Center Stage: Isle Delfino (Super Mario Sunshine)

In “Center Stage,” Wolfman Jew discusses environments and level design across the games industry. They may be single levels, larger sandboxes, or broader settings. They may be as small as a room and as large as a world. Some may not even be good. But they are all interesting.

Thanks to Cart Boy for edits.

One of my absolute favorite tropes of video games is the concept of the “level theme,” the way game spaces caricature real life climates. There’s the sweeping desert, the Christmastime snowscape, the haunted house, each one bursting with archetypes and feelings. The vast majority of games have this—they’re great for design and aesthetics—but it’s most associated with a certain type of game: one with levels. You know, distinct sections in a story that may riff on each other but that we all know aren’t actually connected. You load one in, then the next. This was the default structure for games for much of the medium’s history (and it’s still hugely important); we’ll be examining it plenty in this new series.

Pictured: just a few of the subjects we might explore in “Center Stage.” Any look familiar?

Certainly, this system has served gaming icon Mario well for decades—and specifically, thirty-seven years since Super Mario Bros. introduced the “grass,” “sea,” and “dungeon” levels to his repertoire back in 1985. Many of the level tropes of platformers (which love level themes more than any other genre) call back to the mainline Super Mario games. But it also has its limits, namely in that it can get a bit rote. There are only so many level themes, and only so many ways they can be examined or mashed together. Mario threads this needle far better than most mascots, but not perfectly.

In 2002, however, the discussion suddenly became moot when Nintendo abandoned this template for Super Mario Sunshine. At the time, the GameCube adventure was the new Mario, the one that would lead the brand for half a decade. That’s what 1996’s Super Mario 64 did; that’s what Sunshine was responding to. And while it followed the general template of 64—jump into a bunch of worlds (called “courses”), find collectables, and use those to unlock more worlds—it upended the details. Mario now had a water gun that directed the platforming. The difficulty was upped significantly. There were greater stabs at storytelling. But the biggest ones were tied to the change in setting from Mario’s Mushroom Kingdom to a picturesque holiday destination.

Mario taking a schluff on Gelato Beach.

Primarily, this is because Isle Delfino (an unsubtle nod to “Dolphin” being the working name for the Nintendo GameCube) is meant to be very much a place. Instead of a fantastical world or obstacle course, as is the Mario standard, each main area was part of a resort island where Mario and friends were vacationing. You could actually stare out while visiting one course and see others, hazy in the sun-drenched distance. You could imagine what it would be like to go there or think back to some wild misadventure it held. Physically, they were no more connected than Mario 64’s central castle and magical “portrait worlds,” but Sunshine worked hard to make the place feel contiguous.

The silhouette of Pinna Park makes up part of Sirena Beach’s stunning beachfront view.

It all comes from the island. Isle Delfino is large; there are only seven main worlds compared to the fifteen of 64, but each one is significantly grander. The hub, Delfino Plaza, is an actual city full of neurotic residents who get less anxious the more of the island you fix. Fixing it also causes mostly mild changes, which makes it feel more real and alive. The soundtrack, a typical Mario highlight, is rich and bouncy. The characters are notable, too, as Sunshine added two new fictional races—the Pianta and the Noki—as the main denizens. They’d later be brought into other Mario games in a tertiary capacity, but at first, they were new people who called this tourist trap home. This is very much a foreign country, and Mario and Peach are guests.

Mario investigates a fruit stand in Delfino Plaza. You can actually grab the fruit; it’s part of a few small puzzles.

Less foreign and more strange is the game’s plot. Despite his itinerary, Mario’s not on vacation here. After landing, he’s immediately framed, falsely convicted of mass pollution, and given a court order to clean up the island. There’s this Kafkaesque trial, unpleasant cops bossing you around, and a dark camera filter that only lifts as you gather Shine Sprites, the game’s MacGuffins. You’re not rescuing a princess (though Peach does get kidnapped later); you’re cleaning up goop. It’s less… romantic, isn’t it? Drowning Piranha Plants made of muck, pulling the nostril of a giant Blooper, and wading through grime at the behest of a judge lack the grandeur or independence of a normal power fantasy. But they also push hard on the idea that you’re helping Isle Delfino in a very tangible way.

