Before Otomedius Had Anime Girls, Konami Had Penguins, Octopuses, and a Spaceship Named Vic Viper.
Or: Grandpa Jerry Explains Why Generations of Gamers Voluntarily Paid Money to Get Their Asses Kicked by Arcade Machines.
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
A Jerry’s Marginalia — by Department of Petty Affairs
GATHER ROUND, YOU LITTLE SHITS. GRANDPA HAS A HISTORY LESSON.
Pull up a chair.
Grab a snack.
And somebody tell Gerald the Cactus to stop putting quarters into the toaster.
Today, children, we're going back in time.
Before Otomedius.
Before anime girls were flying around shooting aliens.
Before Xbox achievements.
Before downloadable costumes.
Before every video game needed seventeen difficulty settings, a cinematic universe, and a thirty-minute tutorial explaining which button makes your character move forward.
We're going back to a time when video games asked one very simple question:
"CAN YOU SURVIVE THIS SHIT?"
And the answer, for most of us, was:
"NO. BUT GIVE ME ANOTHER QUARTER."
Welcome to the wonderful, ridiculous, infuriating world of the shoot-'em-up.
Or, as the gaming community affectionately calls them:
SHMUPS.
Now, some of you already know what that means.
You've played Gradius.
You've played R-Type.
You've survived Giga Wing.
You've witnessed the absolute nonsense of Parodius.
And some of you have never touched one of these games in your entire lives.
That's fine.
Grandpa Jerry welcomes everybody.
Except Gerald.
Gerald has been banned from the arcade following an incident involving a cactus, three rolls of quarters, and an extremely unfortunate interpretation of the phrase "insert coin."
WHAT THE FUCK IS A SHMUP?
A shoot-'em-up is a game where you control a ship, character, or other flying object while shooting enemies, avoiding obstacles, and attempting to survive.
Sometimes the screen scrolls horizontally.
Sometimes vertically.
Sometimes enemies approach from every direction.
And sometimes the developers decide that the best way to challenge you is to fill the entire fucking screen with bullets.
The basic controls are usually simple.
Move.
Shoot.
Dodge.
Survive.
But there's something wonderful hiding beneath that simplicity.
THE GAME ISN'T JUST TESTING YOUR REFLEXES. IT'S TEACHING YOU ITS LANGUAGE.
At first, you see chaos.
Enemies everywhere.
Bullets everywhere.
No obvious safe path.
Then you begin recognizing patterns.
You remember where enemies appear.
You discover which weapons work best.
You learn where to position yourself.
And suddenly, something that once seemed impossible becomes manageable.
Not because the game changed.
BECAUSE YOU DID.
And that's one of the greatest pleasures these games offer.
1981: SCRAMBLE — BEFORE VIC VIPER HAD A DRIVER'S LICENSE
Before Gradius, Konami released Scramble in 1981.
A side-scrolling arcade shooter where you flew through dangerous terrain, destroyed enemies, and managed your fuel supply.
Yes, children.
Your spaceship needed fuel.
Apparently, being shot at wasn't enough.
The developers also wanted you to experience the emotional satisfaction of running out of gas.
But Scramble helped establish ideas that would become important to later shooters.
Scrolling environments.
Enemy formations.
Dangerous terrain.
Memorization.
And the understanding that survival wasn't always about shooting faster.
Sometimes it was about knowing what was coming.
The foundations were being laid.
The spaceship was learning to fly.
And four years later, Konami would introduce one of gaming's most recognizable spacecraft.
1985: GRADIUS — THE VIC VIPER ENTERS THE CHAT
In 1985, Konami released Gradius.
And with it came the legendary Vic Viper.
A small spacecraft fighting the Bacterion forces.
Its mission?
Save the galaxy.
Its secondary mission?
EXPLODE REPEATEDLY UNTIL THE PLAYER LEARNS SOME FUCKING PATIENCE.
But Gradius wasn't merely another shooting game.
It introduced a distinctive power-up selection system.
You collected capsules from enemies.
Each capsule advanced a selection indicator along a weapon bar.
Speed Up.
Missile.
Double.
Laser.
Option.
Shield.
And you decided when to activate an upgrade.
