The first time I saw Earthworm Jim at the local game store, I thought someone was pulling my leg. This was 1994, I was deep into my Genesis fanboy phase, and here’s this box with a literal earthworm wearing what looked like a rejected superhero costume. The store clerk – this guy named Mike who always knew which games were actually worth playing – saw me staring at it and goes, “Trust me on this one. It’s completely insane but you’ll love it.” Mike had steered me right before, so I dropped my allowance money and walked out with what would become one of my most played Genesis cartridges.
Got home, fired it up, and within the first thirty seconds I’m watching this regular garden worm get zapped by a falling super suit and suddenly he’s this stretchy, wise-cracking hero. The opening sequence alone had me laughing out loud, which was weird because most games didn’t really try to be funny back then. They were serious business – save the princess, defeat the evil wizard, collect the coins. But here’s Jim doing these exaggerated cartoon poses and I’m thinking, okay, this is different.
New Junk City hit me like a brick wall of creativity. While Mario was running through the same grass levels we’d seen a million times, Jim’s navigating through actual garbage dumps, using discarded tires as trampolines, dodging rabid dogs that looked like they belonged in a Ren & Stimpy episode. I remember my dad walking by during one of those idle animations where Jim pulls out a book and starts reading. Dad just shook his head and muttered something about video games getting weirder every year. He wasn’t wrong.
That head whip mechanic though – man, that was revolutionary. Not just smacking enemies but using Jim’s actual head as a grappling hook, swinging across gaps like some demented Tarzan. I spent way too much time just spinning Jim around in circles because it looked hilarious and made this perfect “whoosh” sound. My friend Derek came over that weekend and we took turns seeing who could chain together the longest head-whip combos. Derek was convinced the SNES version would be better when it came out. I told him he was dreaming – Genesis does what Nintendon’t, remember?
Then came the weapons and I realized this wasn’t going to be your typical run-and-gun platformer. The plasma blaster had limited ammo, which forced you to actually think about your shots instead of just spraying bullets everywhere. Can’t tell you how many times I’d carefully conserve ammo for five minutes, then panic when some weird enemy showed up and waste all my shots missing by a mile. My younger sister would watch me play sometimes and offer helpful advice like “maybe aim better” which, you know, thanks for that insight.
Nothing could have prepared me for the “What the Heck?” level. After fighting through relatively normal platforming challenges – and I use “normal” very loosely here – the game suddenly throws you into this twisted game show hosted by a psychotic cat. I actually thought my cartridge was broken. Called up the game store and Mike just started laughing. “Nah man, that’s intentional. The whole game’s like that. Just wait until you get to the underwater parts.” He was right to warn me.
Speaking of which, “Down the Tubes” nearly ended my relationship with Earthworm Jim permanently. Those racing sections in the glass submarine with the impossibly tight time limits had me throwing controllers and using language that would’ve gotten me grounded if my parents heard. I called Derek in desperation and he’s like, “Oh yeah, I had my older brother beat that part for me.” Thanks Derek, super helpful. I finally managed it after about fifty tries, sweating like I’d just run a marathon.
What really set Earthworm Jim apart wasn’t the challenging gameplay though – it was the absolutely unhinged sense of humor. The villain’s name was literally “Queen Pulsating, Bloated, Festering, Sweaty, Pus-filled, Malformed Slug-for-a-Butt.” The princess you’re trying to save is called “Princess What’s-Her-Name.” Random cows fall from the sky for no reason other than it’s funny. As a teenager raised on MTV’s weird animated shows, this felt like someone had made a game specifically for my sense of humor.
The animation blew my mind. Most 16-bit games had sprites that moved in maybe four or five frames, but Jim was doing full cartoon-quality animations. He’d stretch and squash like a real cartoon character, make exaggerated facial expressions when he got hit, do this triumphant flex when picking up power-ups. I found out years later that the development team came from animation backgrounds, which explained everything. These weren’t programmers trying to make a cartoon character – these were actual cartoonists making a video game.
I’ll admit something that teenage me would’ve hated – when I played the SNES version at a friend’s house, the sound was noticeably better. The Genesis version had that distinctive crunchy sound that I loved, but the Super Nintendo’s audio chip made the music and effects cleaner. We had heated debates about which version was superior, the kind of passionate arguments that only happen when you’re fifteen and everything feels monumentally important. Lost at least one friendship over Genesis versus SNES Earthworm Jim arguments at summer camp. No regrets.
The boss battles were incredible. Evil the Cat dramatically grooming himself while you dodge falling junk. Major Mucus and his disgusting snot attacks that somehow managed to be gross and hilarious at the same time. Psy-Crow with his jetpack and attitude problem. These weren’t just obstacles to overcome – they had personality, which was still pretty rare in the mid-90s when most video game villains were just generic bad guys in different colored armor.
When the cartoon show started airing, I was already completely sold on the franchise. Saturday mornings became sacred Earthworm Jim time, and I started using “Groovy!” in regular conversation until everyone around me got sick of hearing it. My mom banned the phrase from dinner conversation after I responded “Groovy!” to her asking if I’d finished my homework. Fair enough, honestly.
Earthworm Jim 2 expanded everything that made the original great, with even weirder levels and more elaborate animations. The blind cave salamander level still gives me nightmares. I called in sick to my part-time job at the movie theater to play it on release day. My boss saw right through me – “New Earthworm Jim came out today, didn’t it?” When I nodded sheepishly, he just sighed and put me on concession stand duty for a month.
The series went off the rails with Earthworm Jim 3D, which was so disappointing that seventeen-year-old me wrote an actual letter to the developers expressing my dismay. Never got a response, but it was probably good practice for expressing criticism constructively. It was my first experience with the unique heartbreak of watching a beloved franchise take a wrong turn – definitely wouldn’t be the last.
These days, I’ve got complete-in-box copies of both Genesis and SNES versions sitting on my shelf. The prices have climbed considerably since my allowance-money days, but there’s something satisfying about owning these artifacts from gaming’s weirder era. When friends come over and spot them, I’ll fire up the Genesis on my old CRT TV. The game still gets laughs, even from people experiencing it for the first time.
What makes Earthworm Jim special, I think, is how unapologetically strange it was willing to be. In today’s focus-grouped, market-tested gaming landscape, there’s something refreshing about a game that feels like it sprang directly from its creators’ imaginations. Of course the villain would be a psychic crow. Of course there’d be a level where you escort a narcoleptic puppy through danger. Of course the princess gets crushed by a falling cow in the ending. These aren’t decisions made to maximize sales – they’re the result of developers having genuine fun and trusting players to come along for the ride.
I showed it to my nephew recently – kid’s grown up with photorealistic graphics and cinematic presentations. At first he was skeptical of the “primitive” visuals, but within minutes he’s cracking up at Jim’s animations and asking questions about this weird worm guy. Good design doesn’t have an expiration date, even if the technology keeps evolving.
Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to Earthworm Jim after all these years. In a medium constantly chasing the next technological breakthrough, there’s something comforting about revisiting a game that prioritized creativity, humor, and pure weirdness above everything else. Every time Jim yells “Groovy!” or launches that random cow into orbit, I’m transported back to my parents’ basement, controller in hand, wondering what bizarre thing this strange little game would show me next.
Joe’s a history teacher who treats the console wars like actual history. A lifelong Sega devotee from Phoenix, he writes with passion, humor, and lingering heartbreak over the Dreamcast. Expect strong opinions, bad puns, and plenty of “blast processing.”
