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[Our own Brandon Sheffield sat down with Nippon Ichi president and COO Souhei Niikawa and Disgaea team development lead Masahiro Yamamoto to discuss the SRPG-focused company's new PSP game, as well as its philosophy and operating practices.]

For over 15 years, Japanese developer and publisher Nippon Ichi Software has been releasing hardcore-targeted RPGs, particularly strategy RPGs like the successful Disgaea series.

Most recently, the team behind Disgaea has announced its newest game, Zettai Hero Kaizou Keikaku (which Siliconera translates as Absolute Hero Modding Project), a PSP dungeon-crawling action RPG that -- like many other Nippon Ichi games -- features plenty of randomly-generated content.

We talked with NIS president and COO Souhei Niikawa and Disgaea team development lead Masahiro Yamamoto to discuss the small company's attitude toward game development, its RPG success, and why throwing characters is such a big deal in its titles:

Your focus has been on RPGs, particularly Disgaea. Where will you focus going forward?

Souhei Niikawa: Well, RPGs remain a popular genre for the hardcore audience, so I think that RPGs will still be a central part of our strategy.

Disgaea is certainly an important title for Nippon Ichi. We'll continue to grow that game by doing what's best for that particular series. Placing our fortunes on nothing but Disgaea wouldn't be right at all. For example, we want to grow this new game in the same way that we've grown Disgaea. We want to make games that are different from Disgaea, of course, but sell just as well as that.

A lot of Nippon Ichi's character designs have "moe" and "loli" elements. Will that continue? Has for the market for that become smaller?

SN: We made games for the people who play them. If the audience's needs shift away from moe or loli, then we'd certainly go with a different design. We still think there's a demand for that, though, so it will probably continue. From the creator's perspective, we think it's very important to keep trying new things, and as a result, we naturally don't want to stick with any one thing for too long.

What made you adopt that style in the beginning? Did it start out with what the development team liked?

SN: Yes. Well, it's undeniable that a large part of our audience is what people would call game otaku, or hardcore game fans. So we want to make what they want, but at the same time, we're all pretty hardcore too. So, there's that. (laughs)

The first Disgaea really seemed to be designed around picking up and throwing characters. That influenced the rest of the dungeon design and combos in battle. Would you agree with that?

SN: Certainly. Well, not just with Disgaea, but it's been an important aspect of a lot of our games, including this one here. It's been that way from around that time.

It's sort of a Nippon Ichi trademark.

SN: Yeah. We're all about throwing people. (laughs) Using that as a vital tactical tool.

Where did the idea for that come from?

SN: The original task before us was to figure out how this game would be different from the rest. We needed some strong and unique gameplay aspect that would give this project some sort of individual hook. I think it's something that's worked, as you can see how the series has progressed from 1 to 3.

Masahiro Yamamoto: I don't really remember the individual process that led to the pick-up-and-throw idea, but we were coming up with all kinds of ideas to put in the game and make it unique.

The original Disgaea is full of original little ideas like that, but it's undeniable that the throwing system is the idea that stuck out the most in gamers' minds once it came out. It's the result of that kind of thought process.

Just thinking about it by itself, it's hard to conceptualize how it'd be fun. How did you decide that the feature was so important to have?

MY: Well, we're a very small company, and none of the teams behind our projects is particularly large. That structure allows individuals to test out assorted ideas pretty quickly as they come up with them, then show them around to see what the rest of the team thinks.

I don't think that teams the size of what you have for Final Fantasy would be able to try out such risky things within development. I think that's one of the merits of having a small company like ours; it's easier to try new challenges, and that's how a lot of features in our games are born.

You go through a lot of iterations.

MY: I think so, yeah.

How much content is too much for one game? With the item world, you could keep going forever. How do you know when to stop?

SN: I guess you could say it's when we feel like there's nothing left to add to the gameplay.

MY: Oh, we never really stop. (laughs) We put so much stuff into each project, and eventually we get to a point where we ask ourselves, "Do we really need all this?"

When a majority of staffers start answering, "I'm not sure" to that question, that's when we stop. (laughs) That's pretty much how it works.

We really think that having a lot to explore in our games is very important -- especially with the Disgaea series, where it's become kind of a hallmark. Of course, we definitely can't take that approach with all of our titles; instead, we find different ways of making the games engaging and fun to our audience.

I was wondering if you're concerned that if you give too much, there might not be any need to buy sequels.

MY: That's not really much of a worry to us. The way we see it, in fact, most of audience goes through our games pretty quickly, especially the really hardcore people who support the Disgaea series. It's really something, the amount of time they put into playing our stuff. I wouldn't call it a big worry.

Nippon Ichi is pretty much the only game company in Gifu Prefecture. Do you think your company has any regional flavor since you're isolated from other developers?

SN: Well, the Internet is everywhere, and we're a game company, after all, so it's certainly not an inconvenience or anything.