This was brilliant.
You weren't simply grabbing whatever weapon happened to fall out of an enemy.
You were making decisions.
Should you improve your speed?
Should you save your capsules for a laser?
Should you invest in Options, those wonderful little companions that follow your ship and duplicate your attacks?
Every choice mattered.
And then you'd die.
And lose your carefully assembled collection of upgrades.
WELCOME TO THE GRADIUS RECOVERY EXPERIENCE.
Imagine spending several minutes turning your little spacecraft into a flying death machine.
Then one enemy bullet touches you.
BOOM.
Your upgrades disappear.
The enemies remain.
And suddenly you're trying to survive an alien invasion with a glorified flying toaster.
This is where Gradius becomes something special.
You learn to prepare.
You learn to recognize danger.
You learn to recover from mistakes.
And eventually, you begin surviving situations that previously destroyed you.
That's why the game matters.
Not simply because it was difficult.
But because overcoming that difficulty felt rewarding.
ALSO 1985: TWINBEE — THE BELLS ARE RINGING, AND SOMEBODY'S ABOUT TO DIE
While Gradius was busy fighting a galactic war, Konami released TwinBee.
And this game looked like somebody dumped an entire toy store into an arcade cabinet.
Bright colors.
Cartoon enemies.
Adorable flying machines.
And bells.
So many fucking bells.
In TwinBee, shooting clouds reveals bells that can change colors when shot.
Different colors provide different power-ups.
Which means you're not simply dodging enemies.
You're also trying to manipulate your upgrades while everything around you attempts to murder you.
And TwinBee helped establish something important.
A SHOOTER DIDN'T HAVE TO LOOK SERIOUS TO BE SERIOUS ABOUT ITS GAMEPLAY.
A cartoon enemy can kill you just as efficiently as an alien battleship.
It simply has the courtesy to look adorable while doing so.
This playful tradition would become increasingly important.
Because somewhere in Konami's future...
Penguins were preparing for war.
1986: SALAMANDER — WHAT IF THE UNIVERSE WERE MADE OF MEAT?
Then came Salamander in 1986.
Associated with the Life Force name in its overseas and revised versions, this game expanded Konami's shooting formula.
Horizontal stages.
Vertical stages.
Two-player cooperative action.
And some truly disturbing environments.
Organic tunnels.
Pulsating walls.
Biological monstrosities.
Things that look like they belong inside somebody's digestive system.
And somewhere in the middle of this nightmare, two little spaceships are attempting to survive.
Salamander demonstrated how much variety developers could introduce without abandoning the fundamental appeal of the genre.
It also demonstrated that playing cooperatively could be an extraordinary experience.
One player dodges beautifully.
The other flies directly into a wall.
One player collects a power-up.
The other starts screaming.
Friendship.
Teamwork.
And the realization that your best friend might actually be the greatest threat to your survival.
THAT'S ARCADE CULTURE, CHILDREN.
1987: R-TYPE — CONGRATULATIONS, YOU BEAT THE BOSS. NOW TRY GETTING BACK TO HIM.
Now, children, we need to leave Konami for a moment.
Because in 1987, Irem released R-Type.
And holy fucking shit.
This game was something else.
Where Gradius encouraged players to build up their firepower through a selection system, R-Type introduced a different approach.
The R-9 Arrowhead spacecraft.
The powerful Wave Cannon.
And one of the most interesting weapons in shooting-game history.
THE FORCE.
No, children.
Not the Star Wars Force.
This Force is a detachable, indestructible weapon pod.
You can attach it to the front of your ship.
Attach it to the back.
Launch it forward.
Recall it.
Use it to attack enemies.
And use it to block many incoming projectiles.
The Force is both a weapon and a defensive tool.
Which makes R-Type feel different from Gradius.
You're constantly thinking about positioning.
Where should your Force be?
Should you charge your Wave Cannon?
Should you attack now?
Should you wait?
And how the hell are you supposed to survive the enormous biomechanical monstrosity waiting at the end of the stage?
Which brings us to...
DOBKERATOPS.
The first boss.
A gigantic alien creature with a vulnerable spot in its abdomen.
And this is where our history lesson becomes personal.
