The most terrifying boss I’ve ever faced wasn’t some eight-bit nightmare from my Amiga days or even that bastard difficult final level in Shadow of the Beast. No, it was handing my girlfriend Sarah a Mega Drive controller back in 1997 and asking if she fancied having a go at Sonic. The look she gave me… Christ, you’d think I’d just asked her to defuse a bomb while speaking Mandarin.
Sarah wasn’t what you’d call a natural gamer, right? Her entire gaming experience consisted of maybe five minutes on a Game Boy at her cousin’s house and the occasional drunken attempt at Tetris at university. To her, my gaming setup – the carefully arranged consoles, the stacks of games, the way I’d get genuinely upset when someone moved my joystick – was this bizarre obsession that ranked somewhere between trainspotting and collecting stamps in terms of social acceptability.
That first attempt was an absolute disaster, and I mean properly catastrophic. I’d chosen Sonic 2, thinking it was dead simple – just hold right and jump occasionally, yeah? What I’d forgotten is that even basic platforming isn’t intuitive when you’ve never held a three-button controller in your life. She spent most of Green Hill Zone running straight into the first Badnik, dying, respawning, and doing it again. Meanwhile I’m sat there like a proper knobhead saying helpful things like “just press C to jump” without bothering to mention which bloody button was C.
“This is stupid,” she said after about ten minutes, setting the controller down like it was contaminated. “I don’t see how this is supposed to be fun.”
My heart properly sank. Not because she didn’t take to Sonic immediately – though honestly, who doesn’t love Sonic? – but because I’d built this whole fantasy in my head about sharing gaming with her. Weekend sessions playing co-op games, bonding over shared adventures, maybe even convincing her that my Amiga collection wasn’t just expensive clutter taking up half the spare room. Instead, I’d just confirmed her suspicion that gaming was overcomplicated rubbish designed to waste time and money.
I didn’t try again for months. Partly because I was embarrassed, partly because I was terrified of another rejection. But also because I realized I’d approached the whole thing completely wrong – I’d assumed she’d just magically understand what took me years to learn, which was bloody stupid when you think about it.
When I finally worked up the nerve for round two, I did things differently. First, I actually explained how the controller worked before starting the game. Revolutionary concept, I know. Second, I picked something that wasn’t about quick reflexes or muscle memory. We tried Lemmings on my A1200 – puzzle-based, no time pressure, and you could take as long as you needed to figure out each level.
That changed everything. Something about the problem-solving aspect clicked with her brain – she’s an accountant, which explains her methodical approach to everything. Suddenly she was the one staying up until midnight trying to save every last lemming, muttering about bomber timing and trapdoor placement. I’d created a monster, and I was secretly thrilled.
After that breakthrough, we started exploring other games together. Street Fighter II became our regular evening entertainment, though it nearly caused our first proper row when she discovered she could beat me just by button-mashing with Chun-Li. “How is that fair?” I complained after losing six matches in a row. “I’ve been playing this for years!” “Maybe you’re just not as good as you think,” she replied, landing another perfect Spinning Bird Kick. Savage, but probably accurate.
The real game-changer was when we got a PlayStation and discovered Crash Team Racing. Finally, a racing game where the controls made sense and the rubber-band AI meant we stayed competitive with each other. We spent entire weekends working through Adventure Mode, taking turns on different tracks, arguing about shortcuts and weapon timing. Sarah developed this uncanny ability to nail me with a bowling bomb just before the finish line – I swear she was saving them up specifically to crush my dreams.
Through gaming together, I learned things about Sarah I might never have discovered otherwise. Like how she becomes absolutely ruthless when there’s competition involved – she’d restart races if she wasn’t winning, which drove me mental. Or how she has this weird talent for finding secrets and hidden areas that I’d walk past without noticing. And she’s got better pattern recognition than me, which is frankly embarrassing after thirty-plus years of gaming.
