
	Platform SNES Genre Role-Playing Developer Squaresoft Publisher Squaresoft Released 1991
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Final Fantasy IV

(Final Fantasy II in North America)

Back in the winter of 1991, into the spring of the following year, the one thing I wanted more than anything else was a Super Nintendo; although I was dying to get my hands on the new-and-improved Mario and Zelda, the one, truly decisive element that made the new video game system a requirement, not an “option”, was the game Final Fantasy 2; I was still clawing my way through the first one, but that was okay – most games, especially that one, seemed consciously designed to take years to finish, and video-game sequels never had a really pressing connection to what preceded them either (most people were puzzling through the first two Zeldas simultaneously without ruining either one; for some, I’m sure it went on to become three Zeldas). I’m not sure how I would have reacted if I had known the game was actually the fourth in a series of Final Fantasies, but I don’t think it would have been healthy. Yet it’s really strange to think of Final Fantasy 4 as anything other than a direct continuation of the 8-bit Final Fantasy 1, since it is so deliberately evocative of that first game from the instant the title screen segues into a fleet of airships; assuming the Light Warriors had saved the world, what else would be the first project of a rebuilding society?

In fact, as your characters take their first steps out of the castle Baron across the moat’s bridge, and the game temporarily abandons them to deliver relevant recent history as the familiar orchestral theme swells, Final Fantasy 2 seems consciously designed to toy with your memories of Final Fantasy: The castle, uniquely, has its own separate, “extra” town (no other palace is so decadent), your destination lies to the immediate northwest, and a field of Imps stands between you and it. Although coming upon these creatures first thing was the final touch in comfortably reinserting myself into the Final Fantasy universe, I was nevertheless astonished at their appearance: Christmas elves with raised daggers – I always thought those things were some kind of long, prehensile snout with a deadly fang at the end. And thus distracted, as the first Imp disintegrated in a burst of purple static, and my second character stepped forward to strike, I cursed as I realized I had told both of my men to attack the same critter – meaning an “Ineffective” message as the character stabbed empty air. But then what was perhaps the most wonderful, welcome innovation of Final Fantasy 2 revealed itself: the character miraculously redirected his thrust onto someone still standing. Tedious hours of guesswork involving the remaining strength of your enemies and the potential attack power of your fighters were done away with in one fell swoop. I guess I was a little excited.

Yet even then the full-scale revolutionary quality of Final Fantasy 2 still hadn’t quite registered with me. I had been floored with the way the game seamlessly married an exploration of Castle Baron with characters stopping you to talk – but I believe I only dimly registered this as the rest of the opening cinema: excitingly “interactive”. Virtually every other role-playing game of that time had what could best be described as an “historical plot”, in the sense that whatever story there was had already happened, centuries or seconds, before you happened along (in that respect, it’s really difficult now to describe just how disconcerting it was to safely return Princess Gwaelin to her home in the original Dragon Quest…with the end of the game nowhere in sight). Yet in the explosion that rocks the peaceful town of Mist, Cecil and Kain decide that they need to switch sides and fight against their home country, right before Kain inexplicably disappears in a massive earthquake, which incidentally closes off the path you used to arrive here. Characters changing their minds, party members coming and going at will, the landscape altering along with the plot? It was no accident that the next part of the plot had a shell-shocked Cecil staggering aimlessly to a random oasis in the desert; it was the final stroke of ultimate identification: the comfortable familiarity of the past had been demolished forever, leaving only an uncertain future for player and character.

About the only bad thing you could really criticize about the plot is what appears to be some fairly hasty patchwork done to various characters’ fates. No less than six of the game’s twelve characters sacrifice themselves for the party, and it seems pretty clear that these moments were meant to result in the characters’ deaths. However, since Final Fantasy 4 was under production in Japan right as the economy was collapsing in a heap, it seems like the developers hastily decided to make the game more “optimistic” and positive by having the characters appear later, horribly mangled and incapacitated, but alive. This, surprisingly, isn’t a cop-out (although the seams are not unnoticeable); once they “die”, they are effectively removed from the narrative for the rest of the game -- and since it’s usually a character you want to keep around, the loss is palpable (going up eight floors of the Tower of Babil with Yang by your side is far easier than going down four floors without him).

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Many, however, will come to this game after mainly experiencing the later PlayStation entries in the series, which altered the face of Final Fantasy all over again, particularly by introducing significantly more aimless, meandering narratives (after having spent more then ten hours with Final Fantasy 7, I remember wondering to myself if there was ever going to

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be a plot, or just a series of skits). Returning to the fourth entry in the series after familiarizing yourself with the post-Final Fantasy 6 games is akin to experiencing very painful whiplash, as the plot suddenly races by at breakneck speed, almost feeling telescoped. Just as you’re beginning to notice that a character has abandoned your party, he/she shows up again, eager to re-enter the ranks. Although technically the frantic pace makes it seem even more imaginative and gutsy than it already is, it does feel like a sensory overload after the modern Fantasies.

