October 1996, and I’m working weekends at a video rental place in Manchester – you know, back when that was actually a thing. The manager, this bloke called Steve who had opinions about everything and a Manchester United tattoo he’d definitely regret later, kept catching me staring at this Resident Evil case during my shifts. “Take it home Friday,” he says, sliding it across the counter after we’d locked up. “Just don’t nick it and don’t tell the owner I’m letting staff borrow games.”
I’d been hearing whispers about Resident Evil from mates and the gaming magazines I couldn’t afford to buy but definitely read cover-to-cover in WHSmith. “It’s actually scary,” my friend Marcus had told me, which I took with a massive pinch of salt. I mean, I’d played Doom – demons everywhere, shotguns blazing. Played a bit of Alone in the Dark on PC, though those polygon monsters looked more ridiculous than terrifying. How frightening could a PlayStation game really be, especially with those early 3D graphics that made everything look like it was made of colored plasticine?
That Friday night, I did everything you’d expect an 18-year-old to do when preparing for what he hoped would be a genuinely scary experience. Waited till my parents were asleep – didn’t need Dad wandering in asking if I was “still playing those computer games” while I’m trying to be terrified. Turned off every light except this little desk lamp behind the telly to cut down on screen glare. Proper headphones on to catch every creak and groan. Even grabbed a notepad, because point-and-click adventures had trained me to write down every bloody clue.
The live-action intro was brilliantly cheesy. Actors in what were obviously fancy dress costumes running through some woods, dialogue that sounded like it was written by someone who’d learned English from a phrase book, mansion looming in the distance like something from a Hammer Horror film. Put me right at ease, actually. If the game was going to be as campy as this intro, I had nothing to worry about, right?
Then I started playing proper, and chose Jill Valentine because the character select screen mentioned she had more inventory space. Teenage me was always worried about not being able to carry enough stuff in games – probably says something about my psychology that I don’t want to examine too closely.
First challenge was working out how to bloody move. These “tank controls” where up always means forward regardless of which way your character’s facing – mental, really. Kept walking into walls, overshooting doorways, spinning around like I’d had too many pints. Took ages to get the hang of it, though looking back, those awkward controls were accidentally brilliant for horror. Nothing makes you panic quite like knowing you’ll probably mess up running away when something nasty shows up.
Guided Jill into the Spencer Mansion, and I’ll give credit where it’s due – those pre-rendered backgrounds looked gorgeous. The main hall with that grand staircase, checkered floor like something from a posh hotel. Fixed camera angles made every room feel like a shot from one of those old Hitchcock films. The quiet was unsettling – just Jill’s footsteps echoing and this ambient music that was more mood than melody.
I was tense, yeah, but not scared. Not yet.
Then it happened. The moment that completely redefined what I thought games could do to you emotionally. I’m guiding Jill down this narrow corridor – windows along one side, moonlight casting these long shadows on the floor. Nothing jumps out. No dramatic music sting. Just this horrible quiet that made me increasingly certain something wasn’t right. Camera angle changes as I enter what looks like a dining room. Still nothing. Started to relax a bit.
Decided to try a door on the far side of the room. Door creaks open with this sound that immediately puts you on edge, and I’m in another hallway – darker, narrower, more claustrophobic. As I move forward, the sound design shifts. There’s this wet, shuffling noise coming from somewhere ahead, barely audible but definitely there. I hesitated, thumb hovering over the controller, suddenly aware my mouth had gone completely dry.
Then I see it. This hunched figure at the end of the hall, back turned, doing something I couldn’t quite make out. Camera angle was perfect – showing just enough to create uncertainty. Another survivor maybe? Injured team member? Curiosity won over caution, and I inch forward.
The figure slowly turns, camera cuts to show what it’s doing – feeding on the corpse of another S.T.A.R.S. member. Then it looks up, straight at me (or felt like it anyway), revealing this face that was human but horribly wrong. Gray skin peeling away, milky dead eyes, mouth slick with fresh blood. It stands up and lurches toward the camera – toward me – with these unnatural, jerky movements.
I dropped the controller. Literally. Not being dramatic here – my hands just released it like it had suddenly caught fire, and it clattered onto my bedroom floor. For what felt like minutes but was probably seconds, I just stared at the screen, heart hammering against my ribs and cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.
This was gaming’s first proper zombie reveal, and while it might look quaint now, in 1996 it was absolutely revolutionary. The way it was filmed, paced, presented – it wasn’t just “scary for a video game,” it was legitimately, effectively horrifying in a way I’d only experienced from the best horror films. And I was controlling it, which somehow made everything worse.
