I’ve been staring at this blank document for about twenty minutes now, trying to figure out how to start an article about puzzle games without using the word “cerebral.” Pretty sure my editor would smack me if I did. Anyway, puzzle games and I go way back—all the way to 1989, when my dad brought home a Game Boy with Tetris. He’d bought it for himself, allegedly, but within two days that little brick was permanently attached to my sweaty 11-year-old hands. Sorry, Dad.
That first time hearing the Tetris Type-A theme is burned into my brain like a screen on an old CRT monitor. Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo doo… You’re humming it now too, aren’t you? I once hit a high score of 143,000 points, and I made my brother Dave take a photo of the screen as proof. That polaroid lived on our fridge for years until mom finally took it down when I was in college. I still bring it up sometimes, and he still insists it was “only like 89,000 or something.”
But Tetris was just the gateway drug to a full-blown puzzle game addiction that dominated my formative years. So let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we? Here are ten puzzle games from the 80s and 90s that absolutely consumed my life—and might have permanently rewired my brain in the process.
Let’s start with the king: Tetris. Released in 1984 by Russian programmer Alexey Pajitnov, this game needs no introduction. Those falling blocks (technically called “tetrominoes,” which I learned from the instruction manual and promptly used to annoy everyone around me) created a phenomenon that still hasn’t died. I remember my mom walking into my room at midnight once, threatening to take my Game Boy away, and I legitimately begged for “just one more line.” The brilliance of Tetris is its perfect simplicity—easy to learn, impossible to master, and completely addictive. I would see those blocks falling when I closed my eyes at night, a phenomenon scientists later called the “Tetris Effect.” It wasn’t just a game; it was a full-blown mental condition!
Next up: Dr. Mario, which hit the NES in 1990. This was Nintendo’s answer to Tetris, with Mario inexplicably receiving a medical license (seriously, what board certified him?). Instead of blocks, you’d match colored pills to destroy viruses. My cousin Jimmy and I would play two-player mode for HOURS in his basement, surrounded by empty Doritos bags and Mountain Dew cans. I favored the “slow” speed setting because I’m a methodical player, while Jimmy always cranked it to “high” and would inevitably flame out spectacularly around level 10. There’s nothing more satisfying than hearing that little “ding” when you clear a bunch of viruses at once. The music was catchy as hell too—I caught myself whistling the fever theme during a work meeting last week, which got me some weird looks from the marketing team.
In 1991, Lemmings marched into my life on our family PC, and I’ve never been the same. Developed by DMA Design (who later became Rockstar North—wild, right?), this game had me playing God with little green-haired creatures with a death wish. The goal was to guide these suicidal little dudes to safety by assigning them different jobs: blockers, builders, diggers, etc. I stayed up until 3 AM on a school night trying to beat this one level called “Nightmare” where you had to save 99% of the lemmings. When I finally did it, I woke up my brother to show him, and he threw a pillow at my face. Worth it. Lemmings taught me more about problem-solving than my entire middle school education.
Speaking of problem-solving, The Incredible Machine (1993) deserves a special place in puzzle game heaven. I first played it at my friend Tom’s house on his dad’s fancy new Gateway computer. The premise was simple: use pulleys, balloons, cats, hamsters, and other random objects to create Rube Goldberg machines that accomplish specific tasks. My solutions were never elegant—usually involving way too many bowling balls and conveyor belts—but they worked! Well, mostly. Sometimes my contraptions would get so complicated that the game would slow to about 2 frames per second. Tom’s dad once walked in while we were trying to make a basketball bounce through a series of perfectly placed toasters, looked at the screen for a solid 30 seconds, then walked out without saying a word.
Then came Myst in 1993, which completely changed what I thought games could be. Created by brothers Robyn and Rand Miller, this game was less about reflexes and more about observation and deduction. I played it on our family’s Macintosh Performa, which my dad had bought for “home office use” but ended up being my portal to mysterious islands. The puzzles in Myst were hard. Like, really hard. No internet walkthroughs back then—you either figured it out or you didn’t. I filled an entire spiral notebook with sketches, notes, and theories. My parents thought I was doing extra credit homework, and I didn’t correct them. That notebook became a prized possession in my friend group, passed around like sacred texts. If you got stuck on the subway puzzle or couldn’t figure out the sequence for the spaceship, you’d have to earn the right to consult “The Book.” I still remember the sound design—that metallic clank when you pulled a lever just right… *chef’s kiss*.
