Once Again Through the Long Dark Hallway
Demon’s Souls, Dark Souls, and the joys of being lost
My first death contained no ceremony. I crept along the crumbling parapets and broken bridges of Boletaria’s greying castle, every corner concealing shadowed foes. I tensed, my entire body tight with adrenaline, my shield eternally cocked, my itchy finger crooked over the trigger to react with violent panic and a (hopefully) well-timed sword swing. When I died, it was not to the throes of an expert back-and-forth with a dragon. It wasn’t to the final miss of a perfect parry. It wasn’t even to the first boss.
The first time I died was to a normal, screeching enemy with a broken sword and less than a hundred hit points. I died because that was what Demon’s Souls expected of me — but it also expected me to continue.
Loving the Pain
Demon’s Souls, back in 2009, gleefully arrested me from my community college woes. I loved the pain of it — I reveled in the anguish of loss and the exquisite pleasure of finally beating a structured boss or struggling against some infernal cave or infested swamp over and over again. It was different, this new…