The creature kept advancing while I’m scrambling to pick up my controller, hands actually shaking as I tried to remember which button fired the gun I hadn’t even thought to ready. First few shots missed completely because I was panic-firing, not taking time to aim with those clunky controls. When I finally hit it, the zombie staggered but didn’t fall. Took several more bullets – precious, limited ammunition as I’d soon learn – before it collapsed with this wet thud. Even then, wasn’t sure it was properly dead. Gave it a wide berth as I edged past, half-expecting it to grab my ankle.
That moment established Resident Evil’s most brilliant design philosophy – resource management as genuine terror. Every bullet I’d fired at that first zombie was one less for whatever waited deeper in the mansion. The game created tension not just through jump scares or atmosphere, but through mechanics. That’s when I knew this was something completely different.
The Spencer Mansion deserves recognition as one of gaming’s great locations. Layout seemed confusing at first, but gradually revealed itself to be meticulously designed. Interconnected rooms, shortcuts that unlocked as you solved puzzles, areas you’d glimpse early but couldn’t access until much later. Started mapping it in my notepad, creating this physical record that became increasingly covered with puzzle notes, key locations, and warnings about particularly dangerous rooms.
Save system – those typewriters that needed ink ribbons to use – initially seemed like artificial difficulty. Why limit how often you could save? But that was the point, wasn’t it? Each ink ribbon became precious, forcing decisions about when it was “safe enough” to secure your progress. Found myself backtracking to save rooms after particularly harrowing encounters, always weighing the risk of continuing versus the cost of using another ribbon. Stress by design, and it worked brilliantly.
Then came the dogs through the windows – gaming’s perfect jump scare. I’d walked through that corridor multiple times, established false sense of security. Without warning, these rabid, skinless Dobermans crashed through the glass with a sound that made my heart skip. Wasn’t just startled; I was genuinely terrified, partly because the game had conditioned me to fear every encounter due to limited resources. Those dogs moved faster than zombies, made the tank controls feel even more unwieldy. Died the first time, learned another cruel lesson about Resident Evil’s unforgiving nature.
Played until about three in the morning that first night, progressing through the mansion in this state of constant, delicious tension. Every door came with breath-holding anticipation as that door-opening animation played – brilliant loading screen disguised as suspense-building. Fixed camera angles sometimes meant hearing enemies before seeing them – shuffling zombies around corners, click-clack of Hunter claws on marble floors. Sound became as important as visuals.
Next day, convinced my mate Dave to come experience it with me. Something uniquely enjoyable about watching someone else be scared by something that terrified you, and Dave didn’t disappoint. Actually yelled when the first zombie turned around, loud enough that Mum shouted up from downstairs asking if everything was alright. “Just a game, Mum!” I called back, exchanging that universal teenage embarrassment look with Dave.
We tag-teamed it over the weekend, taking turns with the controller and helping solve puzzles. The statue puzzles in the main hall. Armor room with its deadly traps. That haunting music box melody that needed replicating. Dave was better at conserving ammunition, adopting a “run past when possible” strategy that never occurred to my “shoot everything” instincts. Created genuine survival strategy between us.
We discovered the joys of Resident Evil’s utterly bizarre puzzle design. Keys shaped like playing card suits. Shield and armor puzzle that could impale you if solved wrong. Gems for specific statues. Whole sequence involving a giant plant. None of it made architectural or logical sense – why would anyone design a mansion this way? – but it created this dreamlike, surreal quality that enhanced the horror. Reality felt warped within those mansion walls.
Voice acting and dialogue deserves mention for being simultaneously terrible and perfect. “You were almost a Jill sandwich!” might be the most infamously bad line, delivered with such earnest awkwardness it was impossible not to laugh. Whoever played Wesker seemed to be in a different game entirely, his measured, almost bored delivery contrasting with everyone else’s melodrama. Should have undermined the horror, but somehow created this dissonant, off-kilter atmosphere that added to the game’s unsettling nature.
Inventory management – limited slots in a grid system – created another layer of strategic tension. Take the shotgun or extra healing herbs? Can I afford to carry this puzzle item if it means leaving ammo behind? Resident Evil understood that horror comes not just from what’s happening on screen, but from difficult choices under pressure. Modern games often give abundant resources and storage; Resident Evil forced constant, stressful decisions.
