dead Hand!

Secret of Mana is a bright and colorful game with a beautifully whimsical soundtrack. It’s hardly the kind of place one would expect to find themselves with shaky hands and an overwhelming sense of dread, and that’s why the sequence involving the Ruins of Pandora is so effective. The strange happenings in the town of Pandora are introduced early in-game, where some townspeople have gone mute and are said to have lost the will to live; all that aimless wandering RPG NPC’s do is so much more bizarre when they have nothing to say.

At the south end of town, there are ruins where the affected citizens are gathering, but the entrance is barred by two guards wearing strange cyclopean masks. Instead of venturing immediately into the ruins, the party is sent on other tasks, periodically returning to Pandora as the mystery grows. With each visit, more citizens are stripped of their souls and the accompanying music becomes more poignant.

Even before setting foot in the ruins, this concept of people becoming empty shells had me on edge. At a young age, I experienced a series of recurring nightmares wherein my mind was lost through varying circumstances, such as everyone else in the world copying my identity or an invisible monster eating my mind. The dreams themselves were pants-wetting enough, and waking up in the twilight hours feeling like I was dead inside was worse. While this portion of the game didn’t start those nightmares, it absolutely gave them an amplified resurgence.

When one of the party members spots her friend going into the ancient and decrepit structure, she pushes the guards aside (apparently no one else had thought of that brilliant stratagem – videogames). This is where that whole context thing comes into play. There were typically ‘dark’ locations presented before this dungeon, including caves, forests, and a witch’s castle. But those locales were still very much fantastical and arguably alluring in their design, especially given the musical selections. The ruins are a complete stylistic shift.

Just take a listen as to what greets the player when stepping into the ruins of Pandora. I believe this is what a music box slowly committing suicide sounds like.

To date, I’ve never heard a piece of gaming music so utterly discordant. Coupled with the contextual shock, my first playthrough of this area involved several instances of setting the controller down, calming my shaking hands, and gathering up the courage to press onward.  The game never fully divulges what happened in the ruins. We see grotesque monsters, some mask-wearing victims standing in front of an altar and Thanatos, the leader behind the cult, attempts to kill the party by dropping them into a room with a wall-demon. This lack of details actually made for a scarier experience overall.

It would be nigh-impossible for a 16-bit game to illustrate a disturbing ritual, so why not let the player’s imagination do the legwork? My mental picture of what happened to people when they were brought back into the ruins and given those masks to cover what I assumed were brutalized and eyeless faces was much scarier than anything the game designers could have come up with. I pictured unholy séances summoning fecund demons to devour the souls of the townspeople. When it comes to horror, the unseen is so much worse than a vivid depiction, and whoever designed this sequence did an extraordinary job using that tactic to create something I won’t ever forget.

On a final note, Thanatos shows his final form towards the end of the game as a giant skeleton. He’s not intimidating on his own but his theme music – a version of the ruins music on acid - is brick-shitting bliss.

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Since my first days of laying hands on a Commodore 64, there’s been something I adore about video games that I’ve never been able to articulate. For a time I thought my enjoyment of video games was derived from living vicariously through story, art, and music. As it turns out this is only a slice of the delicious mental pie. I had a revelation while playing through Earthbound recently. The “Your Sanctuary” locations in the game are a typical trope – you collect x number of mystical things to become the hero and complete the final quest.

The Sanctuaries have a bit more behind them than say, pieces of the Triforce. They evoke a nostalgic link from Ness’s childhood and help him better understand himself as a person. He’s not getting some magical power or artifact. The sanctuaries are inspiration, often housed in nondescript locations. I’ve come to realize that I have countless sanctuaries of my own buried within all the games I’ve played over the years. Until now, I have so often paused at various locales never fully comprehending why they were so special. They are what attracts me to the world of video games, and why gaming remains a pure outlet for me despite all the changes it has undergone over the years. 

This was the one of the inspirational moments. On a side note, I love Miiverse so hard. It's basically like a video game journal. I just wish more people got my Simpsons reference instead of assuming I'm a promiscuous thrill seeker. 

