Inazuma Eleven takes three hours to tell you something easily condensable to a single sentence: you’re useless.
More than that single-credit run through Gradius 5 or finally sealing Agro’s fate in Shadow of the Colossus, Inazuma Eleven is keen to teach you futility. It may be infinitely charming, and features an intro theme so attune to the joys of football it’s lyrically worthy of Webster’s, but the helplessness you’re directed to endure goes some way to ruining any masquerade that your game play is anything other than a minutely more convoluted “Press X to continue.”
Games often funnel the player through certain paths to fuel a dramatic event and while often seen as lazy or inelegant games such as Uncharted 2 demonstrate that flair and panache can sooth the pain, if not even present themselves as desirable. Inazuma Eleven is remarkably lean on the disguise – regardless how well or poorly you play, you will be trailing in your first game 20-nil. No matter what tactics you’ve eked out of your line-up, you’ll have to use a certain special move to progress, followed by a rhythm-breaking dialogue exchange. Despite how well your grasp of the subtler mechanics is you’ll struggle, as Occult Junior High curses your entire team immobile mid-match in a scripted event. It is the regularity and gracelessness that offends; why develop a game with play and possibilities and rules if they’re rendered impotent for the sake of manufactured theatrics?
Not that simply ignoring the story is an option. Inazuma is mired with a sluggish pace, inanely slow dialogue and the sour replacement of character with quirk; Jack Wallside’s apprehension with mastering the Inazuma Drop may initially be charming but racy comics and an addiction to noodles don’t prevent your sighs as yet another painfully long cutscene bullies more millage out of a dying plot. Given that cutscenes are unskippable, this degree of offence should qualify as a war crime.
Outside of the muck, Inazuma impresses. It looks delightful, matches are slick and enjoyable, if a little simplistic, and hunting for prospective new teammates can quickly develop into a life-threatening habit. All of your RPG hallmarks are present, accessible and welcome although overpowering in the coalescence; you would be forgiven for forgetting this is also a football game. If you want to let your fast-paced wingers run the ball up to cross into waiting forwards or spring an offside trap to counter a heavy offensive by the opposition, you’re thinking too much. Not that traditional thinking will help. With each individual player’s special moves capable of turning the strongest defensive coverage into a shambling mess or your hoof-it-and-hope counter offensive achieving an undeserved success by summoning the spirit of a dragon to power your punt, you’ll quickly develop a dependency on them. No excuses necessary, the game is formed by them rather than broken or imbalanced. Inazuma never claims to be FIFA and the brief sequences are immensely charming, although a little more leeway would’ve been appreciated. If you prefer your Fulham to Fort Condor, you won’t have a safety net.
A review of two halves, for a game of two halves, both equally powered by cliché. It’s an uneasy balance that Inazuma Eleven never succeeds at and if you’re one for finding frustration at the strides and audacity JRPG storytelling seems to occupy itself with, this is not for you. It may potentially count as one of the most regressive examples of such. If you think you can look past its shortcomings and focus on the depths of the game outside of the restrictions that hinder actual progress, and it’s a big ask, you’ll find something enjoyable, addictive and challenging. And if you don’t care for any of that, hey; at least it’s bloody charming.
