Halloween, 1989. While other teenagers were out causing trouble or attending parties, I was hunched in the blue glow of my bedroom TV, sweaty-palmed and wide-eyed, guiding Simon Belmont up the crumbling steps of Dracula’s Castle. My NES copy of Castlevania had been a birthday gift from my uncle Tom, who’d casually mentioned it was “pretty tough” with the knowing smirk of someone who’d thrown his controller in frustration multiple times. He wasn’t wrong—I’d been stuck on the Grim Reaper for what felt like weeks, his swirling scythes turning my vampire-hunting dreams into pixelated nightmares.
That’s when I fell in love with Castlevania—not despite its punishing difficulty, but because of how it made every victory feel earned. When I finally defeated Death that Halloween night (thanks to a holy water strategy I’d read about in Nintendo Power), I literally ran a victory lap around my bedroom, much to the confusion of my mother who poked her head in to check if I was having some kind of episode.
What immediately drew me to Castlevania was its gothic horror atmosphere design. While most NES games were colorful adventures in fantasy kingdoms or futuristic sci-fi worlds, Castlevania embraced darkness. The castle’s architecture—decaying yet grand, with crumbling stonework and ornate details—created an oppressive, doomed atmosphere that felt genuinely different from anything else on the system. The color palette favored moody blues and browns, occasionally punctuated by the bright orange of candle flames or the vivid red of enemy sprites. It wasn’t just aesthetically distinct; it felt thematically coherent in a way few 8-bit games managed.
My Castlevania obsession continued with Castlevania III: Dracula’s Curse, which expanded the formula by adding multiple playable characters and branching paths. Trevor Belmont could be joined by Sypha Belnades, a magic-user; Grant DaNasty, a wall-climbing pirate; or Alucard, Dracula’s son who could transform into a bat. This was my first exposure to meaningful character choices in an action game, and I remember mapping out all possible routes through the game on graph paper, determined to experience every possible combination. My friend Eric thought I was losing my mind, but there was something deeply satisfying about documenting every corner of this vampire-infested world.
The Belmont clan history timeline became a source of fascination for me. Each game in the series featured a different Belmont (or occasionally a related hunter) taking up the Vampire Killer whip against Dracula’s cyclical return. This multi-generational struggle gave the series a sense of scope and history that most video game franchises lacked. I remember being genuinely moved by the idea of this family bound by duty across centuries, each generation knowing they might have to face humanity’s greatest enemy. It wasn’t just cool lore; it gave weight and consequence to these games that were, at their core, about whipping skeletons.
The Dracula cycle mythology explained through the games created a surprisingly coherent dark fantasy world. Dracula would resurrect every 100 years (or sooner if humans got particularly evil and helped him along), and a Belmont would be there to meet him. This predictable pattern was part of what made the world feel authentic—it had rules and history that extended beyond any single game. When Symphony of the Night broke this pattern by setting itself just five years after Rondo of Blood, it felt like a genuine upheaval in the established order, adding narrative tension beyond just the gameplay challenges.
Everything changed for me (and the series) with Castlevania: Symphony of the Night in 1997. This was when I first encountered the “metroidvania” definition in action—a seamless, interconnected castle to explore rather than discrete, linear levels. Playing as Alucard, Dracula’s rebellious son, opened up new gameplay possibilities beyond the traditional Belmont whip-and-jump formula. The RPG elements, equipment system, and transformations created a depth of gameplay that felt revolutionary.
I first played Symphony on a borrowed PlayStation at my college roommate’s suggestion. “Trust me,” Dave said, “this game will blow your mind.” He wasn’t wrong. I ended up skipping two days of classes to play through it, emerging from my dorm room bleary-eyed but triumphant, only to discover there was an entire inverted castle I hadn’t even reached yet. My mind was indeed blown, along with any pretense of responsible academic behavior that semester.
Koji Igarashi’s influence on the series direction cannot be overstated. After Symphony, “IGA” shepherded the series through a golden age that included masterpieces like Aria of Sorrow (which introduced the clever “tactical soul” system) and Dawn of Sorrow. His vision emphasized exploration, RPG elements, and a certain melancholy beauty that became the series’ hallmark. When I met him briefly at a convention years later, I embarrassed myself by gushing incomprehensibly about how Symphony of the Night had changed my understanding of what games could be. He politely nodded and signed my game case while I’m sure wondering who this sweaty, overexcited man-child was.
The Castlevania subweapon strategic uses guide me through many of the series’ most difficult encounters. The basic whip attack was your bread and butter, but mastering when to use the axe (good for hitting elevated enemies), holy water (excellent for ground control), knife (fast but weak), or cross (returns after being thrown) was essential for success. Each subweapon used the same hearts as a resource, creating interesting risk/reward decisions. Do I save my hearts for the boss, or use them now to make this difficult section more manageable? The cross was always my go-to, its boomerang-like return path often hitting enemies twice, but against certain bosses (looking at you, Dracula’s final form), nothing beat the constant damage of holy water.