The Final Fantasy series is a fine example of this phenomena. Of course there is some dopamine association with seeing stats go up as the party gets stronger. And there is a draw to the story line. These are but ancillary elements; when I recall Final Fantasy IV, my mind immediately goes to Mt. Ordeals. Not because Cecil becomes a Paladin there or the epic battle against Scarmillione. It’s because I first climbed that mountain after recently starting middle school. To give a short description in my time in middle school, I ate most of my lunches in the bathroom – climbing a mountain and seeing that glorious 16-bit vista made me feel like I actually was able to accomplish something in those dismal years.

Mt. Ordeals

When I’ve replayed Final Fantasy IV, the in-game events at Mt. Ordeals always take a sort of backseat to that sense of wonder. The same goes for Super Mario Galaxy’s Space Junk Galaxy, explored in a chaotic period during a new career step where I felt there was no room left in my life to just wander in a state of awe. Or there’s stage 2 of Metal Mech, a pretty awful NES game with a maddening second stage. But I still put in the cart from time to time and get annoyed anew because my stubborn attempts to beat the level paralleled that of my stepdad, who gave me the game and wouldn’t give up trying to forge a relationship. I see visions of myself as a child, trying so hard in vain to understand my budding emotions.

Metal Mech

It's like Blaster Master, but terrible!

World of Warcraft was an amazing world for me, not because I could interact with other players and collaborate, but because I had the choice not to. No other world felt so alive and thriving. I loved wandering the countryside and seeing people run off to fight in the Deadmines while I took a stroll along the Westfall beach. People always talk about Shadow of the Colossus’s amazing journey and all I think about is how I spent weeks riding around on my horse and exploring before ever bothering to start the story. There are so many special little places I'd rather visit in that game than replay any of the battles.

The way I process video games is exemplified in a title such as Fez. There is a vague story, and there are mildly challenging components, but the world largely exists to be a series of sanctuaries. On my first outing with Fez, I must have sat outside the lighthouse watching the cat play for a half hour. At the time I had been suffering the consequences of a horrendous mistake in my life, and a moment of clarity on how to recover dawned in that pensive moment. I truly believe it wouldn't have happened had I not been spending that cold winter morning playing Fez. 

Video games are a shelter for its players. I’ll listen to the story and enjoy a tune, but I’m really there to find a little place to call my own and reflect on the affairs I’m currently wanting to jettison. That said, the world of videogames has become dangerously similar to the one it was designed to escape from. It is an industry rife with political strife, rampant egotism, and social identity. Companies leverage greater profits through all means of underhanded tactics. People fight with those inside and outside of the industry to posture some sort proper way to be a gamer (which is as laughable as those who incessantly argue about what constitutes true black metal).

In short, it’s a fucking mess and I want nothing to do with it.

The great thing about video games is that indulging in all that noise isn’t a requisite lap. Outside of this little blog I don’t really trumpet my love of playing games to the world and I wouldn’t bother arguing any of the controversies that have sprung up over the years even if someone was screaming in my face – I’d more than likely laugh and offer ActRaiser as a therapeutic release. My recent time with Earthbound has revealed that I have a rather unorthodox use of the medium. And that’s just fine, because games are what you make them.

In closing, a lovely song that so elegantly describes the pursuit of one's own sanctuaries.   

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My shower door may be a portal to Lorule.

Early in the morning of November 22nd, in those twilight hours between night and morning, I found myself unable to sleep: I had been dreaming of playing a Link Between Worlds. Giving up on the prospect of getting back to sleep, I started my morning routine. While in the shower, I noticed for the first time in the three years Iíve been living in this house that there was an upside down Triforce on one of the walls! I thought better of waking up my wife to share this startling discovery, and instead started thinking about why this game had me so wound up, unlike so few titles in the last two generations of video games.

Flash to today, and Iíve realized that I spent a majority of my weekend playing Linkís latest adventure - not since the launch month of World of Warcraft had a game made my food and restroom breaks negligible necessities. Somewhere in the sixth generation, video games became a world that moved on without me. I tried in vain to enjoy Super Mario Sunshine. Every Final Fantasy since VII made me want to scream the opening line of Minor Threatís Filler. I played Call of Duty and Halo in a befuddled state, wondering why each respective series was so revered. This is the part of my plight where many gamers are still with me, but then I reveal that I couldn't get into BioShock or Mass Effect either.†

I was a latecomer to the current generation, lured back in after listening to RetroforceGo! and hearing them speak of titles that embraced the retro aesthetic (way back when that was a novel idea). I enjoyed a small handful of titles, mostly on the wii. Still, I always felt like I was attending a hip party without an invitation. Nowhere was this more evident than when I attempted to play Left 4 Dead 2: I would join a game, take a few steps, and then see the voting dialog appear wherein players elected to remove me from play.

