Who Truly Deserves the Title of King of Rock in Music History?

Walking through the vibrant, alien gardens of Ultros for the first time, I couldn’t help but draw a strange parallel to a debate that’s raged in music circles for decades: Who truly deserves the title of King of Rock? It might sound like a stretch, but hear me out. Just like in horticulture-heavy games, where every seed you plant has the potential to reshape your entire journey, rock music’s legacy is built on foundational figures whose influence either opens new pathways or stubbornly blocks them. In Ultros, you’re handed seeds without clear descriptions—some sprout into fruits that heal you, others grow platforms to hidden zones, and a few even alter the world itself. You’re left experimenting, guessing, sometimes failing. That’s exactly how I feel when weighing the merits of Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, and Little Richard. Each, in their own way, planted seeds that grew into what we now call rock ‘n’ roll, but which one truly cultivated the genre’s most enduring landscape?

Let’s talk about Elvis first. The man had charisma, no doubt—the hip swings, the voice that could croon or roar. He took rhythm and blues, sprinkled in some country, and served it to a mainstream white audience. Sales figures? Over one billion records worldwide, they say. But here’s where the Ultros analogy kicks in. Elvis felt like planting a seed that gives you an immediate boost—a healing fruit, let’s say. It’s helpful, even essential in the moment, but does it fundamentally change how you navigate the map? Not really. His influence was massive, but he didn’t write his own songs often; he interpreted. In the game, that’s like relying on a pre-planted garden someone else designed. You benefit, but you’re not the one shaping the world. Then there’s Chuck Berry. Now he’s the seed that grows into a sprawling vine, destroying obstacles and creating shortcuts. Berry’s guitar riffs in classics like "Johnny B. Goode" became the blueprint for rock music’s structure—the storytelling, the showmanship, the duck walk. He wrote his own material, infused it with social commentary, and essentially coded the DNA for generations of guitar heroes. If Elvis was the flashy fruit, Berry was the plant that reshapes the terrain permanently.

But wait—what about Little Richard? Oh, he’s the wildcard seed, the one that alters the world state in ways you never saw coming. His frenetic piano pounding in "Tutti Frutti" and "Long Tall Sally" didn’t just open new areas; it blew holes in the walls of genre itself. He brought queer, Black, flamboyant energy into a conservative 1950s soundscape, and that’s like the Ultros plant that grows out platforms on ledge corners, letting you access places you thought were unreachable. Richard’s influence is why we have Prince, why we have glam rock. Yet, much like in the game, his contributions are sometimes under-explained, overlooked because they didn’t fit the neat narrative. I’ve spent hours in Ultros replanting seeds, trying to figure out why one type refused to grow as expected—frustrating, but eventually rewarding. Similarly, digging into Little Richard’s legacy requires extra effort, but boy, does it pay off.

So, who’s the King? If we’re judging by sheer map-altering power, I’d lean toward Chuck Berry. His innovations—those double-string guitar licks, the narrative lyrics—are like the horticulture abilities in Ultros that become indispensable once you master them. In my playthrough, I remember finally understanding how to use a specific seed to destroy a rock blocking a shortcut; it saved me 20 minutes of backtracking. Berry’s music does that for rock—it cuts through the noise. But here’s the twist: maybe there isn’t one king. In Ultros, you need a combination of character abilities and plant powers to progress. Similarly, rock music needed Elvis’s mass appeal, Berry’s structural genius, and Little Richard’s boundary-smashing audacity. Still, if I had to pick one, I’d crown Chuck Berry. Why? Because his seeds didn’t just feed the moment; they grew into vines that still guide the path today. Elvis might have sold more—say, 500 million units to Berry’s 100 million—but numbers aren’t everything. It’s about who built the garden that keeps on giving.

This whole reflection stems from those frustrating early hours in Ultros, where the lack of clear descriptions had me wasting seeds on barren soil. I’d think, "This should work!" and it didn’t—kind of like how Elvis’s later career faltered while Berry’s innovations kept yielding fruit. The game eventually gives you a tool to extract and replant seeds, which helped, but it took me a good 10 hours to feel like I was optimizing my garden. In music history, we have critics and biographers as that tool, helping us replant legacies until they make sense. So, next time you’re debating the King of Rock, remember Ultros: it’s not about who had the shiniest fruit, but whose plants changed the map for everyone who came after. And in that light, Chuck Berry’s garden is still in bloom.