That the story is nominally a mystery also adds to the sense of deep casual strangeness players found. There’s a villainous doppelgänger of Mario the heroes are trying to track down; reminders of him abound in the form of wanted posters and painted, stylized “M” graffiti you can clean for a minor collectible. Mario only gets to play detective in spin-offs, so having him be vulnerable and threatened by this enigma shakes up the formula. It doesn’t land at all thanks to being poorly told and resolving itself far too quickly, but it does use the island to its benefit. You can’t really tell this kind of story in a setting that’s familiar (like a conventional Mario game), or one that feels less grounded (like the wondrous planetoids of Super Mario Galaxy). It needs a place that you know will still there when you turn off your GameCube.

But the most overt change was the dismissal of many of those classic “level themes.” It’s a summer resort, so there’s no place for wildly divergent environments. Instead of cacti-covered deserts or icy mountains, the levels are plausible (if exaggerated) areas for a summer holiday retreat. There are local towns, stunning beaches and coves, a hotel, even a theme park. This was, and remains, extremely off-brand for Mario, a franchise that never found a real world sport it couldn’t set on a pirate ship, above a lava lake, or in the depths of space. The environmental diversity has always contributed to one of the things most people like about Mario’s games: their sense of wonderment. Removing it, one of the probable effects of the game’s short development time, sets Isle Delfino apart.

The in-game map. You don’t really ever need a map in most Mario games, so it’s more for atmosphere.

These worlds’ structures are very different from the franchise’s other levels because of the change; they try to imagine a coherent and plausible space. Bianco Hills, the first course, sets the stage: you’ve got a small town, a large plaster wall, residents tired of the onset pollution, and a giant windmill atop a hillock. The last main world is also a town, but Pianta Village is more a collection of trees and baths atop a treacherous fall (that’s the area that feels most reminiscent of Mario 64). Sirena Beach has a swanky hotel. Ricco Harbor is a shipping port with cranes, crates, and oil spills. Pinna Park is a theme park, but its Yoshi carousel and ferris wheel are very normal by the standards of video game park attractions. This was extraordinarily alien to longtime players and even casual fans.

It’s Pinna Park! There’s a soft beach out front (with sunflowers and a cannon), but the bulk of the course is spent jumping through kiddie pools, roller coasters, and those spinning ship things.

The most it gets to your “typical” Mario levels is in quick bonus segments, usually ones you find by chasing the evil Shadow Mario. These tend to be strings of random blocks over an ethereal abyss—some of the only times Sunshine indulges in classic bottomless pits, which are otherwise classic Mario fare. Often, you’re barred from using Mario’s new (and extremely helpful) hover move, instantly making them notorious among players for how they ratcheted up the challenge. And they’re exceptionally weird even by oddball platformer standards; Mario might slide down a tiny wooden ramp or be shot through a pachinko machine. If you expect the plumber’s games to have those normal kinds of environmental tropes or momentous levels, you’ll find them in short supply and deeply bizarre. And if you love those tropes (as I do), losing them can be a hard sell.

The notorious, vomitatious Sand Bird, which twists over a bottomless sky. Fun fact: Sunshine, more than any other game, triggers my crippling acrophobia!

Super Mario Sunshine was commercially successful and scored very well amongst critics, but it had a much more mixed response amongst devotees. The setting was not the biggest sticking point; it ranked after complaints over the writing, characters, mechanics, difficulty, repetitive missions, and linearity—despite the game being far more of a sandbox, you have to go through very specific paths to reach the end. But the setting was criticized as well. Fans and journalists found it more samey than usual Mario games, which are usually good at throwing you into a smorgasbord of scenarios. That’s what Mario 64 did. And that’s kind of what people expected (and still expect).

A lot of Ricco Harbor is standard Mario: timed courses, large scaffolding, great music, and a water setting. But it’s how they’re deployed that makes it feel different.

This wasn’t the only early-Aughts Nintendo game that was trying this kind of thing. Pikmin was all about digging through the dirt of a backyard. Luigi’s Mansion had a single house you explored. Metroid Prime tried to present its alien planet as a cohesive ecosystem. That was the Nintendo brand then; exploration, strangeness, and bold new ideas. But those could be explained as new IPs or experimental spin-offs. Sunshine was the mainline Super Mario, and it was the entry that directed the broader Mario brand until Super Mario Galaxy took the reins in 2007. For years, it seemed like every Mario side game had to have a stage at or vaguely “inspired by” Isle Delfino, which wasn’t exactly true. But you couldn’t get away from the setting. That presence led to a kind of resentment amongst some Mario fans towards the game, its characters, and the weirdness it exuded.

Many of the Isle Delfino and Mario Sunshine-inspired courses and stages throughout the years. Five were from just the first four years after Sunshine‘s release.