The trick, I reckon, is treating it like teaching someone to drive. You don’t start on the motorway – you find an empty car park and practice the basics until they become automatic. Same with gaming. No point throwing someone into Tekken and expecting them to pull off ten-hit combos on day one. Start simple, build confidence, then gradually introduce more complex stuff.
Patience is absolutely crucial, and you’ve got to check your ego at the door. Nothing kills the mood faster than getting frustrated with your partner’s learning curve or – and I’m guilty of this – trying to grab the controller to “just show you this bit quickly.” That’s patronizing nonsense that’ll put them off completely. Let them figure it out, even if it takes three times longer than you’d need.
Finding the right games makes all the difference. Co-operative stuff works better than competitive, at least initially. Games where failure isn’t punishing, where you’re working together toward something rather than trying to destroy each other. Though I’ll admit, some of our best gaming moments have come from absolutely savage competition in Mario Kart – nothing brings you closer than screaming at each other about blue shells.
We developed this routine with single-player story games too. We’d take turns controlling while the other watched and offered commentary – like having your own personal gaming podcast, except the other host actually cares about what’s happening. Final Fantasy VII became appointment television for us, with heated debates about party composition and materia setups. Sarah got genuinely upset when Aerith died, which was oddly touching – proof that the emotional connection was working.
Gaming together created this shared language between us. When one of us is taking too long to get ready, “You’re being a lemming” means stop overthinking and just make a decision. When we’re stuck on a real-life problem, “What would Lara do?” has become our shorthand for approaching things from a different angle. Gaming references have infiltrated our relationship in ways I never expected.
It wasn’t always smooth sailing, mind you. There were rage-quits – mostly from me, embarrassingly enough – and moments when I had to physically restrain myself from backseat gaming. The worst was probably when we were playing Resident Evil and she spent twenty minutes examining every single item in a room while zombies groaned outside. “They’re not going anywhere,” she said calmly while I practically bounced off the walls with impatience. “I want to make sure I haven’t missed anything important.” Different approaches to problem-solving, let’s call it.
The skill gap remained an issue for ages. Early on, I tried deliberately playing badly to “keep things fair,” which was a massive mistake. Nobody wants to win because their partner is taking pity on them. Instead, I learned to find games where we had different strengths or could take on different roles. She became the navigator in racing games while I handled the driving. I dealt with the action sequences in adventure games while she solved the puzzles. Division of labor based on natural abilities rather than forced handicapping.
What surprised me most was how my own gaming tastes expanded. Without Sarah’s influence, I’d never have discovered the weird zen pleasure of management sims or the emotional impact of story-driven adventures. Games I’d have dismissed as “not proper games” became regular parts of our routine. She introduced me to The Sims, which I initially mocked but secretly became obsessed with. There’s something deeply satisfying about creating the perfect virtual life while your actual house slowly fills up with empty pizza boxes.
Twenty-five years later, we still have “our games” – titles we play together, separate from my solo gaming sessions. It’s become sacred territory in a way. There are games I could easily play on my own but deliberately save for our joint sessions. When we see a trailer for a new co-op game that looks perfect for us, there’s this wordless understanding that our weekend plans have just been decided.
For anyone trying to introduce their partner to gaming, my advice is simple: start with why you love it, not what buttons to press. Explain that you want to share something that brings you joy, not convert them into a hardcore gamer. Find games that connect to something they already enjoy – problem-solving, storytelling, competition – and build from there. And for God’s sake, explain the controls properly before you start.
Gaming with your partner isn’t just about having someone to help with difficult bits or unlock co-op achievements. It’s about creating shared experiences, inside jokes, and moments of triumph that belong to both of you. It’s learning how you both handle pressure, frustration, and success. In some weird way, it’s been one of the most revealing aspects of our relationship – you learn a lot about someone when you watch them deal with game-over screens.
Not bad for something that started with Sarah walking Sonic straight into spikes for ten minutes straight, eh? And yes, she still absolutely destroys me at puzzle games. Some things never change, and honestly, I’m fine with that.
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.
