Snorlax: Still the Best Obstacle, er, Pokemon
The Wikipedia article for Snorlax (not Bulbapedia (just so we’re clear)) has probably my favorite description of a Pokemon to date, as well as probably the best description of a frequently recurring videogame design element. It reads as follows:
Snorlax's most notable role in the Pokémon games has been that of an inadvertent roadblock.
I shudder as I consider the fact that I will probably, over the course of my life, never write a line as succinct and rhetorically perfect as that one.
Life is made of such small tragedies.
My misfortune aside, it’s a perfect opportunity to finally write something about Pokemon.
I may have mentioned it a time or two, but Snorlax is the best Pokemon. I’m comfortable writing that sentence and admitting to the conviction that I will die on that hill. My passion for the fictional character has endured past multiple generations of the videogame franchise, and while on some level my love for Snorlax is rooted in nostalgia, and another part in my personal branded meme, I do believe that there’s an argument to be made for the why this character has continually managed to be not just a staple, but arguably one of the best designs of the entire series.
If my reader has never played a Pokemon videogame, or somehow managed to avoid the franchise altogether I’ll provide a brief description. Pokemon is an adventure, strategy, and role-playing videogame published by Nintendo and developed by the company Game Freak. It was released originally in Japan as Pocket-Monsters with Red and Green versions available on February 2, 1996, with the Blue version being released in October of that same year. In the United States where I lived Pocket-Monsters would be changed to Pokemon, please don’t ask me why, and only Red and Blue versions were released on 28th of September 1998. The Yellow version, which allowed you to have a Pikachu that followed you around outside of its pokeball (and even surf on a little surfboard if you got the right one apparently) was released in North America on October 19, 1999.
Pokemon was a smash hit due in no small part because it was advertised well, it had cute creatures that you could collect, it encouraged healthy competition (and often not-so-healthy competition), and it generated literally billions of dollars in merchandise and sequel releases which have only generated more and more fans. Whether it was the anime that ran on Saturday mornings, the playing cards which caused many parents (including my own) endless grief with trading scandals, or even just the videogame itself, Pokemon had a mass appeal that endured. And throughout the entirety of the series a somnambulistic, rotund, creature known for its appetite and penchant for sleep awaited players who simply wanted to get to the Safari Zone to catch a Scyther.
Looking back to my first encounter with Snorlax, I have to think briefly about a road-trip.
I hated trips to my grandmother’s house, and my parents knew this because I never shut up about it. In my defense it was a five hour road-trip that ended in the city of Houston, a burgeoning metropolis famous for it’s various factories that polluted the air and pulverized my immune system leaving me often a frustrated ball of snot and grief. That and my other grandmother(my Mom’s mom(not my dad’s mom) always got to ride shotgun and her cigarette smoke would float to the backseat. I suspect all of this is one of the reasons why I received a copy of Pokemon for my Nintendo Gameboy Color as a surprise the morning my parents picked me up from school early. Hopping into the car I was expecting to play my copy of Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening for most of the trip. It was my first Gameboy game ever and I was obsessed with completing it (though due to a glitch in the seventh castle I never did(I would eventually beat the remaster for Nintendo Switch several years later)). My Mom and Dad told me that they had a surprise for me, and when one of them produced the blue box with Blastoise on the cover, smirking at me, I believe I made a noise comparable to one Godzilla makes before he shoots an energy beam. The next five hours passed by in a blur as I would stumble my way through Kanto and eventually arrive at Cerulean city by the time I was at my grandmother’s house in Pasadena(Texas, not California). A few days passed by and I spent it mostly hanging out with my cousin Jacob playing Super Nintendo or looking for snakes in the ditch in front of my grandmother’s house. Once we were back on the road I continued playing the game, eventually arriving at Vermillion City. Somewhere between trading some npc for a Farfetch’d, and beating Lt. Surge with a single Diglet, I walked Ash over to Route 11 and resting at a three-way intersection was a fat oaf that looked like a human.
