To the uninitiated, the screen of a shoot 'em up looks like chaos—a kaleidoscope of neon death where survival seems mathematically impossible. But to those of us who grew up gripping a joystick or gamepad, this is not chaos; it is a precise, rhythmic ceremony of survival.
This genre holds a unique power to bridge Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s psychological concept of Flow with the Japanese philosophy of Kando—that deep, emotional resonance of shared spirit. However, for me, the path to this feeling has shifted over the decades, evolving from the strategic memorization of the classics to the trance-like Zen of modern bullet hell.
My love affair with this genre is rooted in memory and mastery. In the classic era, Flow wasn't just about reaction time; it was about learning. These games have always held a special place in my heart because once the enemy patterns were memorized, you could execute a perfect run, looking like a total badass as you dismantled the machine on a single 20p credit.
My defining moment occurred at Heathrow airport. I have a vivid memory of standing before an R-Type cabinet, reaching Level 3—the Giant Battleship stage. Unlike other games where the boss was a sprite at the end of the level, here the warship was the level. I bought the game on the Amstrad CPC 464 and felt like a total legend as my tiny fighter took down a Bydo warship that was bigger than the screen. It was a feeling of empowerment that followed me as I bought R-Type again on the Master System and eventually progressed to the Megadrive and the Thunder Force series. In these classics, the Kando—the euphoria—came from the tangible sense of conquering a massive, mechanical obstacle through sheer grit.
As the years passed, the genre evolved into Bullet Hell, or Danmaku. Games like DoDonPachi and Ikaruga didn't just add more bullets; they changed the psychology of play.
I respect these innovators. Ikaruga, with its polarity-switching mechanics, creates a genuine state of Zen. However, I have felt a growing disconnect. While I enjoy the Zen state of exports like Deathsmiles or Akai Katana, they can feel stagnant compared to the originators. They lack the momentous weight of that R-Type battleship. Generally, bullet hell games have a different feel and mechanics; they prioritize a hypnotic dodge over the heavy, tactical destruction of the past.
Despite these differences, when either sub-genre is played at the highest level, they achieve the same result: a higher state of consciousness. This sensation is perfectly mirrored in the anime Macross Plus. There is a scene where the pilot Isamu Dyson flies the prototype YF-19 fighter through a never-ending sky, bewitched by the virtual idol Sharon Apple. As her music swells and the atmosphere turns into a psychedelic tunnel of light, Isamu is no longer just piloting; he is transcending. He pushes the machine past its limits while in a trance-like state of bliss. Simon Critchley would consider this a mysticism of sorts, as the spirit or soul transcends the body to be free from pain or anguish.
This is the ultimate promise of the shmup, whether it is R-Type, DoDonPachi, or Ikaruga it is the Isamu Dyson effect. The screen becomes a blur of color, the self vanishes, and the player reaches a zenith where fear of failure is replaced by the pure, euphoric joy of flight.
Ultimately, we chase the same ghost. We are looking for that specific Kando where the world melts away. Whether it is the memorized destruction of a giant warship or the hypnotic weaving through a curtain of lasers, we seek the moment where we stop thinking and start being—flying through our own digital, never-ending sky.
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