"Phew—human potential really is limitless, huh?"
At just past 3 p.m., Tetsu Fuyukawa typed the final letter on his keyboard from behind his desk.
Hitting enter, he watched lines of code scroll across his laptop screen, with the game's script displayed on a secondary monitor. Letting out a long breath, he said, "The demo's finally done."
Sekiro's development was already a heavy load, and juggling it with The Binding of Isaac had pushed Tetsu to his limits, even with his system-enhanced stamina. He was exhausted, barely able to catch his breath. But the grind was worth it.
The initial version of The Binding of Isaac wasn't massive. Its main challenges were creativity and gameplay. Once Tetsu nailed down the game's style and core mechanics, the actual development wasn't too demanding. The real issue?
"This game's content… it's wild."
Slumped in his chair, Tetsu's mind replayed The Binding of Isaac's story and themes. His eyes reflected both fatigue and a spark of exhilaration. Most roguelike games lean light on story, focusing on the thrill of "harvesting" rewards. They hook players with ever-changing maps and items, delivering a sense of growth and novelty, while the plot takes a backseat. But Isaac was different.
The Binding of Isaac is a masterpiece that blends stellar gameplay with a story seamlessly woven into its fabric.
Yes, a masterpiece.
To Tetsu, a masterpiece isn't about flashy visuals or sprawling maps—it's a work with a powerful, soul-stirring core. The Binding of Isaac fits that bill. Its story isn't overly complex but cuts deep.
The protagonist, Isaac, lives in a religious household. After his parents' divorce leaves his mother financially strained and desperate for salvation, she dives deeper into faith, glued to televangelist shows. Four-year-old Isaac, meanwhile, spends his days alone, drawing in solitude. One day, his mother receives a divine "revelation" claiming Isaac is tainted by sin.
To "save" him, she strips him of his toys and clothes, locking him in a dark room. But it doesn't end there. The "divine voice" demands she prove her devotion by sacrificing Isaac. Gripping a butcher's knife, she prepares to obey.
Isaac, witnessing this, flees into the basement just in time—and that's where the game begins.
In the basement, Isaac uses his tears as bullets, fighting through rooms and collecting items. A coat hanger makes his tears shoot faster; a noose lets him fly. After battling through enemies and reaching the final level, "The Womb," he destroys the boss's heart—only to face a new foe: his embryonic self. He must kill the "unborn Isaac."
It sounds absurd, even grotesque, but the story is a masterclass in metaphor. Every item, every enemy, reflects the warped reality of Isaac's life. His mother, consumed by religious fanaticism, enforces strict dogma, withholding the love a mother should give. After a miscarriage of Isaac's unborn sister, she forces him to wear a wig, dressing him as a girl, and even subjects him to "circumcision." Outside the home, Isaac is an outcast, bullied by peers in their small town.
With no refuge in the world or at home, and too young to make sense of it all, Isaac retreats into his own mind. In his mental world, he seeks to destroy his "embryonic self," but even in the game's DLCs, neither hell nor heaven offers escape. In hell, he faces demons; in heaven, he meets another weeping version of himself. By the end, Isaac dies in a wooden chest, while his frantic mother plasters missing-person posters around town.
The game's events—his mother's knife, the basement—may be Isaac's delusions, rooted in a suffocating reality. The oppressive religious atmosphere, the lack of parental love, the trauma of "circumcision"—it all distorts in a child's mind, with no one to guide him or explain what's right or wrong.
This game is deeply personal to its creator, Edmund McMillen, who grew up in a religious household and drew from his own childhood pain. The Binding of Isaac is a dark, oppressive exploration of religion, family, bullying, and children's mental health. What's remarkable is how tightly its story and themes tie to its gameplay. The game exists to tell this story.
Tetsu wasn't initially a roguelike fan—his past life included only Hades and Warm Snow. But after studying Isaac's sales, redeeming it, crafting it, and dissecting its narrative, he understood why it's hailed as the "ceiling of roguelikes" and a "god-tier" game.
"Man, good thing I didn't read this script at night—I'd never sleep," he muttered, stretching with a satisfied grin. "But… damn, it's exhilarating."
For Tetsu, making games was about two things: earning money and experiencing lives he'd never live through a great game. The feeling of diving into a masterpiece? Unbeatable.
After a brief moment of relaxation, Tetsu unplugged his laptop and headed down the hall. Passing the art department, he poked his head in. "Sayoko, contact Minister Miyano, President Asai, and the Aotake team. Tell them we're reviewing the demo in the meeting room in half an hour."