Or at least somewhat human.
To be honest, my early memories provide just a passing impression, and the figure on the low-resolution and un-lit screen was just a giant belly filling up the square of pixels I understood to be a navigable road and blocking my path to the Safari zone where I was hoping to catch a Scyther.
That’s not supposed to be a running gag either. I desperately wanted a Scyther because his character model was sick and I wanted one. I never did because I had the Blue version which means I would never be able to catch Scyther. But I was able to catch Sandshrews, Bellsprouts, and Magmars so it evened out.
Kinda.
It didn’t.
Magmar was cool though, and, honestly, never got as much street cred as he should have.
Frustration settled in quickly after my initial fascination. I wanted to get past and there was seemingly no way to. I tapped the A-button, hoping that the Pokemon would wake up, but I was only greeted by the same message repeatedly that read: “A Sleeping Pokemon blocks the way!” I even walked back to Vermillion City to purchase an “Awakening” potion believing that all I had to do was use it and that gargantuan beast would wake up. I didn’t realize that that would only work on my own Pokemon, and only if another Pokemon had used sleep powder or hypnosis on them. This was a painful lesson about how status ailments in role playing games(rpgs) actually work.
Snorlax remained unmoved and continued to sleep.
Desperate, I scoured the regions of Kanto I had access to and after talking to/fighting every npc I could find, I figured out that I had to get the Hidden Move(HM) “Cut” and work my way through Rock Caves to reach Lavender Town and save Mr. Fuji who would give me the Poke Flute. But, that was only after I stopped Team Rocket’s illegal casino operations, which were actually just pachinko parlors in hindsight, and all of this was a painful reminder that I still…STILL couldn’t get to the Safari zone to catch a Scyther.
Snorlax was a fat Pokemon who blocked my path, and it wouldn’t be until decades after I played the game for the first time that I realized, and appreciated, how he worked as a design.
Decades before I knew the definition of the word Metroidvania (but only a few years before I would actually play a Metroid videogame) Pokemon had taught me a videogame structure design in the form of Snorlax. If my reader has never played one the concept is simple: the player is given the ability to explore the world freely, however unlike many of the current open world videogames, a Metroidvania creates obstacles that prevent the player from moving forward until they receive some sort of in-game item. In the case of Metroid this is usually some tool for Samus’s suit such as the missile launcher, morph ball, freeze beam, etc. Once the player acquires these items they can overcome the previous obstacle and explore more of the world, find new missions, and generally progress in the story.
I had experienced Metroidvania before Pokemon in other videogames I had played, one of my favorites being Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past which was populated by frequent instances of similar obstacles. Certain stones couldn’t be lifted without the power gloves, and even then they would only allow Link to lift certain stones. Rivers and lakes couldn’t be traveled until I acquired the flippers from the Zoras. And there were numerous hidden caves hiding rupees, new items, and extra supplies that remained unexplored until I had purchased or stumbled across bombs.
And then, of course, there was the flute.
Pokemon does not have equipable items, apart from the bicycle, but it does have a level system that is designed to challenge players as they move forward through the game. The Metroidvania that’s being employed by Snorlax then is less an effort to punish players for moving forward, but instead is simply a way to make sure the player does not wind up fighting enemy npcs that are wildly above their level.
To put it in perspective, anyone who even paid a slight bit of attention to Pokemon would understand a sentence like, “Dude I’m gonna fight a level 30 Snorlax with my level 2 Caterpie.”
If that sentence made you laugh or cringe, congratulations, you’re a nerd.
You’re also a nerd who’s probably played at least one Pokemon game.
And I played a LOT of Pokemon.
One of the verbs of Pokemon is growing, or really grinding. In terms of rpg videogames, grinding would mean fighting random npcs until your characters would level-up thus allowing them to learn new moves, get higher HP, and be able to tackle tougher and tougher monsters.
