Right, so I need to come clean about something that might make me sound like a proper gaming heretic – I never actually played Banjo-Kazooie when it first came out in 1998. I know, I know. There I was, nineteen years old, completely obsessed with my Amiga 1200 and convinced that consoles were just expensive toys for people who couldn’t handle proper computers. The N64 had been out for ages, but I was still banging on about how the Amiga’s custom chips were superior to anything Nintendo could cobble together. God, I was insufferable.
It wasn’t until 2003, when I finally bought a secondhand N64 from a bloke at work who was upgrading to a GameCube, that I properly discovered what I’d been missing. He threw in a stack of games, mostly football titles and racing games, but buried in there was this battered copy of Banjo-Kazooie. The label was half-peeled off, the plastic was cracked, and honestly it looked like it had been through a washing machine. But it worked, and within about ten minutes of starting it up, I realized I’d been a complete muppet for ignoring console gaming for so long.
The first thing that struck me was how… British it felt. Not obviously British like watching EastEnders, but there was something in the humor, the character design, the way everyone took the piss out of each other that felt familiar. Turned out Rare was based in Twycross, which is only about an hour from where I grew up in Manchester. No wonder it felt like home – it was made by people who probably shopped at the same Tesco as my mum.
Now, I’d played Super Mario 64 by this point – borrowed it from the same colleague actually – and while I could appreciate what Nintendo had achieved, it never quite clicked with me. Too abstract, too… Japanese, if that makes sense. All those floating platforms and bizarre castle paintings you jumped through. Technically brilliant, obviously revolutionary, but it felt like exploring someone else’s fever dream rather than a proper place. Banjo-Kazooie, though? That felt like wandering through actual locations, even if they were populated by talking bears and musical notes floating in the air.
The collectathon aspect absolutely consumed me. I’d finish my shift at the logistics company – this was back when I was still a senior analyst, years before they made me a manager – and I’d come home to spend hours hunting for Jiggies and musical notes. My girlfriend at the time (now my wife, somehow) would find me at 2 AM still playing, muttering about missing two notes in Bubblegoop Swamp and how I was going to have to start the entire level over again. She’d give me that look that said “you’re an adult man obsessing over a children’s game” but she never actually said it out loud, bless her.
The thing about collecting in Banjo-Kazooie was that it never felt arbitrary. Every Jiggy was a proper puzzle to solve, every note placement made sense within the level design. Compare that to some of the later collectathon games – looking at you, Donkey Kong 64 – where it felt like they’d just scattered hundreds of random objects around massive levels and called it content. Banjo’s collecting felt purposeful, meaningful even. Each world had exactly 100 notes and 10 Jiggies, and you knew every single one had been placed deliberately.
The move-learning system was genius, really. Instead of dumping all your abilities on you at once like most platformers, Bottles the mole would teach you new techniques gradually. Each new move opened up areas you’d walked past dozens of times before, suddenly making familiar levels feel fresh again. I remember learning the Beak Buster and immediately thinking “right, I need to go back to Mumbo’s Mountain and try this on that switch I couldn’t reach before.” It was like getting a new tool that made you want to revisit your old projects.
Gruntilda, the main villain, was perfectly pitched for a British sense of humor. Her constant rhyming felt slightly forced and awkward – but that was obviously intentional. She was trying too hard to be menacing and poetic, and the result was this wonderfully ridiculous character who was threatening enough to drive the plot but silly enough that you weren’t actually scared of her. The voice acting – those weird garbled sounds that somehow conveyed personality – was spot on. Every character had their own vocal style, and you could identify them immediately just from their gibberish.
The worlds themselves were masterpieces of themed level design. Treasure Trove Cove felt like a proper seaside holiday destination, complete with sandcastles and a lighthouse. Clanker’s Cavern was this grim industrial nightmare that managed to be both disturbing and compelling. Mad Monster Mansion had all the classic horror tropes but presented them with enough whimsy that they were charming rather than frightening. Each world had a clear identity and stuck to its theme without feeling repetitive.
But Click Clock Wood… bloody hell, Click Clock Wood. When I first realized you were playing through the same area across four different seasons, with changes that affected not just the aesthetics but the actual gameplay and puzzle solutions, I actually paused the game and sat back in my chair for a moment. This was 1998 technology – or rather, this was me playing it in 2003, but it was designed on 1998 hardware – and they’d created this living, breathing environment that changed over time. The acorn you helped plant in spring grew into a tree you could climb in autumn. Characters aged and changed their needs based on the season. It was environmental storytelling that most modern games still haven’t matched.