Every time.

At first, I chuckled, assuming they didnít like my gamertag. After an hour or so of failing to play a game for longer than a few minutes, I was sure that video games just didnít want me anymore. I felt like a relic of a bygone era. I didnít want to see achievements; I celebrated my first one by disabling all notifications. I would often get annoyed when friends would appear uninvited in my Borderlands 2 games, derailing whatever plans I had in motion. I couldn't care less if people were able to see my activities. I forced myself through Skyward Sword, cursing every time I had to bowl a bomb or listen to Fi explain the same thing over and over.†

Seriously, was this necessary?

But A Link Between Worlds helped me rekindle that long-extinguished sense of immersion and wonder. Stepping back into the realm of a Link to the Past was like going to visit a ďmassiveĒ mountain from childhood, and instead of it being long-gone or disappointingly small, it was everything you remembered and more. This game is what nostalgia yearns to be Ė memories bearing the magic of age. Not only is there no guiding companion, thereís also no messing about in dungeons learning to use each key item.

Many fans praise the dungeon designs of Zelda where a new item is introduced, and the proceeding areas help the player utilize their new tool, often culminating in a boss fight that does the same. But this concept wore thin fast for me. By the time Twilight Princess came around, dungeons all bore a similar pattern, and boss fights were predictable breezes. With the latest title, a player is able to rent the tools and figure out for themselves how to use each one. Each dungeon and cave then becomes reliant on the more free-form experience of the player. I had no idea what the Tornado Rod was going to do, and I had a blast simply running around and creating vortices.†

Amazingly, A Link Between Worlds doesnít sacrifice story for this freedom. Rather than use cutscenes for thinly veiled handholding, most of dialog actually feels relevant. On the rare occasion that the wall is broken, it truly feels necessary. Remember the library in Linkís Awakening or the Know-It-All Birds in the Oracle titles? This is where guidance should be contained, and the tradition is continued with the hint goggles. I havenít used this helping item once, but Iím glad it is there for those who do need the extra assistance. Rather than going point by point, it would make more sense to simply state that A Link Between Worlds contains everything that made the series alluring, and sheds all the unnecessary fluff and candy-coating it has gained over the years.

I donít seek to argue that thereís something wrong with video games today. Nor is this blog my admitting to being an old curmudgeon who bitches about what the kids listen to on the radio nowadays. But like music, the years make it harder for me to find my way back to a pure gaming experience, where I can simply fall backwards into a gameís world as I would a pile of fluffy leaves on a crisp autumn day. This time around, I didnít have to dig deep into the indie titles or try my luck at something completely random in the hopes of stumbling into the magic. I just had to come home.
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There is no bigger interest in my life than music. When Iím not actively engaged with someone, chances are good Iíll have my headphones on and cranked to a borderline unsafe levels. I carefully select the music that wakes me up each morning. When considering driving distance, I measure by the number of singles, EPs, and albums that would fit into the trip (my current commute to work is about a half album). And when it comes to videogame soundtracks, Iíll just say that my highest playcounts in iTunes largely belong to the ranks of Shimomura, Koshiro, Mitsuda, Kikuta, and Kondo.

But for all endearment I exude for music, Iím not terribly talented at creating it. Apparently, the skill traveled thoroughly through my older and younger siblings, then promptly skirted around me, as my musical aspirations were quelled after years of fruitless attempts to play the bass guitar. While Iím able to read music decently enough, I have no ear for notes, and ultimately hit the wall when I found that I couldnít write bass lines. Not wanting to be one of those bassists, I relinquished myself to my high schoolís sparsely populated choir, and quietly retired from the world of music not long after.

I mean, I figured I had long hair, what else did I need?