The most defining aspect of the series might be the Castlevania music Michiru Yamane composition, particularly in Symphony of the Night. The soundtrack blended baroque classical influences with rock elements, creating a sound that was uniquely Castlevania. “Bloody Tears” from Castlevania II became something of a personal anthem during my college years. I actually created a mixtape (yes, an actual cassette tape, I’m that old) that opened with it, much to the confusion of anyone I tried to impress with my musical taste. Yamane’s “Dance of Pales” from Symphony still occasionally serves as my ringtone, causing a Pavlovian rush of vampire-hunting excitement whenever someone calls.
The Castlevania enemy design classic monsters draws from universal horror tropes but gives them distinctive gameplay identities. Medusa heads move in that infuriating wave pattern, always seeming to hit you during a jump. Flea men bounce unpredictably around the screen. Mummies lumber forward while summoning bandages as projectiles. And then there are the bosses, each with memorable patterns and weaknesses to learn. Death and his scythes. Medusa and her stone gaze. The Creature (Frankenstein’s monster) and his sheer bulk. Fighting these iconic monsters gave Castlevania a connection to horror tradition while establishing its own unique take on these classics.
Let’s talk about Medusa Heads for a moment, shall we? Has any minor enemy in gaming history caused as much collective player trauma? Their sine-wave movement pattern seemed specifically designed to intersect with your jumps at the worst possible moment, often knocking you backward into a pit. In the early games, with no mid-air control, a single Medusa Head hit could mean instant death. Yet somehow, despite the frustration—or perhaps because of it—they became iconic to the series. When I played Lords of Shadow many years later and encountered a modernized version, I felt an immediate, visceral dread that transcended generations of gaming.
The Castlevania difficult platform challenge sections created some of my most memorable gaming frustrations and triumphs. The notorious clock tower stages, with their moving platforms, instant-death spikes, and medusa heads, represented a perfect storm of difficulty. I can still hear the mechanical ticking soundtrack that accompanied these sections, a sound that induced immediate anxiety. The floating platforms in the original Castlevania’s final stretch before Dracula caused me to wear out the A button on my NES controller through sheer panicked over-pressing. When I finally mastered these sections, the sense of accomplishment was unparalleled. I wasn’t just beating the game; I was conquering it.
The Ayami Kojima art style influence on the series brought a lush, detailed gothic aesthetic that perfectly matched the games’ tone. Her character designs—flowing hair, intricate period clothing, pale complexions with hints of both fragility and power—became the definitive look for the series during its PlayStation era. I had her Symphony of the Night artwork as my desktop background through most of college, prompting more than one concerned glance from professors who happened to see my laptop screen. Her ornate, detailed style elevated the series from “video games about vampires” to something that could genuinely be called gothic art.
By Aria of Sorrow on the Game Boy Advance, the series had perfected its formula. The soul collection system let you absorb abilities from defeated enemies, creating an enormous range of potential builds and playstyles. I spent an embarrassing amount of time grinding rare enemies for their souls, convincing myself that each new ability might be the game-changer (even when it was clearly useless). My girlfriend at the time—now my ex, not coincidentally—used to mock my dedication: “You know the red skeleton’s soul drop rate is like 0.5%, right?” Yes, I did know, and yes, I was still going to spend three hours trying to get it.
What’s remarkable about Castlevania is how it maintained its identity across decades and hardware generations. Whether on NES, SNES, PlayStation, GBA, or DS, a Castlevania game was instantly recognizable by its atmosphere, music, and core mechanics. Even when the series tried new directions, like the 3D Lament of Innocence or the reboot Lords of Shadow, certain elements remained consistent—the gothic horror setting, the whip combat (or variations thereof), and the sense of a grand, tragic history playing out across generations.
My proudest Castlevania moment came during a Symphony of the Night speedrunning phase in my mid-twenties. After dozens of attempts and meticulous route planning, I managed a run just under an hour and fifteen minutes—nowhere near world-record pace, but a personal achievement that represented perfect knowledge of the castle layout and enemy patterns. I recorded the whole thing on VHS (dating myself again) and would occasionally rewatch it with the same satisfaction artists must feel when reviewing their work. Looking back, this was perhaps not the healthiest use of my time during a period when I was supposedly looking for serious employment, but regrets are for those who haven’t mastered the inverted castle.
The series has been relatively quiet in recent years, with Konami focusing on other properties (or, more accurately, pachinko machines). But Castlevania’s legacy lives on in the countless “metroidvania” games it inspired and the renewed interest in gothic aesthetics in gaming. Every time I play Hollow Knight or Bloodstained, I feel echoes of those nights spent guiding Belmonts through haunted corridors.
For me, Castlevania represents a perfect gaming experience—challenging but fair, atmospheric yet playable, with a sense of history and place that few other series achieve. From the first time I guided Simon up those stone steps to my most recent replay of Aria of Sorrow, the series has consistently delivered that perfect blend of frustration and triumph that defines the best gaming experiences. Now if you’ll excuse me, I suddenly feel the urge to hunt some vampires. The night is young, and I hear the Vampire Killer whip calling my name.