Because I know a gentleman who played R-Type at Cidercade.
And he defeated Dobkeratops.
ONCE.
A magnificent victory.
A historic achievement.
And here's the beautiful part.
He did it without relying on the Force pod.
He believes he charged his Wave Cannon just enough to land the necessary shots.
Two properly placed fully charged shots can defeat the creature.
And apparently, that may have been exactly what happened.
So naturally, he tried again.
And again.
And again.
Except there was one small problem.
HE COULDN'T GET BACK TO THE FUCKING BOSS.
The first stage itself kept destroying him.
HAHAHAHA!
Imagine defeating a giant alien monstrosity, only to discover that the hallway leading to its office has become your greatest enemy.
"YOU HAVE ALREADY RECEIVED YOUR ALLOTTED HAPPINESS. PLEASE RETURN TO THE BEGINNING."
— Irem, probably.
But here's why this story matters.
Beating a boss once proves you can do it.
Learning to reach that boss consistently is another challenge entirely.
And R-Type is especially good at teaching that distinction.
It's not simply about reflexes.
It's about learning the stage.
Understanding your weapons.
Recognizing enemy behavior.
And eventually turning a lucky victory into a repeatable accomplishment.
That's the beauty of these games.
Sometimes your greatest enemy isn't the boss.
IT'S GETTING THROUGH THE FUCKING FRONT DOOR.
1988–1996: PARODIUS — KONAMI LOSES ITS GODDAMN MIND
Now, children, let's return to Konami.
Because apparently somebody looked at Gradius and decided the franchise wasn't ridiculous enough.
In 1988, the original Parodius appeared on the MSX.
Then came the arcade game Parodius Da! in 1990.
And children...
WHAT IN THE ABSOLUTE FUCK WAS GOING ON?
Penguins.
Octopuses.
Flying bells.
Dancing enemies.
Ridiculous bosses.
Classical music.
Characters borrowed from other Konami games.
And the Vic Viper, apparently wondering how the hell it ended up sharing a battlefield with a penguin.
But here's what makes Parodius wonderful.
THE GAMEPLAY WASN'T A JOKE.
Yes, the presentation was ridiculous.
Yes, the characters were absurd.
Yes, somebody at Konami was clearly having the time of their life.
But underneath the nonsense was a real shooter.
Weapon management.
Enemy patterns.
Careful movement.
Dangerous bosses.
The same fundamental satisfaction that made Gradius special.
And that's something I want newcomers to understand.
A game can be funny without being shallow.
A game can be ridiculous without being worthless.
A game can feature a flying octopus and still demand your complete attention.
THE OCTOPUS DOES NOT CARE ABOUT YOUR DIGNITY.
It only cares whether you can dodge.
And the series kept getting stranger.
Gokujō Parodius.
Jikkyō Oshaberi Parodius.
Sexy Parodius.
At some point, Konami's creative department apparently stopped asking whether an idea was ridiculous and started asking whether it was ridiculous enough.
Grandpa approves.
Because sometimes the best possible creative decision is to ask:
"What if we made this even stupider?"
And then actually make the fucking game.
1988–2004: THE SHOOTERS KEEP COMING
While Parodius was turning the genre into a traveling circus, the more traditional shooters continued evolving.
Gradius II arrived in 1988.
Gradius III followed in arcades in 1989.
Konami also released games such as Thunder Cross, Xexex, and Axelay.
Other developers were experimenting with their own ideas.
Toaplan.
Taito.
Raizing.
Cave.
Treasure.
Irem.
The genre was becoming a playground for different design philosophies.
Some shooters emphasized careful memorization.
Others emphasized speed.
Some demanded precise positioning.
Others filled the screen with elaborate bullet patterns.
And some apparently believed the player should experience the emotional equivalent of being attacked by an entire fireworks factory.
But every experiment contributed something.
Different weapons.
Different scoring systems.
Different enemy designs.
Different ways of challenging the player.
And different reasons to keep coming back.
1999: GIGA WING — WHAT IF THE BULLETS WERE ALSO YOUR WEAPONS?
Now, children, Grandpa Jerry needs to introduce another personal favorite.
Giga Wing.
