8 Best Platformers of the 80s & 90s That Shaped My Childhood
The Christmas of 1987 changed my life. I was nine years old, bundled in flannel pajamas with those weird plastic grippy things on the feet, surrounded by torn wrapping paper in our living room. My dad—who’d been working double shifts at the factory that month—was half-asleep on the couch, trying his best to look excited about watching me open presents. Then I got to the big one. The box that felt like it contained the weight of the entire universe. An NES with Super Mario Bros. and Duck Hunt.
From that morning forward, platformers became my obsession, my hobby, and occasionally, my nemesis. Through countless afternoons after school, weekend marathons, and late-night sessions with the volume turned low so my parents wouldn’t know I was still awake, these games shaped not just my gaming tastes but somehow my actual brain development. The timing, precision, pattern recognition, and stubborn persistence required to master these games became part of my mental makeup in ways that still surprise me today.
Looking back at the evolution of platformers from the 80s through the 90s is like watching a time-lapse of both gaming technology and my own childhood in parallel. The games grew up alongside me, from simple 2D side-scrollers to complex 3D worlds. Here are the eight platformers that most defined those formative years, in roughly the order they consumed my life.
Super Mario Bros. was my gateway drug, of course. That first level—World 1-1—is burned into my brain more permanently than my own home address. The precision of Mario’s jumping physics seemed so perfect, so intuitive that I didn’t even realize how revolutionary it was at the time. The way he’d continue moving slightly after you stopped pressing the direction, that little skid that felt so natural. The variable jump height depending on how long you held the button. These weren’t just technical achievements; they were the creation of a physical language that would define platformers for decades.
I remember my brother Dave challenging me to beat the game without using any warp zones—a feat that took me an entire weekend of focused effort. When I finally reached Bowser in World 8-4, my hands were sweating so much that the controller kept slipping. I died twice before finally making it past him on my third life. The castle bridge collapsed, the Princess thanked me for my effort, and I felt a sense of accomplishment so profound that I ran around the house whooping until my mom threatened to disconnect the Nintendo if I didn’t “calm down and act like a human being.”
But it was Super Mario Bros. 3 that truly elevated platforming to an art form. Released in 1990 (I remember because it was the same year I broke my arm falling out of the treehouse in our backyard), SMB3 expanded the vocabulary of platforming in ways that seemed almost impossibly innovative. The raccoon tail that let Mario fly. The frog suit for underwater precision. The different themed worlds that each presented unique mechanical challenges rather than just aesthetic changes.
The level design in SMB3 was like watching a master class in teaching through play. Each stage introduced concepts gradually, letting you experiment in relatively safe environments before testing your mastery in more punishing scenarios. I didn’t have the vocabulary for it then, but I was experiencing instructional design at its finest. By the time I reached the brutally difficult later stages of World 8, the game had prepared me with all the skills I needed—if I could execute them properly.
My cousin Kevin and I spent an entire spring break passing the controller back and forth, determined to find every secret. The first time we discovered you could go behind the white blocks in the fortress levels, you’d have thought we’d found actual buried treasure from our reaction. We kept a notebook filled with maps and secret locations, complete with illustrations of where to find the warp whistles. That notebook became a prized possession passed around the neighborhood, a samizdat guide in the pre-internet era.
While Nintendo was perfecting Mario, Sega was developing their answer with Sonic the Hedgehog. I first played it at my friend Tom’s house—he was the rich kid whose parents bought him a Genesis for no special occasion. The difference in philosophy between Mario and Sonic was immediately apparent and reflected the console war marketing perfectly. Where Mario was precise and methodical, Sonic was fast and flashy. The physics felt different—momentum-based, rewarding speed and flow rather than cautious precision. Mario was a series of discrete challenges; Sonic was about finding the optimal path through a continuous flow state.
Sonic the Hedgehog 2 perfected this formula. The addition of Tails allowed for a unique cooperative experience where my younger sister could join in without the pressure of actually having to complete the levels. The spin dash added a new dimension to the movement, letting you build momentum from a standstill. And Chemical Plant Zone—with its purple liquid and frantic vertical climbs as the toxins rose below you—remains one of the most thrilling platforming sequences in gaming history.
I’ll never forget the day I finally beat Death Egg Robot at the end of Sonic 2. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I’d been trying all weekend. No rings, just pure pattern recognition and execution. When I landed the final hit, I screamed so loudly that our dog started barking and my mom came running in from the garden thinking I’d hurt myself. How do you explain to a concerned parent that your emotional outburst is due to defeating a cartoon villain in a video game? You don’t. You just say “I’m fine” and accept that some joys are impossible to translate to the non-gaming world.
Mega Man 2 offered a different take on platforming, one based on challenge, precision, and flexibility of approach. The ability to tackle the eight Robot Masters in any order was revolutionary—it meant that you, the player, could create your own difficulty curve. Stuck on Quick Man and his brutal laser beams? Go fight someone else, get a new weapon, come back stronger. It taught me problem-solving in a way that more linear games couldn’t.
