Imagine this elevator pitch: a world made of craft paper and origami figures. Animals, rocks, trees, and more don't so much feel materialized from a game engine, but rather squished and folded to their proportions through meticulous craftsmanship. Hirogami isn't the first to incorporate this concept – mechanically or aesthetically – but it's still rare enough to be refreshing. Nintendo, Sony, and other indies have explored this before, so Bandai Namco's freshmen Singapore and Malaysia studios still have to excite, if not with brand-new material then at least by capturing the same intricacy as its inspirations. A shame it crumples under such pressure.

The shoes of Hiro, an entertainer by trade, are a delicate pair. While meditating in a serene spot, the calamitous "Blight" quickly begins to corrupt the world, which also disables his unique ability of transmogrifying into certain origami animals. As one of the last remaining inhabitants who can fight back, he's thrust into cleansing both infected inhabitants and the land itself.


It's not hard to spot the yin/yang duality of this tale: the deliberately-measured, hand-crafted quality of Shishiki Village and the surrounding environ have become infested with artificial anomalies; pink-ish, semi-translucent boxes (almost like big glass pixels) sit passively while black, spherical blobs called "Glitchers" act as common melee & ranged minions. At first glance, those deliberate incongruities would suggest Hirogami emphasizing visual storytelling; instead, it's… strangely interested in over-explaining a simple plot. Supporting characters are varied, but they consistently put the tone through a spin cycle. Hopping between an ethereal spirit (or god) that reinforces The Hiro’s Journey, a rowdy Scotsman, and a supportive elder who's also a klutz with technology, creates a strange type of whiplash. There's no voice acting, yet each character almost seems desperate for more lines.

For better or worse, the gameplay sticks to an established formula. Being on the back foot with a folding palm fan isn't ideal, but little time passes before Hiro regains his transformations after defeating a corrupted animal. As an armadillo, rolling is both a means of attack and of bowling through brown cardboard boxes; as a frog, he can jump high, spit acid, and butt-stomp; as a gorilla, he can grab onto vines and smack enemies and… red cardboard boxes. It seems like a slight overlap in abilities at first blush, but it also gives the game away. 


That sense of limited strategy is all but validated when seeing Hiro's list of enhancements; hell, a sizable chuck of them simply give another heart. It's less to do with mechanical limitations per se and more so their rote implementation. When and where to use a power is so choreographed to the point that puzzles feel more like stopgaps than brainteasers. Armadillo form does x, frog does y, and gorilla does z. Its platforming challenges aren't merely limited to Simon Says, of course; hazards like falling platforms, spike traps, floating log rafts, etc. are a reliable go-to as the gaps between checkpoints widen. It's at its best when said platforming tasks are varied and dynamic.

Hirogami isn't that tough, but a portion of its difficulty is artificial. Precision platforming can be a hassle with its misleading visual communication and quasi-fixed camera. Think of a film camera occupying a 3D space, but you can only shift the lens across the x-axis. It wouldn't be annoying were the 'cinematographer' consistently focused on the player experience versus nice landscape shots. Combat is the biggest offender though. Hiro's standard fan attack doesn't carry much heft and the micro-delay between button-presses causes populated fights to feel sloppy. The most reliable combat form is the frog; spamming spit and butt-stomps can clear out a wave in seconds. Occasionally the other animals are necessary, but those dynamic transformations become increasingly repetitive. Like Hiro's fan, there's a small delay when swapping between forms. 


There's something about these paper cuts that also accumulates over time. How come only Hiro's fan can break those semi-translucent boxes, instead of other animal attacks? Why are so many standard jumping platforms reachable exclusively to Hiro's frog form? Why is one of the most popular secondary objectives about achieving a no-damage run with such an unreliable camera? Why does gorilla form's vine-swinging feel so stiff and awkward? Why gatekeep boss levels to a certain number of Paper Cranes (equivalent of Mario's Gold Stars) when that speedbump only serves to disrupt pacing? These disconnected questions are quibbles on their own, but they speak to how bigger- and smaller-picture issues continue to pile on.

"Beautiful on the outside, shallow on the inside." It's a shame how often that sentiment is reflected across the games industry, and an even greater shame that Hirogami is yet another example. Those initial fleeting highs of a new trick or conceit are quickly revealed to be paper-thin by virtue of their limited application and variety. Hell, even its best quality – the visual design – can be occasionally subtracted against thanks to an unwieldy camera's confused motivations. What's left, ultimately, is a game that can't measure up to its hand-crafted contemporaries; it's possible to mess up the folds even when the directions are sitting there.

Contractor by trade and writer by hobby, Lee's obnoxious criticisms have found a way to be featured across several gaming sites: N4G, VGChartz, Gaming Nexus, DarkStation, TechRaptor, and Cubed3! He started gaming in the mid-90s and has had the privilege in playing many games across a plethora of platforms. Reader warning: each click given to his articles only helps to inflate his Texas-sized ego. Proceed with caution.