I would say [our flavor] is not in the location so much as our style of company. Since we're kind of out in the country and have small development teams, that helps to add individuality to our games.

In Tokyo, you have a lot of developers who have gone from company to company, quitting one job and picking up another one right off. I think the fact that we've not experienced that as much helps us keep consistent in the sorts of games we release.

Do your staffers come from all over Japan?

SN: Yes. We don't really headhunt from other companies or anything. Sometimes we hire new grads who apply to our company; sometimes we get people who have previous experience with other game companies.

Finally, when you start a new game, from what point do you begin -- an idea, a list of features? What is your jumping-off point?

MY: In the beginning, there's only an outline, a very general idea of what kind of game we want to make -- what kind of world we want, for example. Then things just expand off from there, and eventually we figure out what sort of genre would be best, like how this game turned out to be a dungeon RPG. That's how things begin.

['Diamond In The Rough' is a regularly scheduled GameSetWatch-exclusive opinion column by Tom Cross focusing on aspects of games that stand out, for reasons good and bad. This week, Tom continues his previous discussions of game narrative with a look at The Last Express's attitude to storytelling.]

If we want to explore the possibilities for branching, reactive, fluid narratives, we obviously need to explore possible ways to realize this goal. We can talk all we want about the potential for deep, almost procedurally generated stories, or emergent narratives, but it’s also important to examine the material we already have before us, be they video games or other.

The problem with video games, as I’ve mentioned previously, is that they so clearly start and end unto themselves. They do not take place in a world, they do not provide views onto separate lives. Even the ones that aim to do so fail in their ways. Grand Theft Auto creates a city that moves and lives around you, but in your absence, in your presence, during your inactive moments, it refuses to change.

When worlds do change, they do so only in the most perfunctory, ineffectual ways. Stalker: Clear Sky creates a set of factions that war for territory. Yet when one faction defeats another, the effects are only temporary. When you boot the game back up, the same mercenaries will have reoccupied their lost fortress. Tangible, permanent persistence is a lie or trick, regardless of the format or system.

Perhaps the answer is not, then, to create so massive and “realistic” a world, but to consider the ways in which a smaller, more detailed, more controllable world might work as a place for plotting to occur. It’s no secret that games that focus on fewer people and places often can imbue those things with more life, more character. Playing the most recent Prince of Persia, or Half Life 2, leads one to appreciate the controlled, directed method of world-creation and characterization.

In games like this, we see the game space at its most contained and least flexible, seemingly. Half Life 2 is just a long, highly compelling and detailed tunnel, as many have noted. Prince of Persia is much the same thing, albeit with a few twists, turns, and walls thrown in for good measure. But these are not games that attempt to recreate flowing, open space for the player to live in. Instead, they take what they want from the language of games and of life and represent them carefully. What would a game look like, then, that at its heart was concerned with convincing the player that she was taking part in a set of larger events and trends, as well as the singular path of her own life?

The Most Open of Game Spaces on One Train

An example can be found, however indirectly, in The Last Express, Jordan Mechner’s rotoscoped puzzle adventure game. Superficially, Express would seem to be headed in the right direction for what I’m interested in. Right off the bat, it’s a game that attempts to simulate a consecutive set of events connected by the place they happen in (a train) and the period they occur during (4 days). To aid in the illusion that time is passing, the train is subjected to a schedule revolving around eating, socializing, and sleeping. People partake in the appropriate activities at the appropriate times, from the mundane to the extraordinary.

Into this mix your character Cath is thrown. A mysterious American who boards the train en route via a speeding motorbike, Cath’s origins, motives, and nature are mysterious and potentially deadly from the start of the game. This might seem like nothing to some, the kind of thing that movies and books regularly use to keep us on our toes when portraying their protagonists. When you examine the entire cast and plot of The Last Express, you find that the game attempts a kind of world-construction (outside of its “real time” gameplay) most games shy away from. At the start of the game, all of the actors have goals and weaknesses, desires and secrets. The game never assumes that you need to be informed of these things from the outset, or that you ever need to know everything about everybody.

It’s the mark of a strong game with a strong sense of place and plot that it understands the benefits of storytelling reticence. Most games are overly concerned with explaining as much as possible in as short a period as possible. Even the more story-heavy (and supposedly well-written) games substitute a plethora of plotlines and characters for actual plot depth and narrative intricacy. A certain hero (who is in fact the memory of a lost civilization, or something) comes to mind, as do his overwhelmingly “plotted” brethren.

No "Everyman" Here, Thank You

The Last Express allows you to be as curious about your own character as you are about everything else in the game. For once, every character in the game is a rule unto themselves. Two women traveling together are trying to work out their relationship differences. A young women caring for her ailing father has (by turns) heated and friendly encounters with an old friend. And these are just the more mundane stories to be found on the Orient Express. There are schemers and villains more “important” to Cath and the story than any of the people I’ve just mentioned. It’s a testament to The Last Express’s dedication to creating a believable, plotted story that these “minor” characters play key roles in Cath’s life and in the course of the story.