The controls in Mega Man 2 were different from Mario or Sonic—more rigid, less physics-based, but perfectly suited to the challenge-oriented design. Jumps were fixed height, movement was constant speed. This meant that success was purely about timing and positioning, creating a particular kind of platforming satisfaction that was about execution rather than expression. I spent hours mastering the patterns of those disappearing block sections in Wily’s Castle, failing dozens of times before finally getting the rhythm just right. When victory came, it wasn’t luck—it was earned through repetition and improvement, a lesson that would serve me well beyond gaming.
As the 16-bit era hit its stride, Donkey Kong Country arrived and showed us all what the SNES was truly capable of. Those pre-rendered 3D graphics felt like peeking into the future. I remember pressing my face closer to the TV screen, trying to figure out how they’d achieved that fur texture on Donkey Kong. But DKC wasn’t just a technical showcase—its level design added new dimensions to 2D platforming with barrel cannons that required timing to fire yourself across chasms, animal buddies that changed your movement abilities, and hidden bonus rooms that encouraged thorough exploration.
Mine Cart Carnage—that’s a level name that still triggers a physical response in my body. The white-knuckle tension of navigating that precarious track, perfectly timing jumps over broken rails and gaps, all while maintaining the cart’s relentless forward momentum. It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. My friend Chris and I would take turns attempting it, the non-playing person serving as a “spotter” who would yell warnings about upcoming obstacles the player might have forgotten. “JUMP! GAP GAP GAP!” We developed our own shorthand language of panic.
As the industry began transitioning to 3D, Super Mario 64 did for three dimensions what the original Super Mario Bros. had done for two. The first time I controlled Mario in a fully 3D space—running in circles around Princess Peach’s castle just because I could—was a revelation. The camera controls, which we take for granted now, were solving a problem that most of us didn’t even realize existed yet. How do you show the player what they need to see in a 3D environment? The answer wasn’t perfect (that damn lakitu camera had its issues), but it was pioneering.
The movement options in Mario 64 expanded the platforming vocabulary exponentially. The triple jump, the long jump, the backflip, the wall jump—each had specific use cases and required mastery for 100% completion. I spent hours just running around the castle grounds practicing these moves, finding the limits of what was possible. When I discovered you could chain a long jump into a dive and then ground pound to cover huge distances, it felt like I’d personally broken the game—a secret technique that made me feel like a speedrunner before I even knew what speedrunning was.
Collecting the 120 stars became my summer project in 1997. My mom started referring to Mario as my “little plumber friend” and would ask things like “Did you and your plumber friend save the princess yet?” with that mix of affection and concern that parents of gaming-obsessed kids perfect. I had created a physical checklist, crossing off each star as I found it. The Rainbow Ride stage’s 100-coin star was my white whale—I must have attempted it thirty times before finally securing that last shiny reward.
Around the same time, Sony was making its entry into the platforming world with Crash Bandicoot. While Mario 64 embraced the freedom of 3D, Crash took a more conservative approach—3D visuals but with more controlled, corridor-like level design. It was a smart transitional step that maintained the focused challenge of 2D platformers while introducing players to three-dimensional character movement. The “into the screen” sections, where Crash would run toward the camera while being chased by a boulder, created a new kind of platforming tension that simply wasn’t possible in 2D.
I didn’t own a PlayStation initially—my allegiance (and limited funds) had been pledged to Nintendo. But my cousin had one, and weekends at his house became Crash Bandicoot marathons. We’d take turns, switching after each death, establishing an informal competitive scoring system. The difficulty of the later levels meant that controller handoffs happened frequently, and the blend of frustration and encouragement became a bonding ritual. “You got further than me, but I collected more Wumpa fruits” became the kind of meaningless-yet-meaningful debate that defined our gaming relationship.
Rayman represented yet another approach to platforming evolution. Its visually distinct style—with the character’s floating limbs and surreal, dreamlike environments—was unlike anything I’d seen before. The animation was fluid and expressive, giving the world a bouncy, cartoonish quality that influenced my early (and terrible) attempts at drawing my own game characters. The difficulty curve was steep, though. I remember being stuck on Mr. Sax—a boss fight inside a psychedelic musical world—for what felt like weeks.
What made Rayman special was how it embraced the artistic possibilities of the medium. While many platformers were adopting early 3D or pre-rendered graphics, Rayman showed that hand-drawn 2D could still create magical, immersive worlds. It taught me that technical advancement wasn’t the only way forward in gaming—artistic vision could be equally revolutionary. I didn’t articulate it that way at fourteen, of course. Back then, I just knew it looked “really cool and weird.”