In 1995, The 7th Guest’s sequel, The 11th Hour, upped the ante with even more brain-bending puzzles wrapped in a horror story. I played this one in Tom’s basement because my own computer couldn’t handle the “advanced” graphics, and also because my mom would’ve flipped if she saw how creepy it was. We’d play with the lights off, jumping at every creaking floorboard. The puzzles ranged from chess problems to bizarre word games, all set in a super creepy mansion. There was this one puzzle with microscopic organisms that I still have nightmares about. We got stuck on the “Beehive” puzzle for THREE WEEKS. Tom’s mom started asking if we were okay because we’d emerge from the basement looking shell-shocked and mumbling about honey patterns.
Lode Runner: The Legend Returns (1994) was my jam on our family PC. It wasn’t just a puzzle game but had platforming elements too, which helped my twitchy teenage brain stay engaged. I’d create my own levels and force my little sister to play them, which in retrospect was probably a form of sibling torture—sorry, Jen! The level editor was revolutionary to me; it was my first taste of game design. I once created a level that spelled out “DAVE SMELLS” and saved it to the family computer. My brother found it, deleted all my save files, and then we had one of those classic sibling wrestling matches that ended with a broken lamp and a two-week grounding for both of us.
Let’s not forget LucasArts’ masterpiece Grim Fandango (1998), which blended puzzles with adventure in a way that still feels fresh today. The art deco, Day of the Dead aesthetic blew my mind when I first saw it. I was in college then, playing it on a PC I’d built with my roommate using parts we’d scrounged up from various sources (the graphics card came from this guy down the hall who was upgrading; I traded him a case of cheap beer for it). Some of the puzzles were so obscure that they drove me to the brink of insanity—particularly one involving ticket punching and pigeon feed. My girlfriend at the time (now my ex, unrelated to gaming… mostly) would get annoyed because I’d talk in my sleep about “sprouting” and “bone wagons.”
Puzzle Bobble (known as Bust-a-Move in North America) consumed countless quarters at the arcade in the mall where I worked during summer breaks from college. Released by Taito in 1994, this bubble-shooting game looked cute but was secretly brutal. The local arcade had this ongoing high score competition, and for about three glorious weeks in 1996, my initials “MJS” sat at the top. Then some kid named Kevin came along and destroyed my score. I may or may not have spent an entire paycheck trying to reclaim my title. I didn’t succeed, but I did develop an incredible bubble-aiming ability that has proven completely useless in adult life.
Finally, no list would be complete without Lolo—specifically Adventures of Lolo 3 on NES (1991). This HAL Laboratory gem featured a blue ball with eyes trying to collect hearts while avoiding enemies like Medusas that turn you to stone if they see you. Each room was its own self-contained puzzle that required planning and precision. My friend Chris and I would take turns on different levels, and we had this rule that you couldn’t give advice unless the other person had been stuck for at least 10 minutes. Sometimes we’d watch each other fail repeatedly in silence, biting our tongues. It was torture, but it was the good kind. We actually finished the entire game over one marathon weekend, fueled by microwave burritos and Jolt Cola. My eyes were so bloodshot by Sunday night that my mom threatened to take me to the emergency room.
Looking back, these games shaped how I approach problems even now. When I’m trying to solve some complex issue at work, I sometimes think, “What would Lemmings do?” (The answer is usually “walk off a cliff,” which isn’t helpful, but still.) Modern puzzle games like Portal and The Witness are incredible in their own right, with their physics engines and gorgeous graphics, but there’s something special about those pixelated brain-teasers that had to do so much with so little.
I recently set up my old NES for my nephew Jake, and his mind was blown when I showed him Dr. Mario. “The graphics are so bad!” he said at first, but an hour later he was completely absorbed, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration—just like I used to do. Some things never change, I guess. The classics endure because great puzzles transcend their visuals; they lodge themselves directly into your brain where they’ll live rent-free for decades.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a sudden urge to arrange some falling blocks. That Tetris high score record isn’t going to break itself.
