Aside from Winning Eleven 98, ZAGE's other June releases were also phenomenal, especially because Digimon finally received its first true console game. Ever since Digimon first exploded in popularity as a Tamagotchi style handheld device back in 1995 under ZAGE, fans had been waiting for something bigger. Now, for the first time, Digimon was no longer limited to a tiny screen and simple beeps. It was a full world, a full adventure, and it instantly felt like a major event for both gamers and Digimon fans.
The game itself felt like Digimon in the most authentic way. As expected, you take care of your monster from the moment it is born as a baby. You raise it day by day as it grows, evolves, learns new habits, and develops its own personality. Eventually it reaches its final form, and then, just like the Digimon fans already understand, it does not stay forever. It will eventually die and be reborn as an egg again. But this is not a simple reset. The rebirth system becomes part of the progression, because each new cycle gives you more options, better base stats, and more control over what kind of Digimon your partner can become.
After the first rebirth, players can start exploring different evolution results more deliberately, testing new training routines and care styles to see what forms they can unlock. At the core, the gameplay loop is still about raising your Digimon like a real partner, not just using it as a weapon. You have to feed it, let it sleep when it is tired, train it consistently, and pay attention to its condition. Every small decision matters, and that is why players quickly become attached. It is not just a monster on screen, it feels like your Digimon your partner.
Then came the evolution system, and it was one of the biggest reasons players couldn't stop talking about the game. Evolution was not something you simply selected from a menu. Instead, it varied depending on how the player raised their Digimon day by day. Care mistakes, feeding habits, training routines, rest, discipline, even how often you pushed your partner too hard could influence the outcome. Factors like happiness, discipline, and training balance became insanely crucial, because they silently shaped your Digimon's evolution pathway. The game made it feel like your Digimon's growth was a reflection of your choices, not a scripted upgrade.
Because of that, Digimon World was also a surprisingly hard game. Many players forgot small things or simply didn't know which training and food were best for their Digimon. Sometimes they trained too much without rest. Sometimes they fed the wrong diet. Sometimes they ignored happiness and discipline, thinking it didn't matter. Then suddenly their Digimon evolved into a form they didn't want at all. That frustration quickly turned into obsession. Players began experimenting, comparing results, and sharing notes.
Before long, ZAGE forums were flooded with discussions about how to raise Digimon properly. People started posting detailed care guides, evolution pathway charts, food recommendations, training schedules, and even warnings like, "Don't neglect sleep or you'll regret it." The community turned evolution into a puzzle, and solving that puzzle became part of the fun.
The combat is weird in a good way, because players cannot directly control their Digimon's exact actions. Instead, you give broad instructions like "Attack!", "Attack with all you've got!", "Defend!", or "Be careful!", and your Digimon decides what to do based on its own intelligence and personality. That single design choice makes battles feel less like controlling a unit and more like fighting alongside a partner.
Because the AI is influenced by intelligence, the gameplay can become chaotic in the most memorable way. A low intelligence Digimon might panic, waste stamina, or use its strongest attack on the weakest enemy, which makes the player angry for a second. But at the same time, it feels believable. Your partner is not a perfect soldier, it is a creature you raised. When your Digimon is smart, it starts making better decisions, using the right skills at the right time, and following your intent more accurately. Players can actually feel their Digimon growing up, not just in stats, but in behavior.
This system also creates unexpected stories during fights. Sometimes your Digimon lands a clutch move on its own and saves you when you are losing. Other times, it makes a silly mistake that becomes a funny memory you remember for years. In the end, the imperfect control is exactly what gives Digimon World its charm. The battles are not always convenient, but they are full of personality, tension, and chaos, creating unforgettable gameplay that feels uniquely Digimon.
Then comes the sense of progression, and this is where the game surprises a lot of people. The main task is not only about beating other Digimon, but also about rebuilding the world. When players defeat certain Digimon in the field, those Digimon can later appear in File City. Instead of staying as enemies forever, they join the city and open shops or services for the player to use. Some provide items, some offer training support, some unlock new convenience features, and some simply give the city more life.
Because of that, players slowly become attached to File City. It does not feel like a static hub that never changes. It grows with you, and each new Digimon that moves in feels like a reward you earned through exploration and battles. The city becomes more crowded, more useful, and more warm over time, which makes players want to keep going just to see who will join next and what new service will appear.