All of this jargon brings me back to Snorlax because he is, after all, a recurring character and design element in the Pokemon series. And his design is largely to encourage grinding.
The first time a player encounters Snorlax in Pokemon Blue and Red he’s an impassable obstacle. No matter what the player does, they will not be able to move past him. This initially seems unfair, but the larger design of the game shows that Snorlax is placed where he is to make sure the player does not miss the chance to grind their Pokemon through more fighting, explore the regions they currently have access to, catch more Pokemon for their Pokedex, keep working through the main story, and ensure that the player does not simply jump forward and encounter enemies that will outrank them. By today’s standards of open world games, this design seems peculiar. Having played Legend of Zelda:Breath of the Wild and accidentally walked into the path of a lynel before I even had six hearts, I recognised game designers are more inclined to design complete freedom of movement for the player, allowing them to learn for themselves how to navigate the world. And there’s nothing wrong with this. The 180+ hours of Breath of the Wild on my Nintendo Switch demonstrates that I’ve enjoyed this dynamic. But looking back to Pokemon Blue and Red I’m still impressed at how simply placing a large sleeping character in my path forced me to find a solution to the problem.
By the time I had fought my way through Rock Caves, Team Rocket, and Pokemon Tower in Lavender town and received the Poke Flute, my team of pocket monsters had evolved to a point that waking Snorlax and capturing him wasn’t just a possibility, it was a delight.
Though I note, for the record, that my very first run of Pokemon Blue had me simply wake Snorlax and then run away so I could fight my way to Fuchsia City to finally catch a Scyther.
Spoiler alert, I learned from friends at school that I would NEVER catch one on my blue cartridge. This was a rather painful discovery, but I eventually got one. I just had to catch a Taurus and trade it with my friend Terence.
Snorlax would eventually become a staple of my Pokemon diet as I watched the anime on Saturday mornings, played Pokemon Snap on my Nintendo 64, and eventually caught one and realized that his HP levels basically made him an unstoppable tank. I played Pokemon Silver and Gold (and even my little sister's Crystal version(with her permission of course)) and enjoyed seeing the massive sprite blocking the entrance to Diglett’s cave. I played probably close to a decade’s worth of hours of Super Smash Bros Melee with my best friend Kevin and watched Snorlax appear from Pokeballs and body slam enemies. And in 2019 I found myself watching Pokemon: Detective Pikachu with my Mom and sister and getting annoyed that Snorlax only had a brief appearance (as in like literally one 5 second shot(What the actual fudge(...Though I didn’t say “Fudge”))).
Snorlax is, by now, a recognisable intellectual property of Nintendo alongside scores of other Pokemon, and while I freely admit my appreciation of the character is a sort of personal meme, I do believe the character has endured because it shows a care for concern for design in videogames. There is no Pokemon in the original Blue and Red versions of the game that has such a literal physical presence. While other Pokemon hide in the tall grass waiting for the game’s algorithm to spawn them into existence, or while some simply stand in place waiting to be interacted with, Snorlax sat in plain open sight impeding my path, completely apathetic to my existence. And because he was impassible I had to navigate around him, and eventually find a solution to moving through him. As a design element Snorlax encouraged exploration, creative solutions to problem solving, and ensured that I actually played the game as it was constructed.
Obstacles in videogames do not have to be punishing, and Snorlax is a perfect embodiment of this fact. While some designers will create obstacles that will kill or destroy players (insert obligatory Dark Souls reference here), there is something to be said about an obstacle that is simply there, and cannot be quickly dispatched. It’s a credit to the designers of the original Pokemon who saw an opportunity not to punish players, but rather show them that sometimes they would simply have to find another way to press forward.
My journey to catch a Scyther was blocked by a large sleeping teddy-bear who soon enough would become far more interesting (and arguably more useful) than I could ever dream of.
And when I learned you could make him dance in Pokemon Snap, well, I mean…how can you beat that?
Joshua “Jammer” Smith
5.27.2024
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