Playing as Jill meant I later learned choosing Chris created an entirely different experience. He had fewer inventory slots, couldn’t use the grenade launcher (which became my security blanket), but had more health. Different character dialogues, slightly altered puzzles, unique scenes meant the game essentially had two campaigns. Before “replayability” was a marketing buzzword, Resident Evil offered meaningful reasons to experience the story twice.
The Tyrant – that trench-coated, clawed monster appearing later – represented another fear evolution. After becoming somewhat comfortable with zombies and even faster Crimson Heads, this hulking, relentless enemy that could kill in one or two hits reset the terror level completely. Actually paused during my first encounter, needing a moment to calm racing heart and sweaty palms.
When I finally discovered the lab beneath the mansion and learned about Umbrella Corporation’s experiments, the story took on new dimensions. What seemed like haunted house horror revealed itself as science fiction – genre mashup that would define the series. Journals scattered throughout had hinted at this, but seeing the conspiracy’s full scope elevated everything beyond simple zombie survival.
Sunday night, Dave and I reached the finale – desperate helicopter escape as the mansion self-destructed. We’d lost a few S.T.A.R.S. members, made questionable ammo decisions that haunted us in final battles, but we’d made it. When credits rolled, we sat in silence, mentally processing what we’d experienced.
“That was… actually scary,” Dave finally said, echoing what Marcus had told me, but now I understood. Wasn’t just scary “for a video game.” Resident Evil had tapped into something primal – fear of being trapped, of limited resources, of creatures that looked human but weren’t, of corporations playing god. Used gaming’s interactive nature not as horror limitation but enhancement, making you complicit in every terrifying decision.
Returned the game Monday morning, bleary-eyed and already planning how to save up for my own copy. Steve took the case, noting my exhausted appearance with a knowing smile. “Got you too, eh?” All I could do was nod. Week later, I’d convinced three other mates to rent it, spreading the experience like its own T-virus.
Resident Evil didn’t just scare me; it redefined what interactive entertainment could achieve. Technical limitations – fixed cameras, constrained movement, pre-rendered backgrounds – weren’t flaws but features enhancing horror through implication and suggestion. Groans around corners. Shadows you couldn’t see into. Enemies audible but not visible in the next room. Sometimes what you can’t control is scarier than what you can.
Its impact on gaming can’t be overstated. Didn’t invent survival horror – Alone in the Dark and Sweet Home came earlier – but perfected the formula and brought it mainstream. Its DNA is visible in countless games that followed, from Silent Hill to The Last of Us. Resource management, safe room save points, gradual environment and story revelation – these became genre staples.
For me, it created lifelong love of horror gaming that continues today. When new Resident Evil releases, I maintain the ritual – lights off, headphones on, no distractions. Series has evolved dramatically, moving from fixed cameras to over-shoulder to first-person, but what made that first game special remains in the best entries – atmosphere, tension, nagging worry you’re always one bad decision from disaster.
That first zombie reveal remains perfect gaming history – not just for obvious scare value, but how it signaled games could create genuine, sophisticated horror through pacing, suggestion, atmosphere rather than just gore or startles. Understood fundamental horror truth: suspense is what happens before the scare, not the scare itself.
Sometimes I envy new players experiencing the series first with modern entries like Resident Evil 7 or the remakes. They’re getting technically superior experiences with photorealistic graphics and advanced sound. But there was something magical about that original PlayStation release – how it had to imply horror through technical limitations, B-movie charm of its presentation, way it felt like gaming was discovering fear’s language for the first time.
Twenty-five years later, still get a chill when someone mentions Spencer Mansion. Still remember the map layout like I’d actually been there. Still approach doors in horror games with momentary hesitation, half-expecting that door-opening animation and wondering what waits on the other side. Some gaming experiences fade with time and technological advancement. Others, like that first Resident Evil encounter, become permanently etched into personal history – benchmark against which all future scares are measured.
That’s not nostalgia talking. That’s experiencing something truly revolutionary exactly when you’re most receptive. For me at 18, it was perfect storm – right game, right time, right atmosphere. Every horror game since has been, in small ways, attempting to recapture that perfect October 1996 weekend when I discovered pixels on screen could make my heart race, palms sweat, and controller slip from suddenly nerveless fingers.
Isn’t that what we’re all looking for in great horror? Not cheap jumps or excessive gore, but that perfect moment where the line between game and emotion disappears completely, leaving only pure, electric thrill of genuine fear. For a moment, you forget you’re holding a controller. Forget you’re looking at polygons and textures. You’re just there, in that corridor, with something terrible turning slowly to face you.
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.
