Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I never really played Super
Mario World, like any other hot-blooded SNES owner did --my console pack-in game
was actually a pirated Street Fighter II. By the time I got my very own SNES, Super
Mario World was the red-headed stepchild of SNES software, since EVERYBODY had
already played it: it had virtually no market value, so acquiring it was like burning
money. Unlike anyone else, I never got to finish it or get tired of it... hell, I’ve never even
seen half of the whole game.
Yet the first impression of the game I had, just gazing at it while some
kid hogged the kiosk for hours at the toy store, was the same years later, during the emulation
rounds where I finally got to play it. Compared to the last Mario game on the NES, Super Mario Brothers 3, even though it is
graphically a more lush and detailed game, Super Mario World also feels sort of big and empty most
of the time. SMB3 looks far, far better than the whole NES library, but it's
all in its graphical design, which managed to communicate warmth and
friendliness... while I find Super Mario World, overall, a bit colder. The angular design of the game backgrounds shows proof of it early on; in contrast, SMB3 is very busy trying to make everything round,
giving it a more pleasing look. It's basic design psychology that all those sharp triangular hills in SMW are bound to create tension and a little bit of anxiousness.
It could tie with the (purely hypothetical) possibility
that even Miyamoto wasn't sure how to use this whole new power and space of the 16-bit juggernaut. Well,
maybe he had a clear idea, but as with most first generation SNES games, SMW
tried to communicate the huge generational step of the system, in this case not with mode 7
glitter, but with a sense of greatness in its design (graphical and gameplay). Most likely it tried to convey that the
quest was now more vast, with more things to do... more possibilities, if you
will. This is not negative in itself, but as it has been discussed before, it led to
misinterpretation years later. The graphic design is restrained, clean (I can't
stress how clean it is); yet while trying to be big, it became less
intimate.
The best analogy I can think about right now eerily fits with my current situation. Super Mario Bros. 3 is the small house that was decorated with love and attention in order to make it feel cozy and warm. It wasn’t much, but it made you feel welcome. The next Mario iteration was akin to the move to a bigger house: you kept all your nice furniture but find that even when you’ve settled in, the house still feels cold and empty.
Yet... I find fascinating that the very same elements that made me feel uneasy and lonely while playing SMW for the first time had an opposite reaction in other people. They didn’t find it barren and lonely; they found it vast and full of possibilities. They didn’t find the angular shapes uncomfortable; they felt they added to the sense of danger and adventure. They weren't turned off by the sparseness of the stages, but craved what could be hiding, out of sight and the surprises that they kept.
Neither them or I are wrong: our experiences were vastly different. Most of them went head on into an exciting new adventure, while I nursed fond memories of the last Mario adventure for a few more years. It was hard for me to go into SMW big empty house when I already visited Super Metroid's mansion or Final Fantasy VI's castle: it wasn't a bad experience altogether, but it hinted at greatness I already knew only too well.
I think I get it now. As I spend one last week in what was my home for two years, I gaze at these welcoming surroundings. This house is full to the brim with our toys and our knick knacks, wires everywhere, souvenirs from New Zealand and London. Our new house is big; some would say it might be too big for just the two of us. Even after unpacking all those books and dvds that for two years we never had any space for, we could play hockey on the top floor. The new rent is lower, but other than that there are not a lot of reasons to leave this place: it has our touch, it feels like home.
But now I see the big emptiness as a sign of promise, of endless possibilities. Instead of looking at the vacant space, I'm looking at the future home of our next plaything. It just takes a little twist to see things under a new light, and understand how some people find intimacy sufoccating or nothingness liberating. It's a scary new world out there, but I know we'll soon make it our own.
Pedro Arizpe, 14/01/07
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