Released in arcades in 1999, developed by Takumi and published by Capcom.
And if you've ever played this magnificent bastard, you understand something very important.
THERE ARE A LOT OF FUCKING BULLETS.
Unlike Gradius and R-Type, Giga Wing is a vertically scrolling shooter built around enormous attacks, elaborate scoring, and a wonderful mechanic called the Reflect Force.
The Reflect Force allows you to repel enemy bullets.
And those reflected bullets can become part of your offense.
Think about that.
The very thing trying to kill you becomes something you can exploit.
That's brilliant.
And it's one reason Giga Wing remains so satisfying.
I've enjoyed playing it at Cidercade, and there's something special about standing in front of an actual arcade cabinet.
Your hands are on the controls.
The screen is exploding.
Bullets are everywhere.
And somewhere inside your skull, a tiny voice is screaming:
"I CAN FUCKING DO THIS."
Sometimes you can.
Sometimes you cannot.
But when you finally survive a pattern that previously destroyed you?
Oh, that feeling.
That's the good shit.
And it demonstrates something important about the genre.
Different shooters reward different instincts.
Gradius emphasizes power-up management and preparation.
R-Type emphasizes positioning and deliberate attacks.
Giga Wing encourages you to turn incoming danger into an opportunity.
Different approaches.
Same wonderful obsession.
1988: SUPER CONTRA — ONE CONTINUE LEFT, AND THE BASTARD STILL WON.
Now, children, before somebody complains that Super Contra isn't a traditional scrolling spaceship shooter, Grandpa Jerry would like to clarify something.
I FUCKING KNOW.
Super Contra is a run-and-gun action game.
Different subgenre.
Different controls.
Different structure.
But it shares something important with the arcade shooters we've been discussing.
Demanding enemy patterns.
Relentless action.
Memorization.
And the satisfaction of surviving something that once seemed impossible.
And this brings us to another little story from Cidercade.
Our gentleman from the R-Type incident also played the original 1988 arcade Super Contra.
And unlike his ongoing struggle with R-Type, this encounter ended rather differently.
He fought through the game.
He reached the final boss.
He defeated the bastard.
And when the dust settled?
HE STILL HAD ONE CONTINUE LEFT.
HAHAHAHA!
Now that's a beautiful contrast.
In R-Type, he managed to defeat the first boss once, then struggled to reach him again.
In Super Contra, he pushed all the way through the final encounter and finished with a continue still available.
Same player.
Different game.
Different instincts.
Different results.
And that illustrates something I wish more people understood.
BEING GOOD AT ONE DIFFICULT GAME DOESN'T AUTOMATICALLY MAKE YOU GOOD AT ANOTHER.
You can be comfortable with the movement and shooting of Super Contra while struggling with the slower, more deliberate positioning demanded by R-Type.
You can master the weapon management of Gradius and still get absolutely demolished by the bullet patterns of Giga Wing.
And that's fine.
Every game has its own language.
Every game asks you to learn something different.
And every victory, no matter how small, is worth appreciating.
Even if your greatest achievement in one game is defeating the first boss once.
Because that victory was real.
And nobody gets to take it away from you.
2004: GRADIUS V — THE OLD SPACESHIP STILL HAS SOME FIGHT LEFT
In 2004, Gradius V arrived on the PlayStation 2.
Developed by Treasure in collaboration with Konami, it brought the traditional series into a new era.
Modernized presentation.
Elaborate stages.
Creative Option mechanics.
Demanding gameplay.
And the same fundamental principles that made the original special.
The old spaceship was still fighting.
The enemies were still dangerous.
The music was still fantastic.
And players were still learning how to survive.
Because good game design doesn't automatically become worthless just because it's old.
Sometimes the fundamentals are strong enough to last decades.
And Gradius V demonstrated exactly that.
2007: OTOMEDIUS — THE SPACESHIP HAS BECOME AN ANIME GIRL
And now, children, we arrive at the game that started this entire ridiculous journey.
Otomedius.
Released in Japanese arcades in 2007.
The name combines otome, meaning maiden, with Gradius.
And instead of simply piloting familiar spaceships, players choose anime heroines associated with machines called Riding Vipers.
