As I head further down adulthood's road, I recognize that no artist touches us in quite the same way as those who affected us when we were young. Takeshi Miyaji died a few days ago, a co-founder and designer for Game Arts, a sort of second tier Japanese game developer. Only second tier because Japan's rigid culture demands second placers and American game fans at the time seemed to follow Japan's lead on who were the greats. The truth is that Game Arts produced some of the finest games made, often innovating over the steadfast giants of the era.
Takeshi was the principal creator of a game called Grandia. A game that, despite its often crude and malignant translation--I have no idea why Working Designs didn't shepherd the game to the states, but they didn't--communicated a profound sense of fun and adventure and heartbreak and loss like few others. It started you off as a youth, clumsy and playing at daring, and let you follow him, watching him truly mature into his role as the savior of his world. A tried enough narrative, but rarely done so in a way that made you feel a part of this other world, this other story. I distinctly remember a stirring sequence when the protagonist finds a note from his mother after he'd snuck on a ship sailing across the ocean, revealing she knew his intent and decided to let him go.
The largest shame outside his passing is that so few people played the game, for whatever reason--I make no claim to playing every important game out there. I'll remember it fondly. I hope he's landed in a good place. His work means a lot to me.
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