This all changed about ten months ago, wherein I would once again begin a musical endeavor by joining a handbell choir. The bells seemed easy enough to master. My assumption was that one simply held two notes at a time, and summoned them at will when desired. The first indicator that I may have underestimated the challenge was when the music was not, in fact, a series of ďring, donít ringĒ instructions. On the contrary, it was written in traditional notation, along with many symbols that I hadnít a clue how to decipher:

Iíll spare the details of the many harrowing rehearsals which were to follow, but suffice to say, I once again faced an impassible monolith of aural feats. I would fight mentally tooth and nail to establish a beat count, yet find myself floundering whenever Iíd miss a note. Iíd barely be exploring a sense of triumph for recognizing and performing gyros, hand Martellatos, plucks, and singing bowls, when Iíd be singled out for not recognizing that I should be playing my G# bell when there was an A♭ on the staff. When it seemed as though I had once again met my limit, hope appeared in the form of a nostalgic-tinged Final Fantasy title.

Like many others, the music of Final Fantasy is particularly near and dear to my heart. The Theme of Love from Final Fantasy IV plays when my wife calls. I use Uematsuís character themes and the opera scene as examples when arguing the unique potency of videogame music. So a videogame solely based around these melodies was predetermined to be amazing. Though my eyes and ears reveled in the memories evoked by Theatrhythm, I also couldnít help but notice a marked improvement in my bell choir performance since the game was first inserted into my 3DS. Initially, I was bold enough to consider the idea that I had awakened some long-dormant talents, and while there may be a shred of truth to this notion, it's not as though I was suddenly able to keep a steady count or hear the notes.

I would find myself recovering after dropping notes by sheer intuition. Entire songs would pass and I wouldnít bequeath myself even one count or ever glance to the conductor for direction. After nailing a piece and considering it a perfect chain, I came to realize how much that little game had helped me. Just as with the bells, the player doesnít have to hit certain notes in Theatrhythm, and instead has to be concerned with slightly varying techniques. Missing a few beats of a particularly complex sequence can be irrevocably damming, until the proper hand-ear coordination is built. The most incredible development has to be how Iíve been discerning notes Ė I still cannot hear a bell ring and have any sort of guess as to what was played, but while performing, I can feel where each piece should be placed, and know when I should be playing which accidentals.

That said, Iím not anything of a prodigy, and in terms of the game, I still canít beat any of the battle tracks on Ultimate. But I like to think these two musical fixtures in my life are aiding one another and furthering my extremely limited abilities, sort of in the same way that reading might expand a personís vocabulary. Iíve never been one to insinuate that videogames are some untapped resource for developing real-world skills, but after this experience I would absolutely contend that their breadth as a supplement should never be dismissed.
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There's many reasons why I adore the music of video games, from those that extract ridiculous potential from short loops, to those which are unbelievably catchy, binding themselves forever into one's memory. But by far, my favorite pieces of video game music are those that evoke an emotional response. While I've come across plenty of moving songs in the world of music, finding one within a video game is a rare pleasure. What follows are the most evocative tracks I've heard. Some have been companions through tough times, others became memorable solely for the content they accompanied in-game, but all carry immense musical potency.

Though many of these games are older, I'll still warn in advance that nearly every entry contains spoilers. In most cases, I found it necessary to speak to the context of the music.

Super Mario RPG - Sad Song (Yoko Shimomura)

This gem in the Super NES library certainly isnít known for an emotionally charged story, but it does slip in a handful of tear-jerking moments, mostly found within Mallowís story. One particular sequence has been forever cemented in my memory. Near the end of the game, the party encounters Boomer, a katana-wielding warrior who resembles a Shogun, and a fight ensues atop two chandeliers. Upon being defeated, Boomer doesnít simply vanish into coins as other bosses. Instead, he has what appears to be an asthma attack, wondering aloud how he could have been defeated. Mario offers Boomer a reprieve, which he staunchly refuses, stating with pride that he is prepared to go out like a warrior.

Öand he proceeds to cut the chandelierís chain, plummeting presumably to his death. The Shy Guy holding the chain then openly weeps for his fallen companion, assuring himself that a little fall won't hurt Boomer. How freaking sad is that? The context of being within a Mario game makes it even worse, as the series is generally a safe haven from Pixar-style emotional sucker-punches. I think this moment passes by most players without making an impact, but for whatever reason, I canít play Super Mario RPG or hear this song without feeling my eyes well up a little for poor Boomer.

