I still have my original PlayStation copy of Final Fantasy VII. The four-disc jewel case sits on my shelf alongside other cherished relics from gaming history—my cartridge of Chrono Trigger, my dog-eared instruction manual for The Legend of Zelda, my suspiciously sticky controller from marathon Goldeneye sessions. They’re artifacts from a different era, little time capsules of who I was and what I loved during formative years.
So when Square Enix announced the Final Fantasy VII Remake, I had… complicated feelings. On one hand, returning to Midgar with modern graphics and gameplay sounded incredible. On the other hand, would they preserve what made the original special, or would this be a cynical cash grab trading on my nostalgia? I found myself caught in that strange tension between wanting to experience those memories again and fearing they might be retroactively tarnished.
This ambivalence pretty much sums up my relationship with the whole remaster trend that’s dominated gaming for the past decade or so. Some have been revelatory experiences that introduced classic games to new audiences while respecting the source material. Others have been lazy ports asking full price for minimal effort. And the vast gray area between these extremes has left me constantly wondering: are these projects genuinely about game preservation, or just easy money from nostalgia-hungry gamers like me?
Let’s be clear about terminology first. There’s a meaningful distinction between a “remaster” and a “remake” that publishers themselves often blur for marketing purposes. A remaster typically maintains the original game’s core—its engine, assets, and gameplay—while upgrading resolution, frame rates, and perhaps adding quality-of-life improvements. A remake, meanwhile, rebuilds the game from scratch with new assets, often new gameplay systems, sometimes even reimagining the narrative. The difference in effort, resources, and creative vision between these approaches is astronomical, yet publishers cheerfully use these terms interchangeably when it suits them.
My first encounter with a remaster was probably The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time 3D for the Nintendo 3DS. I’d loved the original to an almost unhealthy degree—I still had a handwritten guide I’d created for the Water Temple because I got tired of getting lost. The 3DS version maintained everything I loved while polishing the rough edges: improved textures, a smoother frame rate, and that blessed touch-screen inventory management that made the Water Temple significantly less maddening.
This felt like the platonic ideal of a remaster—respectful of the source material while acknowledging its flaws. It was clearly made by people who understood what made the original special. I happily replayed the entire game, finding new appreciation for a classic I thought I knew inside and out. The graphical improvements helped me see details I’d missed in the N64’s blocky polygons, and the control refinements removed frustrations that weren’t meaningful challenges but just limitations of the era.
The price seemed fair too—less than a new release, appropriate for the work involved. This is a crucial part of the remaster conversation that doesn’t get enough attention: value proposition. I’m happy to pay for quality work, but when publishers charge full retail price for minimal effort, it feels like exploitation rather than preservation.
Compare that Zelda experience to Silent Hill HD Collection, which I picked up shortly after its release with great excitement, only to discover one of the most disappointing remasters ever created. New vocal performances replaced the iconic original acting without the option to switch back. The signature fog that had both technical purpose and atmospheric importance was reduced, revealing the limitations of draw distances and level design. Bugs that didn’t exist in the PS2 version appeared regularly. It wasn’t just bad as a remaster; in many ways, it was objectively worse than the original release.
I later learned that Konami had lost the final source code and had created this remaster from incomplete development versions. That explained the issues but didn’t excuse the decision to release it in that state—nor to charge full price for an inferior product. This felt like the darkest version of the remaster trend: pure profit motive with zero respect for the art being “preserved.”
The technical challenges of bringing old games to new hardware are substantial, something I didn’t fully appreciate until a game dev friend explained the process over beers. Games from the 90s and early 2000s were often built with specific hardware limitations in mind, with developers using clever tricks to squeeze performance from limited resources. Assumptions about aspects like aspect ratios, frame pacing, and input latency were baked into design decisions in ways that don’t translate cleanly to modern systems.
Take something as seemingly simple as control schemes. The original Resident Evil’s “tank controls” weren’t just a random choice—they were designed for the original PlayStation controller before dual analog sticks became standard. When Capcom remastered Resident Evil for modern systems, they had to decide: maintain the original controls for authenticity or implement modern movement systems? They opted to include both, allowing players to choose their preference—a thoughtful middle ground that respected both history and accessibility.
Other remasters have struggled with similar challenges. The Grand Theft Auto: The Trilogy – Definitive Edition launched in a state that suggested the developers didn’t understand what made the originals work. Bizarre character models, missing fog effects that made San Andreas’s world feel bigger than it was, and rain effects that made the game nearly unplayable in certain sections. It felt like the work of a team that had technical specifications but no love for or understanding of the source material.
I have a theory about remasters that’s served me well as a consumer: the best ones typically involve the original creators or at least developers with demonstrable passion for the source material. When Bluepoint Games handled the Shadow of the Colossus remake for PS4, their reverence for Team Ico’s original vision was evident in every frame. They understood what made that game special—the mood, the pacing, the emotional impact of each colossus battle—and enhanced these elements without fundamentally changing them.
The money question looms large in any discussion of remasters. I’m not naive about the business realities of game development—companies exist to make profit, and remasters often represent lower financial risk than new IPs. But there’s a palpable difference between projects motivated primarily by creative passion and those driven purely by financial opportunity.
The Mass Effect Legendary Edition felt like the former—a labor of love that brought meaningful improvements to a beloved trilogy. The finer texture work, the gameplay refinements that made the first game feel less clunky, the integration of previously DLC-only content—all suggested developers who cared about the experience they were delivering. The price point—less than buying three separate new games but more than a simple port—felt fair for the work involved.
Contrast that with some of Activision’s Call of Duty remasters, which fragmented communities by separating multiplayer components or attached remastered classics to purchases of new titles. These business decisions prioritized short-term revenue over player experience in ways that were impossible to ignore.
