Sixty Frames — Portraits of Melee’s Competitive History
Previously: Frame One: The Laser
Time tends to sanitize history.
Chaos is transformed into textbook; upsets into statistics; rivalries into footnotes. The result is that moments which are marked by intensity — lightning-in-a-bottle, once-in-a-lifetime “holy shit!” moments — lose their edge. They become talking points, touchstones, jokes … they’re analyzed and discussed and admired. And all the visceral, gut-wrenching stuff about it — the reason we remembered it in the first place — is gone.
If you’re reading this, it’s possible you were at Apex 2015 — very possible, in fact, that you were watching. But four years on and sometimes it feels like a museum plaque, like a foregone conclusion. We don’t talk about it like it’s unpredictable, and messy, and exciting.
It just sort of … is.
In a real way, this is unsolvable. We can’t really go back — we can’t relive what made the past great. And by trying to analyze it, we risk destroying some of what made it special.
PPMD won Apex 2015: there’s no way for that to be a surprise anymore. But by looking at one specific part of what happened — by taking this huge event and focusing on just one particular snapshot — maybe we can resuscitate a bit of the chaos, the excitement, the story, if only for a moment.
Why is it worth it? Well, quite simply, I believe this is one of the greatest tournaments in Melee history.
This is Sixty Frames. Here is Frame Two:
Today is February 1, 2015. This is Winner’s Finals, and PPMD should not be here.
Last summer he was widely considered the best player in the world — but he hasn’t entered a tournament in six months. And nearly every set he’s played in the last two days has been an absolute nail-biter; even players ranked far lower than him are pushing him to tense, last-game sets. He has started multiple matches with one main — Falco or Marth — only to have to switch to the other in order to eke out a win. With few exceptions, Melee players are not expected to take such a long break from any competition and place well when they return.
But PPMD has one crucial thing going for him: he is one of the five gods of Melee. And as of February 2015, the five gods have dominated every supermajor for over 7 years.
All of them have entered the tournament.
Today is February 1, 2015. This is PPMD in Winner’s Finals — and Leffen should not be here.
Leffen is not a god. He has never won a supermajor. He has never placed higher than 3rd in the United States. And yesterday, his bracket included two gods, Mango and Mew2King.
Mew2King was the only god Leffen had never beaten. Mango was just ranked the #1 player in the world.
Today is February 1, 2015. This is PPMD versus Leffen in Winner’s Finals at Apex 2015 — and really, no one should be here.
The Northeast’s only regular supermajor has been on the rocks for some time. Management has always been shaky. A few weeks ago, significant allegations of sexual and professional misconduct forced the head TO to resign. And less than one hour into the first day of bracket, a fire alarm alerted local authorities that the hotel originally booked as a venue was structurally unsound and could not safely house a tournament of this magnitude.
All things considered, these aren’t the circumstances you would expect to foster one of the greatest stories in Melee’s history.
Then again, maybe this makes a lot of sense. Apex is the first melee tournament to feature more than 1,000 entrants. It is the second tournament (since Brawl) sponsored by Nintendo. The last-minute venue change was orchestrated by streaming giant Twitch.
Maybe we should think of this as the intersection of the two basic eras of competitive Melee: on the one hand, the scene originates with the grass roots community effort that kept a last-gen kid’s party game thriving well past its official lifespan. On the other hand, the scene could only continue to grow through corporate sponsors that would transform it into a verifiable esport.
The players themselves are great examples of this intersection. PPMD is all corporate: he’s wearing a jersey from one of the biggest esports teams in the world. His water bottle is prominently labelled “MONSTER.” Even his name was transformed to meet the standards of his sponsor — “Dr. PeePee” wasn’t quite the kind of player Evil Geniuses wanted to sign.
Change is in the air, but as of today, February 1, 2015, Leffen’s vanilla Fox bears no “TSM” tag. The Swede has no branded jersey or iconic jacket; merely a gray shirt. He is still a product of competitive Melee’s humble beginnings.
This simple moment, then, is on the precipice of the future.
But outside of godhood and sponsors — ignoring the venue and the future and past of the game — what separates these two players, here, now, in this picture? Who are they in this moment?
Well, let’s back up one second, and talk about Melee as a game.
Every game falls on a spectrum — on one extreme, a game can be a toy. This characterizes children’s games and simple board games: “Hungry Hungry Hippos”, Kinectimals, and “Ring Around The Rosie.”
On the other extreme, a game can be a sport, like baseball, chess, or esports like DotA, CS:GO, and (of course) Melee.
The key difference is depth.
Toys are shallow — they cannot be approached in more than one way. They have rules that cannot be interpreted — they just are.
Sports are deep — their rules allow for creativity and freedom, within certain parameters. They can be approached in multiple ways. They can be analyzed and studied. In terms of human play, they cannot be perfected.
I say all of this in order to capture one crucial thought: in sports, players have a style. They have a preferred, recognizable method of approaching the game. And if the sport is sufficiently deep, and the player in question is truly extraordinary, their style can be almost entirely unique to them.
To put it another way: you could change all of his cosmetic appearance and still know that you are watching LeBron James. He plays differently than any other competitor.