As the 90s approached their end, Banjo-Kazooie represented the culmination of 3D platforming lessons learned. It took the collectathon approach of Mario 64 and expanded it into a more structured, content-rich experience. The partnership between bear and bird created new movement possibilities—the high jump, the glide, the beak attacks—that built upon the foundation Mario 64 had established. The humor and character interactions added narrative flavor that earlier platformers had only hinted at.
Click Clock Wood remains one of the most ambitious level designs in platforming history—a single environment played through four different seasonal variations, each with unique challenges and collectibles. It was a mind-blowing concept that rewarded attention to detail and environmental awareness. I remember mapping the changes between seasons in yet another notebook, creating a reference guide that helped me ensure I hadn’t missed anything. “The water is frozen in winter so you can reach the cave entrance” … “The beehive falls in autumn revealing a hidden passage”—these notes reflected a level of environmental storytelling that felt revolutionary.
What strikes me looking back at these games is how each contributed something vital to the platformer vocabulary. Mario established the fundamental grammar of movement. Sonic added speed and momentum. Mega Man introduced tool-based problem solving. Donkey Kong Country brought environmental variety and visual flair. Mario 64 translated everything into three dimensions. Crash showed how to maintain challenge in 3D space. Rayman emphasized artistic expression. Banjo-Kazooie synthesized and expanded these lessons into rich, detailed worlds.
The evolution of platforming mechanics across these games wasn’t just technical—it reflected changing ideas about what games could be. Early platformers were primarily challenge-oriented, testing your reflexes and timing. As the genre evolved, exploration, collection, and narrative became equally important. The progression from linear levels to open worlds mirrored my own development from child to teenager, my growing desire for autonomy and self-directed experience.
The precision required in early platformers taught me patience and persistence. I still recall the exact timing needed to navigate the auto-scrolling airship levels in Super Mario Bros. 3—how you had to anticipate the movements of those cannon balls, jumping slightly before you thought necessary. Modern games often smooth out these rough edges, but there was something valuable in the unyielding precision those old games demanded. They didn’t adapt to you; you adapted to them.
The platformer’s evolution from 2D to 3D represented one of gaming’s most significant transitional challenges. Many beloved 2D franchises failed to make the leap successfully. The change wasn’t just technical—it required a fundamental rethinking of design principles. How do you guide a player’s attention in an open 3D space? How do you maintain challenge when the player has so much more freedom of movement? The games that succeeded—like Mario 64 and Banjo-Kazooie—did so by understanding that 3D platforming wasn’t just 2D with an extra dimension; it was an entirely new language of play.
Camera control emerged as the unexpected critical component of 3D platforming. The best games recognized that the camera was essentially another character, one that needed to work in partnership with the player. Bad camera systems led to countless unfair deaths and thrown controllers. I still get slightly anxious thinking about the camera issues in some sections of the otherwise brilliant Mario 64—that moment in Hazy Maze Cave where the camera would suddenly shift angle during a complex jumping sequence, sending Mario plummeting into the abyss through no fault of your inputs.
The transition to collectathon design—where simply reaching the end of a level was replaced by gathering numerous items scattered throughout the environment—changed the nature of platforming completion. It wasn’t enough to just survive the challenges; you needed to master the space, to understand every nook and cranny. This approach rewarded curiosity and thoroughness over pure reflexes. The satisfaction of finding that last musical note in Banjo-Kazooie after scouring every inch of Freezeezy Peak was different from but equal to the triumph of defeating a difficult boss.
What’s remarkable is how these games hold up decades later. The core pleasures of platforming—the satisfaction of a perfectly timed jump, the joy of discovering a hidden area, the flow state of moving through a well-designed environment—remain as compelling now as they were then. While graphics and technologies have advanced enormously, the fundamental language of platforming established in those early games continues to inform modern design.
I recently introduced my nephew to Super Mario Bros. 3 through the Switch Online service. After some initial complaints about the graphics (“Why does it look so old?”), he became completely engrossed. The principles of good design transcend technological limitations. Watching him discover the hidden blocks and secret areas for the first time, his face lighting up with the same excitement I’d felt thirty years earlier, was a powerful reminder of why these games mattered—and continue to matter.
These eight platformers didn’t just provide entertainment; they established a language of play that has influenced virtually every 3D game that followed. The dual-analog control scheme that’s now standard across genres evolved directly from the camera control solutions pioneered by early 3D platformers. The open-world design that dominates modern gaming builds on the exploration principles established in games like Mario 64 and Banjo-Kazooie. Even the concept of “flow” in game design—that perfect state where challenge and ability are balanced—was being worked out through the momentum-based platforming of Sonic and the precision jumping of Mario.
So here’s to the platformers that shaped not just my childhood but an entire medium. From that Christmas morning in 1987 to the dawn of a new millennium, they taught me timing, persistence, exploration, and the pure joy of movement. In their jumps and double-jumps, their hidden secrets and challenging obstacles, I found not just entertainment but education—lessons in physics, problem-solving, and the rewards of curiosity that have served me well beyond the confines of those pixelated worlds.