"Got it, I'll reach out now," Sayoko replied, setting down her teacup and getting to work. As she moved, the office buzzed with chatter.
"Tch, tch, tch, contacting the president and minister directly? The team leader really trusts Kawai-san, huh?" one employee whispered.
"Duh, they commute together every day," another replied. "I heard he was gonna put her in charge of our department, but she felt she wasn't ready, so he made her deputy to learn under Ms. Haku. Still… the roguelike demo's already done? That's our team leader—lightning fast."
"Roguelikes aren't that big in scope, and Aotake's a studio that specializes in them, so the speed makes sense. But making a roguelike fun? That's the hard part. Wonder if the team leader can pull it off."
"Yeah, I heard a lot of people aren't betting on him."
Near the door, two female artists murmured with uncertainty. Nearby, Ms. Nogi—now the "Hikari Studio general affairs manager"—shifted her gaze from a lion-ape model on a nearby screen and smiled. "Don't worry. Sure, the world's saying the team leader's getting cocky, but he's way steadier than they think. I've never seen him take on anything he wasn't confident about."
Glancing at Tetsu's silhouette passing the window, she noted the same confident smirk he'd worn when I'm Surrounded by Beautiful Women launched. Shaking her head with a grin, she added, "Same vibe as back then. He's clearly happy with this game. Wonder if President Asai will regret promising him such a big bonus share when he sees this demo."
Building confidence in your team—especially a sharp one—doesn't come from empty slogans. It comes from results. Unlike newer employees, Ms. Nogi, a seasoned veteran, had unwavering faith in Tetsu after witnessing the five-million-copy miracle of I'm Surrounded by Beautiful Women. Even without seeing Isaac's demo, she was all in.
But most people weren't so optimistic about The Binding of Isaac. As President Asai and Mitei Miyano headed to the meeting room, the company's chatter grew louder—some skeptical, some hopeful. None of it fazed Tetsu.
---
"Young Tetsu's really something, huh? Finishing the demo this fast? I thought it'd take weeks," President Asai said, seated on a sofa in the small meeting room set up like a mini-theater for NTsoft's demo playtests. As a subordinate connected Tetsu's laptop to the large monitor, Asai's words carried praise.
"It's mostly thanks to Aotake's team," Tetsu replied, legs crossed, smiling. "Without their overtime and hard work, I wouldn't have pulled it off."
His words made the Aotake members in the back rows sit a little taller, their gazes toward Tetsu warming. A boss giving credit to their team in front of the president? That was rare.
In the workplace, it's normal for bosses to take credit for their team's work and pin mistakes on subordinates. But Tetsu wasn't that guy. Plus, as developers of The Binding of Isaac—and roguelike veterans—the Aotake team wasn't sure if a game this dark, steeped in Western religious themes, would be a hit in Japan. But the mechanics? Rock-solid. After testing the demo that morning, they were thrilled.
Mitei, seated beside Tetsu, caught the grateful looks from the team and smirked, her legs crossed under her pencil skirt. Being a leader wasn't just about skill—it was about rallying people. Tetsu was nailing it.
He noticed the reactions but kept his focus elsewhere: on Minister Koharu, seated next to President Asai, and the professional game testers beside her. Most games go through multiple reviews during development to minimize risks. Asai, as president, rarely played games himself, focusing on market trends—he steered the ship but didn't row. That's where trusted testers came in. Their opinions wouldn't directly sway Asai, but with Minister Koharu, a technical veteran from his faction, in the room, their input mattered.
Tetsu glanced at Koharu, a refined woman in her early fifties with an aged but elegant demeanor. If Mitei was a new recruit to Asai's faction, Koharu was a founding member, with a 30-year career spanning every game genre. Unlike Mitei's marketing savvy, Koharu's strength was her deep understanding of game mechanics and design.
"She's probably the one who'll influence Asai the most," Tetsu thought, but he didn't dwell on it. After Sekiro, he planned to go independent, so he saw no need to get tangled in corporate faction wars or curry favor.
As they chatted, an American tester with a red cap and tattooed arms grabbed the wireless keyboard. The screen dimmed, and the opening animation played. Everyone's eyes locked onto the monitor.
The intro showed Isaac and his mother at home, culminating in her divine command to kill him, prompting Isaac to lift the floorboards and leap into the basement. It was a grim, unconventional start, but no one in the room scoffed.
