Who Truly Deserves the Title of King of Rock and Why It Matters

The first time I planted a luminescent spore-gourd in Ultros, I expected it to create a glowing bridge across a chasm. Instead, it just sat there, pulsing softly, doing absolutely nothing useful for my progress. I remember staring at the screen thinking, "Well, that was a waste of a rare seed." This moment of horticultural confusion got me thinking about a much older, louder debate: who truly deserves the title of King of Rock and why it matters. It might seem like a leap from a psychedelic metroidvania to the history of rock music, but the connection is in the function and the frustration. In Ultros, seeds are your tools for progression, much like a guitarist's riffs are tools for musical revolution. But if you don't understand the tool—be it a seed's growth pattern or a musician's cultural impact—you can't properly utilize its power or recognize its true value.

Let me paint you a picture of Ultros's bizarre ecosystem. One of the only friendly alien species you meet is a gardener of cosmic proportions, cultivating sprawling, multi-level gardens that are essential to navigation. Some plants grow fruits that heal you or upgrade your abilities—straightforward enough. Others, however, have more abstract functions. The Grapple-Vine doesn't just sit there; it actively grows out platforms from ledge corners, physically altering the geometry of the world to grant you access. Another species, the Boom-Bloom, can sprawl outwards with explosive force, destroying obstacles that block shortcuts. For the first few hours, these seeds felt like cryptic replacements for the standard character abilities you'd find in a game like Hollow Knight or Symphony of the Night. I'd obtain a double-jump, sure, but I'd also need to find the right seed to destroy a specific wall. The lack of clear descriptions was, frankly, a pain. Planting a precious seed and watching it do something entirely unexpected was deflating. It created a barrier to mastery, a feeling that I was fumbling in the dark rather than strategically gardening my way to victory. This is where the analogy to the "King of Rock" debate ignites. Proclaiming a single king is like trying to identify the one "correct" seed in Ultros. Is it the one that gives you health, or the one that reshapes the world? The answer depends entirely on your immediate need and the context of your journey.

So, who is the true King of Rock? Is it Elvis Presley, the cultural atom bomb who sold over 1 billion records globally and brought rock and roll to the white mainstream? Or is it Chuck Berry, the architect whose guitar riffs became the very DNA of the genre, directly influencing everyone from The Beatles to AC/DC? For decades, this debate has raged, and I’ll admit my bias: I lean towards Berry. Elvis had the voice and the hips, but Chuck had the blueprint. He was the Grapple-Vine of rock, creating the foundational structures—the duck walk, the storytelling lyrics, the relentless guitar work—that allowed thousands of other artists to reach new areas of musical expression. Elvis was the Boom-Bloom, a explosive force that shattered social and musical obstacles, but he often built on the platforms Berry had already grown. This distinction matters because it defines what we value more: raw, world-altering impact or the intricate, systemic design that enables long-term evolution. In Ultros, I eventually obtained an ability to extract and replant seeds, which alleviated the frustration. It was a "do-over," a chance to experiment. But it still took me a good 5-6 hours of gameplay to truly internalize the intricacies of each plant. I had to fail, replant, and observe. Similarly, in music, we need to dig past the initial, explosive popularity—the "hit single"—and understand the intricate workings of an artist's influence. The solution in both contexts is active, engaged experimentation and historical context.

The lesson from Ultros's gardens is that utility is contextual. A seed that's useless in a cavern might be the key to ascending a tower. Likewise, fixating on a single "king" is a reductive way to view rock and roll's sprawling, chaotic ecosystem. The genre is a garden, and its kings are multiple: Berry the architect, Presley the explosion, Little Richard the frenetic energy, and so on. What matters is not crowning one, but understanding how each one's unique "ability" allowed the genre to metastasize and explore new territories. My personal preference for Chuck Berry's foundational work doesn't diminish Elvis's monumental role; it just means I value the underlying code more than the spectacular output. In the end, whether you're navigating a alien world or the history of music, the goal is the same: to stop looking for a single, simple answer and start appreciating the complex, interconnected systems that make the journey of exploration so endlessly rewarding. The real king is the one that helps you progress. For me, in the game, it was the humble platform-growing vine. In music, it was always the man with the guitar and a story to tell.