Yes.
Konami had gone from serious space battles...
To penguins and octopuses...
To anime girls flying through familiar shooting-game chaos.
And somewhere, the original Vic Viper probably requested a very long vacation.
But here's the important part.
OTOMEDIUS DID NOT APPEAR OUT OF NOWHERE.
It inherited ideas from decades of Konami shooters.
The weapon systems.
The recognizable enemies.
The colorful characters.
The willingness to experiment.
The mixture of serious gameplay and ridiculous presentation.
It was a new interpretation of a familiar tradition.
And whether you love its anime aesthetic or find it completely ridiculous, you can appreciate where the design came from.
Because behind the colorful characters is a long history of developers asking:
"What else can we do with this formula?"
The original arcade game even used a touchscreen for menu interactions, alongside its traditional joystick controls.
This wasn't merely another old arcade cabinet with a new coat of paint.
Konami was experimenting with the format again.
In 2008, Otomedius G (Gorgeous!) brought an expanded adaptation of the arcade game to Japan's Xbox 360.
Then, in 2011, Otomedius Excellent arrived as a separate sequel.
And unlike Gorgeous!, Excellent received an official American release.
But this story isn't really about which game came out where.
It's about how we got here.
From a little spaceship.
To a cartoon penguin.
To an anime heroine.
All connected by a tradition of shooting games that refused to disappear quietly.
WHY DO WE STILL LOVE THESE GAMES?
Now, children, this is the most important part of the lesson.
Because if you've never played a shooter, you might be wondering:
"Grandpa, why would anybody want to play something this difficult?"
A reasonable question.
Allow me to answer.
BECAUSE DIFFICULTY ISN'T ALWAYS THE ENEMY OF FUN.
Sometimes overcoming difficulty is the fun.
Think about learning a musical instrument.
At first, your fingers don't cooperate.
You make mistakes.
You practice.
And eventually, something that once seemed impossible becomes natural.
A good shoot-'em-up creates a similar experience.
At first, you see chaos.
Bullets everywhere.
Enemies everywhere.
No obvious safe path.
But after enough practice, you begin seeing patterns.
You recognize openings.
You understand timing.
You learn where to position yourself.
And suddenly the screen isn't random chaos anymore.
It's something you can read.
Something you can understand.
Something you can master.
That's the magic.
YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYING THE GAME. YOU'RE LEARNING ITS LANGUAGE.
And then there's the music.
Good Lord, the music.
Those energetic melodies that accompany you through impossible odds.
The boss themes that announce something horrible is about to happen.
The triumphant feeling when the soundtrack keeps playing and you're somehow still alive.
The visuals.
The enormous mechanical bosses.
The strange alien environments.
The ridiculous cartoon characters.
The elaborate bullet patterns.
The satisfaction of defeating something that looked completely impossible five minutes earlier.
And the scoring systems!
Some players simply want to survive.
Others want to complete the game without continuing.
Some want to clear it without losing a single life.
And some maniacs want to squeeze every possible point out of every enemy, every pattern, and every stage.
Grandpa respects those maniacs.
From a safe distance.
Preferably behind reinforced glass.
But that's another beautiful thing about these games.
YOU GET TO DECIDE WHAT SUCCESS MEANS TO YOU.
You don't have to become a world-record player.
You don't have to master every mechanic.
You don't have to beat the entire game on one credit.
You can simply enjoy the spectacle.
You can enjoy the music.
You can laugh at the ridiculous bosses.
You can spend an afternoon trying to survive one particularly nasty stage.
And if you improve?
Wonderful.
If you don't?
Well, there's always another credit.
THE RABBIT HOLE THAT STARTED THIS NONSENSE
Now, children, you might wonder why Grandpa Jerry suddenly decided to dust off forty years of arcade history.
The answer?
A rabbit hole.
A perfectly ordinary journey through ROM hacking and fan translations.
One minute, you're looking at somebody's work.
The next, you're investigating an obscure Japanese arcade shooter.
Then you discover an English translation.
Then another project.
Then a YouTube channel with a tiny subscriber count.
And suddenly you've forgotten what you were originally looking for.
Welcome to the internet.
But this particular rabbit hole led to something I appreciate.