Why? The market.
These days, players—whether they're crazy or just craving something different—were growing tired of traditional hero-saves-the-world stories. Dark, subversive narratives were gaining traction.
"The style's spot-on," Minister Koharu thought, a glint of approval in her eyes. As the game began and the American tester selected Isaac—the only playable character—the screen displayed straightforward controls embedded in the environment. Koharu's eyes lit up.
Most roguelike players chase the genre's signature "rapid growth" thrill. Tutorials or long-winded story intros can kill the vibe. Letting players jump straight into fighting and grabbing items? That's the way to hook them.
"It's the right approach, but the real test is what comes next," Koharu thought, glancing at Tetsu, who was chatting with Mitei, before refocusing on the screen.
Ease of access keeps players engaged, but a roguelike's success hinges on sustained "growth" and "surprise" that make players think, "Holy crap, that's possible?" or "I need to play again." That addictive quality is the key.
Koharu was already impressed with the opening, but as the game progressed, her brow furrowed. "This bloody, violent aesthetic?" she mused. It wasn't a censorship issue—Isaac's violence leaned cartoonish, unlikely to raise red flags—but the grim style might alienate some players. Roguelikes were already niche; narrowing the audience further could be a misstep.
Still, she held her tongue, glancing at Tetsu. "He's shown he's a mature designer who knows what players want. Why stick with this style? Is he hiding something? Wait… that opening animation. Is he leaning into the story?"
Her eyes widened. She'd initially dismissed the dark intro as a gimmick. Roguelikes, like short-form videos, thrive on rapid-fire rewards, hooking players with constant surprises. That pace makes storytelling tricky. Players, focused on rushing to the next room for loot, often skip item descriptions, let alone deep narratives. Roguelikes are fast; storytelling is slow. Blending them is a tightrope walk most developers fall off, chasing both gameplay thrills and story depth only to botch the pacing.
"He's too ambitious," Koharu thought, disappointment flickering. But as the game continued, her frown eased.
"He's not sacrificing gameplay for story!" she realized. Her emotions swung like a pendulum—initially impressed, then skeptical of his greed, now amazed again. The game flowed smoothly, and then it hit her: "He's doing fragmented storytelling?"
Her eyes gleamed brighter with every passing minute. The gameplay was undeniably top-tier roguelike quality. As items like the "coat hanger," "ladder," "noose," and "Bible" appeared, alongside the stomping "Mom's Leg" and her piercing laughter, paired with the opening animation and overall aesthetic, Koharu's mind pieced together a story. It might not match Tetsu's exact script, but it was coherent and compelling.
That's the beauty of fragmented storytelling. Some players love piecing together every detail for a complete narrative, but the real strength is accessibility. Instead of dumping lore through walls of text, the game subtly weaves its story through items, bosses, and aesthetics, letting players' imaginations fill the gaps.
Incredible flow, addictive gameplay, and masterful storytelling. Koharu was floored. "This game's sales won't be low. It's unreal! Did he really make this?" She stole a glance at Tetsu, chatting casually with Mitei, her eyes wide with shock.
Yes, shock.
The Binding of Isaac nailed gameplay, pacing, and narrative in a way that rivaled the best roguelikes she'd ever seen. And Tetsu had crafted it in mere weeks, alongside his main project, Sekiro.
"Is he actually a genius?" Koharu was stunned.
She wasn't alone. Even President Asai, who hadn't played a game seriously in years, was floored. With over 30 years in the industry, he could see Isaac's brilliance. Halfway through, he grabbed the keyboard himself to play, while the global testers buzzed with excitement.
"This guy's an absolute genius! Holy crap, I haven't played a roguelike this fun in ages!" one tester exclaimed.
"Dammit, I should've gone next!" another groaned. "But this religious theme might not click in Japan. Players here might not vibe with it."
"Oh, Jack, don't be such a downer!" a third chimed in. "Even without the narrative and script, the gameplay alone will sell. And this is just a demo! I can't wait for release day—I'm streaming this the second it drops!"
The testers' enthusiasm lit up the room, and the Aotake team was over the moon. Sure, their excitement didn't guarantee a blockbuster, but for a niche genre like roguelikes, sparking this level of hype among insiders was a huge win. Positive buzz in the community could drive solid sales.
And it was all thanks to Tetsu.
Eyes of admiration and envy turned toward him as he chatted with Mitei.
"This guy's about to drop another hit!"
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