The first time someone properly murdered me in Quake multiplayer, I didn’t even know what hit me. One second I’m creeping through some dodgy corridor on DM6 like I’m bloody Indiana Jones, next thing I know I’m staring at my own corpse while some git called “PlayerX” has apparently blown me into digital mince with a rocket launcher. The death message was taking the piss: “PlayerX rides Daedalus’s rocket.” Cheers for that, mate. Welcome to the internet, you muppet.
This was 1996, right, and I’m sat in my bedroom in Manchester with my shiny new 28.8k modem making those mental screeching sounds – you know the ones, like a robot having a breakdown – connecting to some Quake server in God knows where. The lag was absolutely shocking, probably 300-400ms on a good day, which meant by the time I’d pressed a button the game had already moved on without me. But I didn’t know any better, did I? This was proper magic – real people, from actual different places, all shooting each other in a computer game. Mental.
I’d been mucking about with single-player Quake for months before this, running it on my Pentium 100 that cost more than my dad’s car. Well, not really, but it felt like it at the time. id Software had gone completely mad with this one – proper 3D everything, not like DOOM where you couldn’t even look up properly. Quake let you swim underwater, jump on things, look wherever you wanted. Sounds dead obvious now, but back then it was like someone had invented color television.
The single-player was brilliant – all creepy and atmospheric with these mad Lovecraftian monsters that’d give you nightmares. But multiplayer, that’s where things got proper interesting. Started off with LAN parties round my mate Tom’s house, dragging our massive beige computers over there like we’re moving house. His old man worked in IT, lovely bloke, actually understood what we were doing instead of thinking we’d lost our minds. We’d take over their dining room for entire weekends, living off Pot Noodles and whatever fizzy drinks we could afford.
Tom’s dad would pop his head in occasionally, grinning at us like we were doing something clever instead of just shooting each other repeatedly. “Alright lads, who’s winning?” he’d ask. “It’s not really about winning, Mr. Henderson,” I’d explain, while simultaneously plotting to nick Tom’s quad damage. The man would just nod and wander off, probably thinking we were all completely barmy.
The trash talk was immediate and brutal. “That was my bloody rocket launcher, Dave!” I’d be shouting across the table as Dave’s character legged it off with the good weapons. Physical proximity made it worse somehow – you could see the smug look on someone’s face when they’d just blown you up with your own rocket launcher. Dave had this particularly annoying grin when he’d managed a decent kill. Still does, actually, the git.
These LAN parties taught me that multiplayer FPS games weren’t like the co-op console stuff we’d grown up with. This was proper competition, everyone for themselves, constant dying and respawning in an endless cycle of digital violence. But it was friendly violence, if that makes sense. We’d share tricks, warn each other about camping spots, celebrate particularly impressive shots even when we were the ones getting shot. “Did you see that grenade bounce?” Tom would ask, barely containing his excitement. “Pure physics, that was.” It absolutely wasn’t, and we all knew it, but the mythology was half the fun.
Rocket jumping was the perfect example of how mental this game could get. Some clever sod worked out you could shoot a rocket at the ground while jumping and use the explosion to launch yourself onto things. My first successful rocket jump was a complete accident – panicked shot at someone charging me that sent me flying backwards into a lava pit. Not exactly tactical genius, but it showed me what was possible.
I spent hours practicing this nonsense in empty servers, loading up maps just to practice blowing myself up at precisely the right angle. My mum would walk past my room hearing constant explosion sounds. “You alright in there, love?” “Yeah, just practicing jumping on rockets.” She’d give me one of those looks mothers have perfected over centuries of dealing with their children’s incomprehensible hobbies.
The weapons in Quake were perfectly balanced, like a deadly rock-paper-scissors game. Rocket launcher for splash damage when you couldn’t aim properly. Lightning gun for close-range mayhem but it ate ammunition like I ate biscuits. The railgun came later in QuakeWorld – one shot, one kill if you could actually hit anything, but you’d be stood there reloading forever while someone else filled you with nails. Learning all these weapons became an obsession, hours spent working out which one to use when.
Map knowledge was even more important than being able to shoot straight. Each level was like learning a new building – where everything was, how long it took for weapons to respawn, which routes were quickest. DM6 is still burned into my brain; I could draw you a floor plan from memory. That central acid pool, the rocket launcher platform, those bloody teleporters that always spat you out facing the wrong direction. DM17 was completely different – floating platforms in space, all about timing your jumps and using the right weapons for long-distance shots.
Playing online with dial-up was like trying to have a conversation through treacle. You didn’t aim where people were, you aimed where you thought they might be by the time your shot actually registered. It was mental – you’re basically living half a second in the future, firing at empty doorways hoping someone would run into your rockets. When I finally got to play on a proper LAN with decent ping times, it felt like taking off ankle weights I didn’t know I was wearing.
Finding servers was an adventure in itself. Had to use GameSpy or similar, scrolling through lists of player-hosted games with daft names and mental house rules. “No camping the quad spawn” or “Gentlemen only, no rocket spam in corridors.” Each server had its own little culture and unwritten rules you’d discover by accidentally breaking them and getting shouted at in the chat.
Chat itself was an art form when you’re trying to type while someone’s shooting rockets at your head. Couldn’t write essays, you’d be dead before finishing the sentence. Everything got compressed: “gg” for good game, “rl at quad” to tell people where the rocket launcher was, “camp much?” for when someone was being a coward. The really skilled players could somehow type coherent sentences while bunny-hopping across the map with perfect timing. Proper wizardry, that.