The transformations added another layer of variety that kept things fresh. Mumbo Jumbo would turn you into different creatures – a termite, a pumpkin, a walrus – each with unique abilities and controls. It wasn’t just a cosmetic change; you had to learn how to play as each creature. The termite could climb steep walls but was fragile. The walrus was tough but slow on land. Each transformation felt like playing a mini-game within the larger game, and they were integrated into the level design rather than feeling like gimmicks.
Grant Kirkhope’s soundtrack deserves its own paragraph because it was absolutely phenomenal. The way the music would shift seamlessly as you moved between different areas – underwater themes when you submerged, echoey versions in caves, muffled versions indoors – was technically impressive but more importantly, it was emotionally effective. Each world had a memorable main theme that perfectly captured its atmosphere. I can still hum the Freezeezy Peak music, and it’s been years since I played it properly.
The British humor I mentioned earlier wasn’t just in the writing – it was in the visual gags, the character animations, the little details scattered throughout the worlds. Kazooie constantly took the piss out of everyone, especially poor Bottles. There were toilet jokes that actually worked because they were silly rather than crude. The whole game had this cheeky, irreverent tone that never felt mean-spirited but definitely had more edge than Nintendo’s usual family-friendly approach. It reminded me of the humor in British comics like The Beano or computer games like Worms – distinctly UK sensibilities that don’t always translate perfectly but feel natural if you grew up with them.
Playing it in 2003 meant I experienced it with different expectations than someone who played it when it was new. I wasn’t comparing it to the limited pool of N64 games available in 1998; I was comparing it to everything I’d played up to that point, including early PlayStation 2 and GameCube titles. And you know what? It held up beautifully. The graphics were obviously dated by then, but the gameplay, the world design, the character – all of that felt timeless.
The camera system worked better than it had any right to on N64 hardware. Anyone who spent time with early 3D games knows that cameras were often the biggest enemy, but Banjo-Kazooie got it mostly right. You could zoom out for a wider view when needed, the automatic camera was generally sensible, and manual control was responsive when you needed it. Not perfect – no N64 game achieved perfect camera work – but far better than many of its contemporaries.
What struck me most was how confident the game felt. Rare knew they were making something special, and it showed in every aspect of the design. The levels were big enough to feel expansive but not so large that you’d get lost or bored. The difficulty curve was perfectly judged – challenging enough to be satisfying but never unfairly punishing. The progression system kept you constantly working toward multiple goals without feeling overwhelming. Everything felt deliberate and well-considered.
I ended up playing through Banjo-Kazooie three times over the course of that year. First playthrough was just enjoying the experience and getting through to the end. Second was going for 100% completion, finding every Jiggy and note and Jinjo. Third was showing it to friends and family, trying to share why this silly-looking game about a bear and a bird was actually brilliant. My younger brother, who was deep into his PlayStation 2 phase, initially scoffed at the “baby graphics” but ended up borrowing the N64 for two weeks to play through it himself.
The sequel, Banjo-Tooie, expanded on everything – bigger worlds, more moves, more interconnected gameplay between levels. On paper it should have been better, and in many ways it was technically superior. But it lost something in translation, some of the focused charm of the original. The worlds were sometimes too big, the collecting occasionally felt tedious rather than rewarding. More isn’t always better, and the original Banjo-Kazooie proved that sometimes constraints lead to better design than unlimited scope.
Looking back now, having experienced decades of 3D platformers, Banjo-Kazooie still stands as one of the finest examples of the genre. It took what Mario 64 established and refined it, added personality and humor, created worlds that felt like places you’d want to visit rather than just obstacle courses to navigate. It proved that British developers could create games that competed with Nintendo’s best while maintaining their own distinct identity.
My N64 is set up permanently in my office now – perks of being married to someone who’s given up trying to convince me to put my gaming stuff away. I replay Banjo-Kazooie every couple of years, and it never fails to charm me. The graphics look primitive now, obviously, but the gameplay holds up perfectly. More importantly, it still makes me smile. In an era where games often feel focus-grouped and committee-designed, there’s something refreshing about a game that so clearly represents the vision of people who genuinely cared about what they were making.
That battered copy I bought from my colleague all those years ago still works perfectly, by the way. The label’s completely gone now and the plastic case is held together with sellotape, but it boots up every time. Sometimes the most important gaming experiences come from the most unlikely sources – a dismissive attitude toward consoles, a random bundle of games, and a willingness to admit you were completely wrong about something. Banjo-Kazooie taught me that lesson, among many others.
John grew up swapping floppy disks and reading Amiga Power cover to cover. Now an IT manager in Manchester, he writes about the glory days of British computer gaming—Sensible Soccer, Speedball 2, and why the Amiga deserved more love than it ever got.