The preservation argument for remasters is compelling but complicated. On one hand, hardware becomes obsolete, physical media degrades, and online services eventually shut down. Without some form of remastering or re-release, many games would become functionally unplayable for all but the most dedicated collectors with original hardware. Making these experiences accessible to new players has genuine cultural value.
On the other hand, charging premium prices for this “preservation” raises questions about the motivation. If preservation were the primary concern, wouldn’t these titles be more affordably priced? Wouldn’t they include more historical context, development materials, and original versions alongside the updated ones? Some collections do exactly this—the Mega Man Legacy Collection included original promotional art, development documents, and a music player alongside faithful reproductions of the games—but they’re the exception rather than the rule.
My own experiences with remasters have been deeply personal. Playing the Spyro Reignited Trilogy transported me back to my sister’s basement apartment where I’d spent countless hours with the original while visiting her during college breaks. The updated visuals were gorgeous, but what struck me most was how perfectly they’d captured the feeling of the original—like my nostalgia-enhanced memories had somehow become reality. I found myself calling my sister (now with kids of her own) to share the experience across the years.
The Resident Evil 2 Remake delivered a different kind of revelation. The original was one of the defining gaming experiences of my teenage years—I still remember playing it with the lights off at Tom’s house during a sleepover, both of us too terrified to continue but too engaged to stop. The remake didn’t just update the graphics; it reimagined the core experience through a modern lens while preserving what made the original special. Playing it felt like having a conversation across decades of game design evolution.
Not every nostalgic return has been so successful. I picked up Chrono Cross: The Radical Dreamers Edition hoping to recapture some of the magic of my favorite JRPG era, only to find a bare-minimum effort with frame rate issues worse than the original PlayStation version. The minimal improvements and technical problems made it feel like an obligation rather than a celebration—checking a box on a spreadsheet of potentially profitable IP rather than honoring a classic.
The comparison to emulation inevitably enters any remaster discussion. Why pay for an official remaster when emulation can often deliver similar or better experiences for free? It’s a fair question that touches on legal and ethical considerations beyond the scope of this piece. But from a pure consumer perspective, I’ve found that the best remasters offer something emulation can’t—developer intent, thoughtful modernization, and the confidence of official support.
Take Bluepoint’s work on Demon’s Souls for PS5. An emulated version of the PS3 original might deliver higher resolution, but it wouldn’t include the stunning visual overhaul, loading time improvements, or quality of life changes that made the remake both authentic and modern. Similarly, while I could emulate Final Fantasy Tactics on various devices, the War of the Lions remaster added beautiful new cutscenes, revised translations, and new content that meaningfully enhanced the experience.
The pricing of these products remains the most contentious aspect for me. Nintendo particularly has faced criticism for charging premium prices for minimal updates to older titles. The recent Super Mario 3D All-Stars collection included three classic 3D Mario games with very basic enhancements at a $60 price point—and added a limited availability window that seemed designed to drive FOMO purchases rather than celebrate gaming history.
Meanwhile, collections like Rare Replay offered thirty games spanning multiple generations with thoughtful extras and behind-the-scenes content at a budget price. The contrast in approach couldn’t be clearer—one treating legacy content as premium product, the other as a celebration of gaming history offered at an accessible price point.
I’ve developed a sort of personal rubric for evaluating whether a remaster is worth my time and money. Does it respect the original’s core appeal? Does it address legitimate limitations without altering what made the game special? Is it priced appropriately for the work involved? Does it include the original version or meaningful historical context? Does it feel motivated by passion rather than just profit? The more “yes” answers, the more likely I am to invest.
The explosion of remakes and remasters does raise questions about the industry’s creative health. When so many major releases are revisitations of past successes, are we seeing a risk-averse industry afraid to invest in new ideas? Or is this just a natural cultural cycle of revisiting and reinterpreting important works, no different from film remakes or Broadway revivals?
I think it’s both. The financial realities of modern AAA development—with budgets routinely exceeding $100 million—make publishers understandably cautious about unproven concepts. Remasters and remakes represent known quantities with built-in audiences. But the best of them also represent genuine artistic reinterpretation, bringing new perspectives and technologies to foundational works.
As I’ve gotten older (and my gaming time has become more limited), I’ve become more selective about which remasters earn my attention. When I was younger, I might have purchased a remastered favorite on nostalgia alone. Now I research carefully, wait for reviews, and consider whether a remaster offers something meaningful beyond prettier graphics.
Last month, my nephew Jake asked me whether he should play the original Final Fantasy VII or wait for all parts of the Remake to be completed. It was a question that forced me to confront my own complicated feelings about remasters and gaming history. After some thought, I told him to play both—the original first, to understand the foundations and experience a pivotal moment in gaming history, then the Remake to see how those ideas could be reinterpreted through a modern lens.
That conversation made me realize something important about the best remasters: they don’t replace originals—they converse with them across time. They acknowledge both how far we’ve come and what remains timeless about great game design. When created with care and respect, they’re not just commercial products but bridges between generations of players and developers.
So are remasters cash grabs or preservation efforts? The frustrating but honest answer is: it depends entirely on execution. The spectrum runs from cynical port jobs with minimal effort to loving recreations that enhance and preserve what made the originals special. As players, the most powerful statement we can make is with our wallets—supporting the thoughtful preservation efforts while avoiding the obvious cash grabs.
As for me, I’ll keep approaching remasters with cautious optimism. I’ll continue to research before purchasing, to value effort over nostalgia, and to expect prices that reflect the work involved rather than the emotional attachment I might have to a title. And I’ll keep my original copies on the shelf, not just as backups or collectors’ items, but as reminders that while games may be products, they’re also art worth preserving—the right way, for the right reasons.