And yet, it’s not as though Isle Delfino is lacking in distinct locales. Gelato Beach is spectacular with its white sand, coral reefs, and quiet amphitheater. Serena Beach, by contrast, has a small ocean view but a large, posh hotel complete with secret paths and a casino. The streets of Bianco Hills curve and turn nicely, all under the soft shadows of giant, creaking windmill veins. The girders and beams of Ricco Harbor are the kind Mario climbed in his first games and capture just a bit of that energy. Noki Bay is dotted by ancient caverns above and below the water. And Delfino Plaza is perfect as the kind of immaculate, interactive “garden” that Super Mario 64 cultivated. Amongst all of these courses, the streets and homes and underwater sections all feel incredibly distinct in look and architecture. One section of any area doesn’t feel anything like another.

Even Corona Mountain (which is truly abominable as a climax) is great within the broader setting; it’s visible and towering in almost every main area.

The levels are uniformly gorgeous, it must be said. The setting of Isle Delfino was conceived to facilitate Mario’s new water gun, but lends itself to visual splendor even beyond that. This was one of Nintendo’s first 3D games after the somewhat awkward early years of 3D design, and it looked great. It still looks good even twenty years later—though it’s outclassed significantly by its fantastic remaster in Super Mario 3D All-Stars, which altered the HUD and smoothed out the graphics in several much-needed ways. It’s a world that just calls for you to tear into it, which is aided by Mario’s beautifully expanded moveset. I’m mixed on the F.L.U.D.D. water gun, but his physical mobility is phenomenal.

The water graphics were celebrated when Sunshine came out, and they still look pretty good.

Even within those limits, these are still standard video game level tropes. Beach levels. Building levels—and a spooky one at that, as the hotel is haunted. Amusement park levels. Urban levels. Water levels. And the mostly optional side rooms add even more, from the classic “pathway of junk suspended in the air” to a poisonous river. The final battle with Bowser is even set above an active volcano, as though the game is giving a pinch of traditional Mario flavor to end the experience. But these main “courses” still have their own themes; they’re just themes that correspond more to our world than to gaming worlds. They’re subtle, which is a quality we rarely associate with Nintendo’s mascot.

And it’s not as though these are “super” realistic. Here is constantly imperiled Pianta Village, under which is a dangerous course of mushrooms and wicker walls.

Over time, Mario Sunshine’s hold over the franchise waned, as is the fate of all 3D Mario games. Five years after it came out, Super Mario Galaxy steered the franchise to focus more on elaborate, quick courses not unlike Sunshine’s bonus levels. Super Mario 3D Land and World went even further, but they aped the mechanics of Mario’s 2D adventures for better (in World‘s case) and worse (in Land‘s). Even the worlds that housed the levels had little internal cohesion; 3D World‘s ice world has only one actual ice level. All of these also pared down the cast, the plotting, and the desire to create a unified setting. The kind of weirdos who populated Delfino Plaza weren’t all gone, but they were given shorter shrift. While the settings were still exciting and imaginative, they lacked that specific lived-in quality. That cut away from the exciting propulsion.

Sandbox environments, like Bianco Hills, were also greatly deemphasized. If there was a wide space, it only existed as a jumping-off point.

However, Super Mario Sunshine’s influence isn’t gone. The very stages it inspired in Mario Kart and Super Smash Bros. can be found in the most recent iterations of both series, and they still carry the look, if not the sense of place. Piantas are in plenty of spin-off games. Luigi’s Mansion 3 replicates that idea of being a wild tourist retreat. But its desire to imagine a cohesive space is also at the center of Super Mario Odyssey, the current standard bearer for 3D Mario until whatever next mainline entry supplants it—and going by release years of these games, that should be pretty soon. The detailed sandboxes, the wacky residents; it’s even styled as a multi-stop vacation with brochures and local currency. The fifteen-years-removed sequel just manages a compromise with a bevy of settings instead of one.

And that interest in a strong central setting or community has been true for Mario since 2002. Starship Mario in Super Mario Galaxy 2 was small, but it got a new crew member with seemingly every other world you found. The Paper Mario games have fun hubs and cities. The Luigi’s Mansion games do something similar by treating its haunts as (relatively) coherent places. And the ones that are set in far-off lands generally try to treat those settings as special and distinct. So while I doubt we’ll get a mainline Mario game that goes as far as Sunshine for the foreseeable future, the game’s ethos—and its vision of a beautiful setting most of all—is everywhere.