The beautiful thing about a player’s style is that it is often demonstrated in their demeanor outside the game. Alain Prost was calculating and determined in or out of a Formula 1 car. Wayne Gretzky’s incredible intuition on the ice was just as present off of it.
All of which brings us back to our photo; our moment. Because here, in a player cam between games, we can actually see two very different styles of play.
Leffen is Willliam Hjelte, and he is sheer drive.
All players want to win, but Hjelte (especially in early 2015) gives the impression that he needs to win. He is often rude and short with other players — so much so, that he was famously banned from European tournaments for one year. He tries as hard in pools as he does in Grand Finals. He does not like interacting with fans during tournaments. He is quick to point out the flaws in his opponents, and has called various top players “gimmicky,” “outdated,” or “simplistic.”
Crucially, his play mirrors his person. Leffen is aggressive and technical and brutal. His punish game is on the level of Armada (maybe the best to ever do it) — he will capitalize on a single opening and take an entire stock. He does not play his opponent’s game — he bends them to his own will by alternating defensive and offensive tactics at a lightning pace. His consistent technicality is like no other top player — he was one of the first Fox players to totally implement invincible ledge-dashing, even in high-stress situations.
Ledge-dashing actually sums up Leffen pretty well: it is a high-risk, high-reward option. He doesn’t mind that missing a ledge-dash means he’ll lose a stock — if he loses a stock to a missed ledge-dash, it is his fault for not being good enough.
PPMD is Kevin Nanney, and he is water.
He was once very like Leffen, driven to the point of joyous and angry outbursts mid-set — but in 2014 he made a curious transition:
He became a model of reservation.
PPMD is a master, foremost, of movement. By emphasizing less-explored avenues of play, he has innovated and challenged the conventions of the game. It seems he does not need the same top-level practice most other players depend on: his analysis of opponents is deeper than any other player in the world.
PPMD does not push against his opponents — he waits for their move. He uses his advanced movement to press in and pull out of dangerous situations at a breakneck pace, forcing the best players in the world to whiff and blunder like they’re back in pools at their first tournament. He is more than willing to play to his opponent, trick them into overextending, and capitalize on the resulting mistake.
PPMD is formless; he molds into the shape of his opponent, from where he can find an opening and eventually a lead.
Out of game, Kevin Nanney is much the same. His online persona is as different from Hjelte as one can imagine — he is kind and helpful, almost never confrontational. He gives advice generously, and his words are refined and to the point. His interviews are gracious and complimentary, and he speaks very highly of his opponents.
To adapt a proverb: PPMD versus Leffen is a river versus a boulder. One assumes that the boulder, intimidating in size and force, is stronger; but the river, ever patient, erodes and whittles and diminishes. Eventually a crack will turn to a torrent, and the stone is overrun.
Here, PPMD is comfortable; despite all that is happening around him, he is even a bit peaceful. He leans back and sips on water. He is now winning, and will continue to win because in any possible situation he will adapt to and thus control the game. Momentum in Melee is everything — and he has it.
Leffen is uncomfortable. He is so close and has been through so much. In the last twenty-four hours, he has made history multiple times over. But now he buries his face into his hand because all the drive and ambition and aggression in the world cannot stop a flowing river.
The boulder has crumbled.
One game from now, PPMD will enter the Winner’s Side of Grand Finals — and Leffen will proceed to lose to Armada in Loser’s Finals, failing once more to break his 3rd place curse in a U.S. tournament.
If you are a newer member of the scene and wonder why people still talk about PPMD’s return, this set should clue you in fairly well. The key is not that he was merely a great player — it’s that he was a different player. His approach to the game was unlike anything seen before or since. And when he was on his game, against opponents on their game — lightning was in the air.
“Apex” usually means the very highest point of a mountain — it is the most extreme part of an expedition. You have nowhere left to climb, and every direction spins into a completely new experience.
At the apex, one journey ends, and another begins.
…to be clear, much of what is written here is kind of overblown.
Was this “PPMD’s last great tournament?” We don’t really know…he placed well in a few more tournaments throughout 2015 and 2016 (though he never again won); and the promise of his return to competitive play still lingers, albeit unanswered.
And was this tournament really “Leffen’s ascendance?” Eh…milestones were marked here — in beating Mew2King, he became the first (of two) players to defeat every god in bracket, and with two money matches (the legendary 5–0 against Chillindude and a subsequent 3–1 against Mango) he cemented himself as someone who would back up his blusterous talk. But Leffen had won majors before Apex (albeit not in the U.S.) — one month earlier, he defeated Armada and Mango to win BEAST 5. A few months afterwards he would win CEO over four gods — that tournament is arguably a better contender for his true “ascendance.”
On top of all that, it’s a bit over-simplistic to characterize their styles as only “aggressive” and “patient.” Leffen has a very developed neutral and arguably is one of the best players in the world at balancing patience and attack; PPMD’s punish game, in his prime, was just as if not more capable than any of his fellow gods at thoroughly demolishing a stock.
History does not really fit into neat, tidy stories.
And yet…
For me, the image, the narrative, the story of Apex 2015 is impossible to resist.
Here, at this wayward, confused and legendary tournament, PPMD was, one last time, the best player in the world; and though he only came in third, Leffen definitively proved that he could be.
Next time: An examination of what creates greatness, via the definitive GOAT.