This shouldn’t be a revelation, a story and game that create people and places that treat each other as equals. No one trusts Cath, and his lies, his best friend’s death, and other elements contribute to his shifting, mercurial relationships with people. He’s not an omnipotent puzzle solver, a silent soldier, or even an annoyingly verbose savior of the world. You never feel like anything other than a fugitive and a cheat in The Last Express, although you come to know and like these aspects of your character.

None of this identification and immersion would be possible without the AI and pacing of the game. Characters may be involved in important plot nodes (unknowingly aiding Cath in hiding from policemen, for instance), but they otherwise live and move about the train. This is key to the stories sense of place and momentum, as is the constantly ticking clock.

The Last Express achieves this effect by simulating a slightly accelerated form in of time. Every so often, an important plot event happens (a small music show, say). Cath must be there for the event, but before and after he must (although it is often never framed as a necessity) solve certain puzzles, explore the train, learn more about his traveling companions, and uncover more of the plot that lead to his friend’s death.

What do They do While You Sleep?

The simulation is easy enough to see through, as all simulations are. Once you have completed all of the puzzles and tasks that are available to you, you must either wait until the next plot point, or sleep (until the next point). This feels natural, but the train’s sudden lack of activities feels strange. If anything, this is our own fault.

The train is still full of life, with people wandering around at night, arguing, conversing, snoring, and spying. We have been unfortunately trained to look for things to do and things to solve. Much as it would be on a real train (even one so wracked with deceit), things get boring from time to time, and you have to wait until something exciting happens. This realization, that you must allow the world to go about its business for a time before you can affect more lives and events, is something of a revelation.

In some ways, this is the most engrossing, convincing story space I’ve ever encountered, just as it is one of the better plotted (and better integrated with gameplay) stories I’ve played. It’s all well and fine to suggest that a vast, malleable space with an uncountable number of opportunities and options that is highly reactive to the player would make for a “great” story space. It’s also highly presumptive and not at all correct. People, real people, do not have experiences like this. It’s hard to make the argument that if a game is about a person who ranges all over the world, or across multiple social spectrums, that “their” games would allow for such an open-world game space.

In fact, it’s antithetical to our experiences as humans (which heavily influence our appreciation for the quality and convincing qualities of virtual spaces) to create these bizarre, globe-trotting, absurdly powerful game spaces and protagonists. It might be appropriate for a novel or movie, where we are firm in our belief that another kind of person, a person not us, is leading the plot, but when we examine our own lives, we find manageable, contained experiences and narratives.

I’m not suggesting that fanciful, broad games cannot be made. After all, fantasy and speculative fiction (along with their more “realistic” modern counterparts) are exciting, amusing ways to explore impossible situations and stories. However, if we are truly looking for games which will create “meaningful” story spaces, stories, and opportunities, we have to admit that such grand fantasies are highly impractical.

Intimacy and Depth Breed Belief

I emphasize the word grand because it is not the fantastical elements of such narratives that divorce players from their plots, but the outrageous size of these narratives. When I think of games that seemed even partially or plausibly meaningful to me, I think of games that create detailed, compelling microcosms, smaller, carefully connected situations and spaces that continue a strong narrative. The Last Express is by far the best of these. With its extremely constrained space, carefully written and acted characters, and compelling rendering of “real time,” it feels much more familiar, much more intimate than most games I play.

For tenuously related reasons, Portal and Prince of Persia created spaces which I was less wary of immersion-wise. Both games use contrived, bizarre plot-devices to excuse their highly structured, unyielding gameplay experiences. In Portal, your silent relationship with the slightly unbalanced GLaDOS (and the increasingly complicated tests she subjects you to) is explained away using a captive/master relationship. In Prince of Persia, the continued proximity of the main characters and their necessity for somewhat cordial relations are caused by two things: a dead world, and an impending threat.

Neither of these games concerns itself with realistically, extensively modeling a time space, a set of people and a situation that binds them to each other while driving them apart. These games are concerned with portraying the relationships between two people, and (along with their entertaining gameplay systems), this is why I find them compelling. It’s difficult, bordering on impossible, to be distracted or deeply bound by the narratives of other games. Even games heavy with story and character are often focused on anything but stories and characters that seem to be rules unto themselves.

Of course, the construction of a world that is both recognizably reactive and properly immovable (to its human inhabitants, for instance) is a difficult task from many points of view. Specifically, the reactions to our actions and consequences of those actions that are part of our everyday life are even harder to simulate.

In games, such reactions fall on two ends of a spectrum. There are actions that have no discernable reactions and then there are actions that crucially, unconvincingly alter key parts of the game world. In my next article I will examine an interesting (and hopefully) relevant method of world construction and storytelling.