The mod scene was where things got really interesting. Team Fortress turned the whole game into something completely different – proper team-based warfare with different classes and actual objectives. Capture the Flag created these brilliant dramatic moments, last-second saves and heroic charges that felt like something out of a film. These weren’t just minor tweaks, they were complete reimaginings of what the game could be.
Installing mods was like performing surgery with a rusty spoon. Files had to go in exactly the right folders, config files needed editing with precise syntax, and half the time nothing would work because you’d missed some crucial step buried in a README file written by someone who assumed you had a computer science degree. My hard drive became this chaotic mess of mod folders, each with its own launch parameters and mysterious requirements.
The social side of early online gaming was fascinating. No friends lists, no matchmaking, no ranking systems – communities just formed naturally around servers and IRC channels. You’d recognize regular players by their style and chat habits, building these weird relationships based purely on in-game interactions. “Oh, DeathDealer’s here – he always controls the rocket spawn, better change tactics.” These digital personalities existed in this strange space between anonymous and familiar.
My first clan invitation came after a surprisingly good game on a Chicago server. Player called Entropy messaged me: “Decent game. Need a fifth for CTF. Interested?” Simple as that, suddenly I’m part of organized team play with practice schedules and voice communication through early VoIP that made us all sound like we were talking from inside biscuit tins.
The clan was called Eternal Darkness, which seemed impossibly cool to teenage me despite being obviously melodramatic nonsense. Our practice sessions were surprisingly serious affairs. Entropy would create these crude tactical diagrams using keyboard characters – equals signs for corridors, O’s for players, that sort of thing. Looked like something a child would draw, but they worked.
My role became “mid control” – basically hanging around the middle of maps, stopping enemy flag runners and covering our own team. Wasn’t skilled enough for the high-pressure flag running that required perfect rocket jumps and split-second timing, wasn’t patient enough for pure defense. This middle role suited my playstyle and, more importantly, worked with my dodgy internet connection. When I inevitably lagged out because someone picked up the phone, the team could adapt without losing their main offensive or defensive players.
First time I heard another player’s actual voice after weeks of text chat was proper weird. “ShadowKiller,” this intimidating tactical genius, turned out to be Mark from Wisconsin who said “ope, sorry” whenever he accidentally killed a teammate. Voice chat humanized these mysterious online warriors – suddenly they’re just regular people with dogs barking in the background and mums telling them dinner’s ready.
LAN parties continued alongside online gaming, creating this interesting dual social structure. Techniques learned from clan mates got introduced to local games, gradually making our friend group more competitive. Meanwhile, the comfortable trash talk from LAN environments gave me confidence to be more social online, where I might otherwise have stayed quiet.
My parents remained utterly baffled by the whole thing. Mum would check on me during late-night sessions, concerned about the manic clicking and occasional swearing coming from my room at 2 AM. “Still playing that shooting game?” “It’s team practice, Mum. We’ve got a tournament.” The concept of competitive gaming was completely alien to her – this was years before esports became a thing people understood.
The technical side fascinated me even though I couldn’t understand half of it. John Carmack’s engine design was revolutionary, moving from DOOM’s clever 2.5D tricks to proper 3D rendering with dynamic lighting and all sorts of mathematical wizardry. I enjoyed explaining these distinctions to thoroughly disinterested friends and family, who’d nod politely while clearly wondering when I’d develop interest in football or girls.
Console commands became a secret language separating casual players from the dedicated community. Adjusting field of view, customizing crosshairs, optimizing network settings through arcane commands like “rate 15000” – these weren’t just preferences but essential optimizations for competitive play. My config.cfg file became a treasured possession, backed up on floppy disks and continuously refined through experimentation and tips from IRC channels.
The sound design by Trent Reznor created this oppressive industrial atmosphere that perfectly matched the Lovecraftian environments. More importantly for gameplay, every weapon had distinctive audio cues. The sound of a rocket launcher behind you triggered immediate panic responses that bypassed conscious thought. Even now, decades later, I could identify every Quake weapon by sound alone.
The early pro gaming scene grew organically from this passionate community. Dennis “Thresh” Fong became gaming’s first celebrity, winning Carmack’s Ferrari in a tournament and proving gaming skill could earn real rewards. Following these tournaments through patchy internet coverage, I briefly fantasized about pro gaming glory before honest self-assessment revealed the considerable gap between enthusiastic amateur and genuine competitive talent.
Modern multiplayer FPS games, with their matchmaking algorithms and consistent performance, make those early Quake days seem primitive. But something pure existed in that early ecosystem – a frontier spirit where communities formed naturally, techniques spread through direct interaction, and every limitation became a creative challenge. Modern conveniences removed much friction from online gaming, but that friction sometimes created meaningful resistance that shaped unique adaptations.
Quake wasn’t just my introduction to online multiplayer; it was formative in understanding digital communities, competition, and technical problem-solving. Skills developed during those late-night sessions transferred surprisingly well to adult life – concise communication under pressure, team coordination, continuous improvement based on results. All valuable in professional environments, though I’ve wisely omitted “rocket jump proficiency” from my CV.
My original Quake CD sits in my collection, jewel case cracked from repeated installations on various computers over the years. The game’s available digitally now, making the physical disc obsolete, but I keep it as an artifact from a pivotal moment in gaming history and personal development. Sometimes I’ll run my finger over the embossed logo and recall that distinctive modem handshake sound, the anticipation of joining unknown servers, the satisfaction of a perfectly timed rocket sending an opponent flying across DM6.
Those experiences weren’t just games played but a digital coming-of-age in the earliest days of today’s interconnected gaming world. Quake was where I lived during formative years, a virtual community as real as any physical neighborhood, with its own customs, heroes, and shared achievements. Not bad for a game fundamentally about turning people into digital giblets with well-placed explosives.
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.