Listen to Sad Song
Watch the scene from the game

Xenoblade - Imperial Capital Agniratha / Night (Ace+)

In one of the more interesting game worlds of late, Xenoblade takes place on the bodies of two dead gods known as the Bionis and Mechonis, which house biological and mechanical life respectively. Much of Xenoblade is spent on a quest for vengeance against the denizens of Mechonis, who have been waging war on the residents of Bionis. When Shulk and his party finally reach the enemy's homeworld, they find it to be a massive factory designed to produce the Mechon. Their goal is to reach the capital city of Mechonis Ė Agniratha.

From the moment they step off the elevator to the city, what is presented before them in Agniratha is not a battle-hardened military capital, but an actual sprawling city, abandoned and in decay. A somber atmosphere seeps from the piano melody, exposing sensations of misplaced anger and sudden empathy. The brutal moment for me was reaching the security system, which distributes most of the quests for the area. The cityís security assures your party that collecting certain plant life and destroying some malfunctioning Mechon will restore balance to the capital and make it safe for the residents, despite the fact that the city is irrevocably ruined, and its citizens long gone. Like a bully who lashes out because of an abusive home life, it's hard not to feel sympathy; moments like this are what make the world seem so tragic.

Listen to Imperial Capital Agniratha / Night

World of Goo - Are You Coming Home, Love MOM (Kyle Gabler)

I adore the storytelling style of this game, where the player isn't so much performing a role in the game as they are facilitating the plot and bearing silent witness to its events. If one takes the time to learn exactly what is going on with the goo balls, it almost becomes unbearable to advance the game further. In Act 4, they reach the supercomputer MOM. Purported as an all-knowing superbeing, MOM turns out to be a spambot, and the questions she makes available merely exist to harvest more information from the user.

The child-like naÔvetť of the goo balls is what gets me, and it comes to a head during this sequence. Are You Coming Home, Love MOM absolutely nails that sympathetic edge with the understated chorus. The emotions evoked by this music are like helplessly watching a displaced animal struggle to grasp the world of humanity around them.

Listen to Are You Coming Home, Love MOM

Chrono Cross - People Imprisoned by Destiny (Yasunori Mitsuda)

A persistent challenge in life seems to be that one will be faced with decisions that have no positive outcome, where all involved will be hurt. The slow swell of this track, with its brief pauses for effect and its crushing climax, is an eloquent companion for a struggle against the fates. Though it only plays twice in the game, it is among the more memorable in the OST, as in both instances, the song accompanies the need to raise weapons against a friend. Whether it's delivering bad news, ending a relationship, or trying in vain to help, I've known this feeling all too well, and People Imprisoned by Destiny always coerces a reappearance of those memories.

Listen to People Imprisoned by Destiny

Silent Hill - Not Tomorrow (Akira Yamaoka)

Akira Yamaoka captured a realization of hopelessness in such a poignant way with this piece. Played in-game when Lisa begins to understand that she is actually dead, this song not only punctuates her awakening, but Harry's reaction to her transformation and pleas for help. Whenever I encounter an account of the world's horrendous denizens - murderers, rapists, dictators and all in between - I'm reminded of Not Tomorrow, and can't help but feel sorrowful.

Listen to Not Tomorrow
A great piano arrangement by Verdegrand

Fragile Dreams - Tsuki no nukumori (Riei Saito)

Those who persevered through the many flaws of Fragile Dreams were rewarded with an incredibly moving story. Seto's journey is relatively simple - he's looking for a girl encountered early in the game because he doesn't want to be alone anymore in the post-apocalyptic city. The stark atmosphere is wonderfully accentuated by the graceful soundtrack, which primarily employs the piano, and never fails to ignite each moment. After a bittersweet ending sequence where Seto finally unites with Ren, the credits roll with Tsuki No Nukumori playing.

Fittingly, the song has a precious frailty about it, with soft and soothing vocals over a beautiful melody. After accompanying Seto through the seemingly endless night, seeing him at long last achieve his desire to no longer be alone is overwhelming, and Tsuki No Nukumori is what pushed it over the edge for me. A journey often is in itself a reward rather than the actual destination, and this song properly reflects such a notion. While it is hard to recommend this game to all but the most patient players, it is without a doubt worth every broken weapon and camp by the fire waiting for the chicken-headed merchant.