If the “old-fashioned” plot is hyperactive for newcomers, the classical party construction may seem tedious. Final Fantasy 4 does not allow you to constantly switch between party members or “retrain” their special abilities; both remain fixed throughout the game. This suits me perfectly; I find it infinitely preferable to some of the recent games, in which I often kept finding myself with an entire roster whose members all had the exact same abilities – they may as well have been clones. It ultimately doesn’t prove restrictive in Final Fantasy 4; looking past the seeming limitation, each character proves to be a potent, unique member of the party (only with the bard-prince of Damcyan do the designers seem to be mocking you with an utterly worthless character). In fact, being handed new magic spells with each level up was, in 1991, the second major godsend after the “Ineffective” gaffe was fixed; now you didn’t have to spend weeks saving 6 million gold pieces to buy a spell that you wouldn’t know if you wanted or not until you actually tried it.

Final Fantasy 4’s battle system is one of the most enjoyable in the entire series. Whereas the original Final Fantasy gave you a tactical time-out to plan the best strategy to use against your opponents, Final Fantasy 4 conceives instead an “active time” fighting system, in which each individual character, on both sides, attacks whenever he’s ready to – and stopping to wonder what you should be doing inevitably means a sound thrashing. Each subsequent Final Fantasy shows you exactly how much time is left before a character can act with a little “vitality bar” next to his name. What makes Final Fantasy 4 especially enjoyable is that there is no bar; combined with a frantic, rapid-fire pacing, every single battle (especially in the game’s final two-thirds) is transformed into a wild, suspenseful free-for-all; you’re never entirely sure just whose name is going to come up next, or when, and don’t have the time to think about what you’ll do if it’s someone who can’t help you with your immediate problem. On a similar note, I would gratefully point out the “visualizations” of the various magic spells: colorful, kinetic, and quick; not only did I never find myself bored or exasperated watching a spell being cast for the millionth time, but they never interfered with the tension. In addition to the later Final Fantasies having the visible “energy meters”, the spells would also freeze everything for seconds at a time, constantly providing an ample breather to think about my next moves – and draining all the excitement out of the face-offs.

When it was revealed that the American release of Final Fantasy 4 was actually a release of the Japanese “easy” version of the game, its reputation may have declined, especially following the release of the “real” Final Fantasy 4 in 2001, but, in retrospect, I can’t help wondering why. Final Fantasy 4 was “easier” than its predecessor in the sense that it drastically reduced the time needed to spend leveling up, but I would never call the game a cake-walk; in fact, playing through the “difficult” version of the game, I found it noticeably easier (I wonder why…). The main omissions from the old release are a few minor character abilities, such as Cecil’s ability to fire laser beams from his evil “dark sword”, but nothing that crucial to the experience (nothing like Kain’s Jump or Edge’s Ninja magic – nothing you would incessantly use). There was only one change that actually affected the way I played the game: Edward is such an awful fighter that the “easy” release actually drastically increased his attack power to make him a mediocre fighter, and his “singing” ability charmed or confused the enemy more often than not; the “real” Edward completely misses with his attacks three times out of four, and he perishes if the enemy sneezes on him. I found myself using his Hide command in every single battle and permanently leaving him there (strangely, yes, he does still get the experience points!).

Above: Super Famicom box art for Final Fantasy IV's Japanese release.

Although Nobuo Uematsu had composed the fantastic soundtrack of the first Final Fantasy (not to mention the unreleased sequels), the music he created for this game deserves special mention, because I don’t believe there had ever been anything quite like it before – so defiantly rousing and spiritual. Without the score the game had, I’m convinced it would have failed, since the world map wasn’t ultimately as alluringly exciting to explore “for its own sake” as the average dungeon crawler was. To be perfectly honest, the instant I first found myself at the controls of a magisterial starship, pulsing with barely contained energy, soaring through space toward the moon, the triumphant, transcendent music perfectly matched my own astonished feelings; I found myself sailing over the moon’s surface for over an hour (which was only a few square inches…so tiny what I initially thought were two crystalline palaces turned out to be only one), because I didn’t want to land the ship, afraid that it might disappear or cease functioning, and that I wouldn’t be able to return to this exuberant moment. Of course, this memory is extremely hokey, but I think it’s worth repeating, it being arguably one of the very first times a video game had gone beyond exploring and “advancing” to become primordially stirring, and simply because it could.

Undoubtedly the achievements here have been surpassed many times over through the years, and I don’t have the self-assurance necessary to declare this to be the pinnacle of its series, but it’s absolutely one of the greatest video games ever made; I’m enough of a purist to recommend you seek out the original, Super Nintendo release -- alleged “easiness”, awkward translation, and all – but any way you can, get this game.

Brendan Lynch

(July 6, 2006)