A fan translator known as GameStone had worked on bringing Otomedius and its Xbox 360 relative into English.
Not because millions of people were demanding it.
Not because there was some enormous commercial opportunity.
But because somebody cared enough about the games to put in the work.
And that, children, is where this story becomes personal.
Because I've been involved with fansubbing through m.3.3.w Fansubs, and now Germlin Subs.
Different medium.
Similar stubbornness.
You find something obscure.
Something overlooked.
Something you wish more people could experience.
And sometimes you decide:
"FUCK IT. I'LL WORK ON IT."
Not because you're guaranteed fame.
Not because you're guaranteed applause.
Not because somebody promised you a giant audience.
But because you want the project to exist.
And when someone else discovers it years later?
When somebody stumbles across your work while wandering through the internet?
That's a rather wonderful thing.
A small contribution can travel much farther than its creator ever expected.
Sometimes it survives long after the website that originally hosted it has disappeared.
Sometimes it becomes part of somebody else's rabbit hole.
And sometimes a stranger finds it, appreciates the effort, and starts researching an entire family of games because of it.
Funny how that works.
GRANDPA JERRY'S FINAL VERDICT: KEEP SHOOTING, YOU LITTLE SHITS.
So what have we learned?
We've learned that Gradius wasn't merely a spaceship shooting aliens.
It was a game about choices, preparation, and mastery.
We've learned that TwinBee proved shooters could be colorful and charming without abandoning their challenge.
We've learned that Salamander could turn the universe into a biological nightmare.
We've learned that Parodius could turn the entire genre into a traveling circus and still deliver satisfying gameplay.
We've learned that R-Type could teach you to defeat a gigantic alien monster, then punish you for trying to reach him again.
We've learned that Giga Wing could fill the screen with bullets and make surviving them feel like a personal triumph.
We've learned that Super Contra could push you to your limits and still leave you standing victorious with a continue remaining.
And we've learned that Otomedius wasn't some inexplicable anime-girl invasion.
It was another creative branch growing from decades of arcade experimentation.
Not every game in this history is perfect.
Some are brutally difficult.
Some have frustrating mechanics.
Some have questionable design choices.
And some will absolutely make you question whether the developers ever wanted another human being to experience happiness.
But the great ones offer something special.
They invite you to improve.
They reward your curiosity.
They challenge your patience.
And they remind you that a video game doesn't need a hundred hours of dialogue, an enormous open world, or a billion-dollar budget to create a memorable experience.
Sometimes all you need is a spaceship.
A joystick.
A good soundtrack.
And something enormous trying to murder you.
So, to the shooter veterans:
Keep those memories alive.
Tell people about your favorite games.
Share the obscure ones.
Celebrate the developers and hobbyists who helped preserve them.
And to the newcomers:
Don't be intimidated.
You don't need to be an expert to enjoy a shoot-'em-up.
Pick something that looks interesting.
Give it a try.
Die spectacularly.
Laugh about it.
Try again.
And if you eventually find yourself standing in front of an arcade cabinet, dodging bullets while screaming at a giant mechanical monstrosity...
Congratulations.
YOU FINALLY UNDERSTAND.
Grandpa Jerry has finished his lesson.
The Vic Viper has returned to its hangar.
The penguins have been discharged from military service.
The octopus is being investigated for tax fraud.
Dobkeratops has installed additional security outside his office.
And Gerald the Cactus?
Gerald is still on Stage 1.
Apparently, he has mistaken the self-destruct button for the accelerator.
HACK SHOOOOOO.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
https://theglitch.bearblog.dev/
Department of Petty Affairs — Historical Division of Arcade Bullshit
Historical classification: The Evolution of the Shoot-'Em-Up
Primary subjects: Gradius, TwinBee, Salamander, Parodius, R-Type, Giga Wing, Super Contra, and Otomedius
Crime: Making generations of gamers voluntarily fly into thousands of bullets.
Sentence: One more credit.
Ankle-bite damage: −9,999 HP
Court adjourned.
And remember, children: the spaceship may change, the characters may change, and the graphics may improve. But that wonderful feeling of surviving something you once thought impossible? That never gets old.