Listen to a cover of Tsuki no nukumori
(The original isn't available on youtube due to copyright claims, but this is a very good version nonetheless)

Super Mario Galaxy - Stardust Road (Mahito Yokota)

Stepping out into the Space Junk Galaxy for the first time, I felt as though I had tumbled back into childhood, struck by a long-dormant sense of wonderment. Super Mario Galaxy, and this level in particular, represents how I envisioned outer space before my blissful ignorance was shattered by that all-spoiling bastard called knowledge. The soothing instrumentation evoke a magnificent serenity, as Mario bounds through a brilliantly illuminated backdrop. In the face of such unfettered beauty, it's nigh-impossible not to be overcome. Which is why this is always the game I reach for when I've had a lousy day.

Screw you, adulthood.

Listen to Stardust Road

Final Fantasy VII - Aeris's Theme (Nobuo Uematsu)

Yeah, you knew it was coming. Usually, this song is associated with Aeris's death, and we're all quite familiar with it, so I wonít elaborate on that scene. In actuality, I am often reminded more of the first time it plays in the game, when Aeris is taken away by Shinra, and the party visits Elmyra. Through a series of flashbacks, we see how Elmyra came to be Aeris's guardian, and how Aeris helped her through the loss of her husband.

Nobuo's excellent theme perfectly captures the fragility of life, particularly with its porcelain-like opening; it is a testament to finding beauty even in the darkest of times. While a superior eye-roll may be appropriate when Aerisís death is referred to as ďthe moment gamers learned to cryĒ, there is a reason why everyone remembers it, and I largely attribute that memorability to this song.

Listen to Aeris's Theme
Reunion tracks - orchestral arrangement
Piano arrangement
The aforementioned scene

Mother 3 - Sunflowers and Illusions / Name These Children / Mother?! (Shōgo Sakai)

Like the Lumine Mines and Magicant segments from Earthbound, my favorite moment in Mother 3 is when the narrative turns to the silent protagonist. In Chapter 6, Lucas has a sort of out of body experience, and the player is given a direct look into what has been going on his mind. What we see is a field of sunflowers, his deceased mother's favorite.

Three pieces of music play during this chapter, starting with the dreamy Sunflower Field. This gives way to Name These Children, as a flashback of Flint and Hinawa naming their children is presented. Lastly, Mother?! starts when Lucas witnesses the appearance of Hinawa's apparition. The scene and music together are an absolutely heart-wrenching reminder that, despite fighting the evils of the world and going on an epic quest, Lucas is still a kid, who misses his mother dearly.

Watch this scene

Bit.Trip Flux - Catharsis (Gaijin Games)

While many of the games in the Bit.Trip series move me to tears by way of frustration, they all nonetheless contain an incredibly affective story and soundtrack within all the daunting challenges. Following the events of Bit.Trip Fate, wherein the protagonist, Commander Video, has died, he finds himself returning back to the nether from whence he came. Flux is unlike any other game I've played; its entire breadth is one elongated death sequence. There is no way to fail a level, as Commander Video's death is an eventuality.

Catharsis is both the name of the third level and the title of the music which accompanies it. The stage begins with a cut scene showing him coming to terms with the events of his life, reaching a state of complete understanding. The song starts with a driving rhythm, building slowly as Commander Video begins to embrace the end. About six minutes in, the wall finally bursts, revealing a melody from Bit.Trip Runner's Impetus. Hearing this celebratory song return is as though Commander Video's mind is focusing on his most triumphant moment, a final bout of unrestrained joy before passing away.

I've never felt more connected to a character in a video game than in this moment. I've had to cope with two deaths in 2012; one was an agonizingly gradual passing of an elderly relative, the other a sudden decline in health of a formerly healthy co-worker. Both were emotionally devastating, and I found myself replaying Bit.Trip Flux almost daily and listening to Catharsis endlessly as I struggled to comprehend and cope with death's inevitability. In those moments where I was alone, severed from immediate contact and support, I truly believe the only thing that kept me from the brink was this music.

Listen to Catharsis