"If you know, you know. If you don't, you blow."
Someone recently imparted this little gem amidst an evening comprised of whiskey, poorly prepared nachos, and misbegotten narrative structures. I'm fairly certain that the comment was made in response to my query about the differences between boys and girls.
It's also what I'd like to say to myself right about now, because what I should know right about now is that while my ability to differentiate between periods of my life has never been great, by this point it has dissolved into a lukewarm puddle of urine that a jubilant preteen scurries to collect into a bucket to show his friends just how disgusting the world can be.
Example: I remember that I once had reason to run up behind a friend, Andy Mercil, and kick him squarely in the ass. I can't recall the reason for administering such swift justice, but I will note that, fortunately for me, my foot was positioned so perfectly that it wedged between his cheeks to pierce his very sphincter. He couldn't sit comfortably for a while, and it still brings a smile to my face, but I can't, for the life of me, recall if this had occurred during high school, or university. This position may be entirely facetious, but work with me here, if only for a moment.
True, unadulterated moments of joy are, perhaps, intrinsically timeless shards of perfection, but nevertheless I feel a sense of detachment from the vaunted kick of kicks, being that I yearn to place the action within its proper context.
Given my unfortunate predicament of ineptitude, I was delighted to successfully recollect that it had been about ten years since I played the phenomenal game that is Panzer Dragoon Saga, even if that reminiscence was accompanied by a longing to the play it once more. Luckily, I do have a copy stashed away somewhere in my parents' dingy basement, and the game is always eager to be resurrected (even if my Sega Saturn is not).
A quick search of the internet yields an almost inexhaustible supply of accolades, articles, and impromptu marriage proposals that exemplify a game so deserving of hyperbolic statements.* I need not regurgitate that which has already been said exquisitely, nor recount the exploits of a man who bought the game (alongside the underwhelming Shining Force III) with his last remaining beer money and didn't regret his decision, but I will express my feelings of adulation, albeit poorly.
In my defense, I can only describe the game, first and foremost, as ethereal substance, like a dream that creeps upon a drowsy man exhausted by numerous orgasms. Yes, Panzer Dragoon Saga is that good, so something more needs to be written.
The graphics were, simply put, sensational for the time in which the game was released (1998, to be precise), both technically and artistically. Whether it be in-game activity or cinematic sequences, Saga pushed the Sega Saturn's limitations to the maximum. Each locale was awash in pale, mildly depressing hues that best represented the scope of a desolate, yet fascinating world of broken dreams and pulsating desires. Sounds cheesy, yes, but it's true, and in contrast, the game would, upon a twist (or deviations) of the plot, present a player with splendidly nightmarish images of vibrant blue, green, and everything between.
The battle system itself strove to encompass traditional RPG elements, as well as exhibit a unique set of rules derivative of previous Panzer entries. I would argue that Team Andromeda was successful in their endeavor, insomuch that the battle system managed to be visually stimulating, marginally challenging, and appealing to the 'I hate role-playing games' crowd,** due to its demand for constant attention via active battle format, in which a player would have to navigate for the best position in which to avoid attacks, or land a heavy blow upon an opponent.
The morphing effect was both functional (in that you would change the abilities of your dragon to best suit the situation, and believe me, it made a huge difference in several battles) and pretty. I'll even go so far as to admit that I often selected my dragon type based upon its appearance, more than its purpose, but that's the price you gotta pay for style.
The sound, alongside the music, was perfectly mastered for the game. Whether it be the roar of your dragon, the piercing snarl of a mutated beast, or the clanging of diabolical machinery (in some cases, quite literally), immersion both inevitable and welcome. Some have called the soundtrack a bit too esoteric, and to that criticism, I would likely agree, but nonetheless it fit the varying situations of the game excellently. I won't be in a rush to add the music to my portable music device any time in the near future, but not because of its quality; if anything, Saori Kobayashi's work exists, at its most divine, in conjunction with the game. One link really doesn't do the score justice, but what's a brother to do when YouTube ain't playing ball, you know?
Panzer Dragoon Saga also had its fair share of stimulating artwork. If nothing else, it was a breath of fresh air amidst the miasma of cutesexycool anime art that predominates the industry.
The plot, characterization, and dialogue of Panzer Dragoon Saga were also quite attractive but, as things go, the passing of time has regulated them to the current status of dreamlike reminiscence, suffice it to say that Azel (pictured at the top of this post) alone made it all worthwhile.
All this said, I'd like to play through the game again, and I'd hope that you, discerning reader, would choose to enjoy it as well. From what I've read, there was an extremely low number of copies produced in North America (less than 30,000, supposedly), and Saturn emulators aren't yet what they should be. Worse yet, the odds of it being ported to another system or otherwise reproduced seem to be extraordinarily slim. What's there to say, beyond this?
Best wishes, and all that.
Orta (and her sexy beast)
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* Where'd you go, sweet doppelgänger, when I needed you most?
** I'm talking to you, Star Car.
P.S. I'm ashamed to be the one that bumped the annual Denz post from atop its lofty perch, but progress waits for no man, not even an Australian.
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