Gitaroo Man Lives - Overcoming a Skill Issue
I needed to focus.
The final stage of Gitaroo Man Lives required my full and undivided attention. Without it, I had no chance of seeing the final credits. A dozen previous attempts had been thwarted by a variety of maladies including, but not limited to: thumb cramp, screen glare, itchy face, an unresponsive circle button, a general lack of rhythm, and people trying to talk to me.
I needed to be left alone so that I could focus.
So I grabbed my headphones, mumbled something to my family about needing to do a thing upstairs, and retreated to a quiet corner of the spare room. I closed the door, drew the curtains, rolled up my sleeves and decided that I would not emerge until I was victorious.
Twenty minutes, and another dozen or so attempts later, and the credits rolled. I had done it! I had beaten Gitaroo Man Lives, a game that I both loved and loathed, depending on my performance.
Just in case you don't know: Gitaroo Man Lives!, or Gitaroo Man Live! in Japan, is a 2006 PSP port of a well-loved PS2 title published by Koei and developed by iNiS, the Ouendan / Elite Beat Agents people. It's a rhythm game notable for its colourful visuals and a banging soundtrack, which is largely arranged by Japanese rock band COIL. Cool people like it.
Cool people like me.
It was a Christmas present to myself, and one that I'd gotten to far quicker than my typical retro purchases, which are liable to remain untouched for several months, if not years. However, I almost gave up on it as quickly as I'd gotten to it, having been on the verge of packing it in several times since last week.
The first three stages had me buzzing. The music is outstanding, the visuals colourful and unique, and the required button presses just about reasonable enough for me to succeed. Also, I was over the moon to be using my original PSP and getting through the backlog. I always feel strangely productive when I'm clearing and enjoying older games, like I'm making better use of my collection and developing new and largely useless opinions that I can share online. Strange, but I don't quite get that same feeling from modern games.
Anyway, I was having a great time. That is until I reached the fourth stage, which is where I hit the limits of my thumb dexterity and ability to smash buttons quickly enough and in the right order. I could not escape that space shark for the life of me! And I wasn't even getting close. I quickly had the first two short phases perfected, but the third was well beyond my abilities. Button prompts flying in from all four directions, and seemingly slightly out of time with the music, so I couldn't rely on my ears to guide me. And when you miss one prompt, the screen shakes, making the next even harder to hit.
After about twenty attempts, and almost flinging my antique handheld across the room, I did the reasonable thing and cranked the difficulty down to easy. Honestly, I couldn't tell the fucking difference - the prompts were still coming thick and fast and in a jumbled manner, but only now there was no option of an easier alternative. There was nowhere else to go. No cheats, no way to cheese-it; no way to improve without just putting in the time and getting good. Or just better. Beat it on easy or give up.
Well, I gave up. For a couple of days, at least. But I couldn't accept an outcome that would result in me not playing more Gitaroo Man, so I came back to it. I eventually cleared that stage, quite handily as it happens, a few days later when I was waiting in a carpark on dad-taxi duties. I did a little fist pump when I hit that final prompt with health to spare, but I resisted a celebratory honking-of-the-horn or revving-of-the engine. I hoped that someone might peer inside the car and see how cool I was, clearing Gitaroo Man stages on my PSP in 2025, in my Honda, but I guess other people have more important things to do with their time.
Also, I'd parked by a wall on the driver's side, so they wouldn't have gotten access anyway.
These days, it's rare for me to give up on a game for reasons of excessive difficulty. With an abundance of accessibility options and customisable levels of difficulty, we're well looked after by modern games. If I abandon one, it'll be because I don't want to beat it, not because I can't. Of course, there are some notable exceptions. For example, Souls games certainly made punishing difficulty fashionable once more, and I'm sure shoot-em-up fans would tell you their genre of choice never stopped being hard as nails. While they're at it, they'll also give you half a dozen game recommendations that you didn't ask for.
Back in the day, my day, i.e. the 1990s, a cruel difficulty spike or unclear instruction might spell the end for a game. You couldn't hop online and find a walkthrough or check YouTube for a step-by-step guide. No, you had to rely on advice from the playground or hope that your favourite magazine might post something in the tips and tricks section. Or maybe Patrick Moore would share some wisdom. I never got past the first level of The Ninja, because it was impossible. Alex Kidd in Miracle World was perversely difficult and I wouldn't clear it until it got re-released on PS3 and became save-state spammable. Even Sonic 1-2, which shaped my early understanding and appreciation of video games, remained unbeaten until my adult years when my brain got bigger and my patience greater.
I'm glad that I didn't abandon Gitaroo Man, as I desperately wanted to see all it had to offer, and I derived a great amount of satisfaction from seeing it through to the end. I have no idea how anyone could finish it on anything other than Easy, and while I may replay some of my favourite stages, I won't be knocking it back up to medium for a second run through.
My thumbs aren't up to it.
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