Ninja Gaiden II is unyielding. It represents my history with video games: a time when I was too stubborn to resist the challenge from an indifferent master that taught the path of practice, patience and persistence. Only a few months ago, the entire gaming community was busy falling over themselves to proclaim that nostalgia and accessibility were the true winners in 2008 (Braid was basically a more forgiving version Super Mario Bros. with a generous layer of whimsy slathered on top). However, they ignored an accomplishment that was just as important in this era of reheated video games disguised as the triumph of independence. Ninja Gaiden II preserves the history of the franchise while reminding us why video games were so irresistible to us all those years ago.

While critics and hobbyists continue to complain about the length, price, and difficulty of modern video games, there is one game that defied this call to submit to the needs of video games’ aging audience. Ninja Gaiden II stands alone, upholding the virtues of its forebears from the 8- and 16-bit generations, challenging players at every turn, taunting them, provoking them to attempt to “beat” the game if they dared. It mocks their frustration at the difficulty, its spartan save points allowing only a brief respite, while complaints continued about the repetition and dependence on button mashing. Apparently, nobody has the inclination to repeat entire stretches of a third-person action game anymore, let alone figure out bosses and actually defeat them. Ninja Gaiden II is born of the Old School: it does not agree with the current philosophy of video games, which states that it must be accessible or have some kind of meaning to be worth playing – let alone be worthy of discussion.

Indeed, Ninja Gaiden II is “Old School”, but not in the ironic or patronizing sense of the word. It is of an Old Philosophy, one that has been lost over the years to improvements in graphics, compromises for accessibility or the obsession with coming up with that ever elusive project that will cement video games in cultural legitimacy. We grew up with the Old Philosophy, because that was the most common way video games could add value to its experience. What kind of production could developers put together when writing music and coding graphics for 8-bit video games? Instead, they made them difficult, taking cues from their cousins in the arcades, where the entire point of an arcade cabinet was to take your money. They wanted you to insert credits to continue, even though you weren’t ready for what would come after. These were games that encouraged players to learn the mechanics to the point where it was like breathing, to appreciate the steady increase in difficulty, and the challenges these games posed. Because at the end of it all, when the bad translations scrolled up the screen in a half-hearted closure to the story, you felt like you accomplished something. There was skill involved – and whoever completed that game clearly had some. Any player that had the patience and perseverance to truly learn the game was rewarded. Even though no person outside of that arcade cabinet, TV screen or the subculture itself would be able to appreciate or acknowledge the feat. This was the life of the video games enthusiast, and the reason why we played them.

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