Exploration also feels mysterious in a way that fits Digimon perfectly. With the strong 64-bit level of visuals on ZEPS 3, the environments feel bigger, more detailed, and more atmospheric than people expected from a monster raising game. There are hidden paths, strange areas that you cannot access yet, secret encounters, and small easter eggs scattered across the world. Players are constantly curious about what is behind the next corner, or what happens if they return to an area later with a stronger Digimon.
Many players were impressed by the world design because it still carries the core feeling of the Digimon and Tamagotchi style gameplay they love, raising a partner, bonding with it, and living through its life cycle, but now inside a real adventure world. Because of that balance, the game was reviewed very well and quickly became one of ZAGE's most talked about releases.
Digimon World quickly became the kind of release that other third-party developers could learn from. Some studios only watched from a distance, but others immediately began studying it seriously, taking notes and discussing what made it work. It was not just the graphics or the brand power, it was the design choices, the courage to make something different, and the way the game created attachment through systems instead of cutscenes.
Inside Triangle Soft, Hironobu Sakaguchi, the leader of their game development division, was looking at Digimon World with clear interest. He had a copy of the game guide and printed design notes on his desk, with a TV in the corner replaying captured footage from a recent battle and a File City upgrade sequence. "Hmm, they're really experimenting with something this time, huh?" Hironobu said, amused, his eyes sharp despite the casual tone.
He chuckled softly as several engineers around him nodded in agreement. One of them leaned forward, still impressed, and began to speak.
"Yes, boss… they made a turn based system without giving the player full control of every action?" the engineer said, still sounding half confused and half impressed. "The Digimon AI just does whatever it wants sometimes. If you think about it, it sounds like bad design, because players usually hate losing control, but…"
Hironobu nodded slowly. "But it works," he said, finishing the thought for him. "It isn't always convenient, and sometimes it will even annoy the player. You will shout at the screen, you will feel like the Digimon is being stubborn, and you will blame the AI for a moment. Yet it still works because it matches the heart of the game, and it changes how players think."
He folded his arms, voice calm but confident. "The main gameplay here is not combat like other RPGs. It is raising your Digimon, your pet, your partner. In most RPGs, the character is a tool, and the battle system is about optimization and perfect execution. Here, the imperfect control becomes the point. It turns every fight into a test of how well you raised that partner, not just how fast your fingers are."
Hironobu glanced at the footage again. "If your Digimon wastes a strong move, you feel frustration. But that frustration immediately connects back to the raising system. You start asking questions. Did I neglect discipline? Did I ignore intelligence training? Did I spoil it with comfort and never teach it restraint? That loop is brilliant, because combat becomes feedback for your caregiving."
He nodded once more. "So yes, it can be messy. But the mess is meaningful. The combat system is built to reinforce that relationship, not replace it. You are not issuing perfect commands to a soldier. You are guiding a partner, and the game makes you earn that trust."
He chuckled softly, eyes still on the footage replaying in the corner. "ZAGE really is something else," he said, sounding equal parts amused and impressed. "They already have Pokemon in their arsenal for fantasy monster battles, where strategy and direct control are the main attraction. In that kind of game, the thrill comes from planning your turns perfectly and executing exactly what you want."
He nodded toward the screen again. "But here, Digimon feels different. The AI makes it feel like your partner has a mind of its own, not a piece on a board. When it disobeys, you get angry, but the anger is personal, like you're disappointed in a friend, not frustrated at a machine. And then you start thinking about how you raised it. You wonder if you were too soft, too careless, too impatient."
Hironobu's voice softened slightly. "When it listens and wins, you feel proud. Not because you pressed the right button, but because your time and care paid off. That emotional swing is not an accident. It is design. It turns combat into a relationship test, and it makes players attach to their Digimon in a way that pure strategy games rarely achieve."
Hironobu leaned back in his chair and tapped his finger against the desk. "And the most evolutionary part is their evolution pathway system. It's completely genius. Instead of choosing a path from a menu, your actions choose it for you. Training, discipline, diet, rest, even how you treat your partner, all of it becomes the real decision making. The player is not selecting evolution, the player is shaping it."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as if he could already see the design document forming in his head. "That changes everything. It means every player's story becomes different without the game needing a thousand scripted branches. Two people can start with the same egg, and end up with completely different partners because their habits are different. One player is strict and disciplined. Another is gentle and careless. One focuses on training. Another focuses on comfort. The game keeps track of those choices and turns them into consequences. That is why the evolution feels earned, and also why it feels like a mystery you want to solve."
