Lumping it with the JRPG scene was doing it a disservice; Demon Souls was a completely different beast. I'd been an editor on one publication or another for nearly ten years at that point, reviewed hundreds of games and had never seen anything like it. Spiritually it was in line with From Software's long-abandoned King's Field series, but to my mind, the stark miserabilism and relentless cloying tension placed it closer to survival horror. Albeit one with a fearsomely skilful combat engine and a feast of statistical elements to wrap your head around; things I would normally hurl myself under the nearest train to avoid.
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So much of what made Demon's Souls such a radical step forward for action games seemed to be deliberately designed to be as unintuitive as possible. When you're used to being spoon-fed by games for three consecutive gaming generations, it's one hell of a trip to suddenly go back to the kind of approach last seen in the 1990s. If that sounds like whiny criticism, it isn't meant to be. I extracted perverse satisfaction and immersion from negotiating its labyrinthine systems, and rising to its vertiginous challenges. It's the kind of game where there's a direct correlation between the time invested and the enjoyment gained.
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Normally I'm glad when a game's credits roll. I can mentally cross it off the list and move on to something fresh and exciting, but Demon's Souls more or less ruined video games for me for a long time. Once you've surrendered yourself so completely to a game as rich and mentally involving as this, the regular 'popcorn' video game seems vapid, trivial and, dare I say it, hollow. Like a cheap pop hook next to a slow-burn album of grand ambition that you'll treasure for life.