Hironobu's finger tapped once more. "And the best part is that the system makes mistakes meaningfully. If you mess up, you don't just reload a save. You live with the result, and that result becomes a new pathway. In a normal RPG, the player asks, 'What button do I press?' Here, the player asks, 'What kind of partner did I raise?' That question alone creates attachment."
He looked toward the engineer beside him and grinned. "We can try to implement something like this in our next game, Tetsu. Not a copy, but the philosophy. A system where the player's behavior creates the result, and the game remembers what you did."
Hironobu lifted a hand as if to underline the idea. "Not just a hidden statistic either. I mean a system that quietly watches you, then speaks back through the world. If you treat the character with patience, the character grows stable. If you treat the character like a tool, the character becomes cold, reckless, or even broken. The player does not just choose options. The player builds a pattern, and the game reacts to that pattern."
His grin widened a little. "The key is to build the rules so they are fair, but not obvious. Give players hints and feedback, but don't reveal everything. Let them experiment. Let them trade notes. Let them feel that the world responds to their habits."
He tapped the desk again, already thinking in systems. "We can even design multiple layers. One layer is visible, like small changes in dialogue, mood, or animation. Another layer is invisible, like growth tendencies that only appear later. That delayed payoff is important. It makes players feel like their actions had weight, and it makes them replay the game just to test what happens if they live differently."
Hironobu's eyes narrowed, focused. "But we must be careful. If the system feels random, players will call it unfair. If it is too transparent, players will solve it like a math formula and the magic disappears. We want the space in between, where players feel confident that the game is listening, but still feel curious about the full truth."
He paused, then added with a satisfied chuckle, "If we can capture even a fraction of that, we'll have a system that players talk about for years. Not because it is flashy, but because it feels personal."
Tetsuya Takahashi nodded quickly, excitement in his eyes. "Hehehe, this is really a good mechanic, huh, boss? It feels like the player is raising a character with consequences, not just grinding numbers. but still it might hard to pull it out boss" Hironobu nod.
He leaned forward a little, voice more animated. "Hard but not impossible And it would fit our style too. We like stories that change depending on who the player is, not just what the player clicks. If the mechanics can carry the emotion, it means we can make drama without forcing it. The player would create their own proof, their own regret, their own pride."
Hironobu smiled, clearly impressed by ZAGE's new mechanics. For a moment he just stared at the paused footage on the TV, as if he could still hear the crowd noise and menu sounds echoing in his head. Then he let out a slow sigh, not from frustration, but from the strange feeling of being both inspired and challenged at the same time.
"Sometimes I wonder," he said quietly, voice lower than before, "what it feels like to work under Zaboru Renkonan. His ideas feel endless. Like he can reach into the future and pull concepts out before anyone else even thinks of them."
He rubbed his chin, thinking out loud. "It's not only the big vision either. It's the small decisions. The way he connects systems together so they feed each other. The way he turns inconvenience into emotion, and emotion into loyalty. That takes talent, yes, but it also takes confidence. He isn't afraid to let players be uncomfortable if it makes the experience feel real."
Hironobu's lips curled into a faint smile again. "When someone like that sets a direction, I imagine the team feels like they're always chasing something just out of reach, but in a good way. Like every meeting ends with ten new doors opening, and nobody goes home satisfied, because tomorrow they want to build something even better and Zaboru is the one who lead them."
He laughed again, trying to lighten the mood before it became too serious. "But well, I already have my Triangle Soft. Haha. I'm not running away."
Tetsuya sighed dramatically, almost offended by the joke. "Don't joke like that, boss. We might die without you around. ZAGE already has enough talent. Triangle Soft needs you. We need your taste, your judgment, your stubbornness. If you leave, who's going to stop us from making a beautiful disaster?"
Hironobu smiled, the kind of smile that showed both pride and responsibility, and nodded. Then the room settled back into focus as they returned to work, minds already spinning with new possibilities.
To be continue
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