Sometimes I still hear that Nintendo start-up sound in my dreams. You know the one—that magical little jingle that meant you’d successfully blown into the cartridge just right, jammed it in at the perfect angle, and maybe, just maybe, the gaming gods had decided to smile upon you today. That sound was the soundtrack to my childhood, right along with my mom yelling “dinner’s getting cold!” from upstairs while I desperately searched for a save point.
I got my NES in ’85, and man, nothing’s ever quite matched that feeling. My dad—exhausted from his night shift—had set it up before I woke up. I still remember the smell of the living room that morning: Dad’s coffee, the slightly dusty scent of our old Zenith TV warming up, and that brand-new plastic console smell. Super Mario Bros. was already glowing on the screen, that first level with its iconic blocks and question marks practically calling my name.
My brother Dave hogged the controller first (typical), dying repeatedly on that first Goomba—a family joke that survived longer than most of our pets. When I finally got my turn, my hands were so sweaty from anticipation that the controller nearly slipped out of my grip. But something clicked. Those simple left-right-jump controls became second nature in seconds. I made it all the way to 1-3 on my first try, and the look on Dave’s face… I can still picture it perfectly. Equal parts impressed and betrayed.
We didn’t have much money growing up in suburban Michigan. Video games were a luxury, so each cartridge was precious. I’d spend weeks poring over issues of Nintendo Power before deciding which game to put on my birthday list. The magazine arrived wrapped in plastic, and I’d carefully peel it open, treating each issue like a sacred text. Those strategy guides and code sections became my bedtime reading. I literally wore the binding out of the issue featuring the complete Zelda II map. The center pages eventually separated entirely, and I taped them to my wall, a paper roadmap to adventure.
Summer of ’87, I mowed lawns until my hands had permanent blisters just to save up for The Legend of Zelda. Sixty bucks was a fortune back then. When I finally had enough, my dad drove me to Toys “R” Us, where you had to take a paper slip to the register and they’d retrieve your game from some mysterious back room. The anticipation nearly killed me. I remember staring at that gold cartridge the whole ride home, afraid to even open the box in case I somehow damaged it.
The SNES arrived at a pivotal moment—I was 13, right at that awkward stage where you’re figuring out who you are. While other kids were discovering sports or music, I was discovering 16-bit RPGs. Final Fantasy II (really IV, I later learned) was my gateway drug. I faked being sick three days in a row to play it uninterrupted. My mom knew I was lying—she’d put her hand on my forehead, sigh, and then mysteriously decide to run errands for several hours. Looking back, I think she understood that I needed that escape.
The console wars hit our household hard. Dave somehow convinced our parents to get him a Genesis for his room. Traitor. But it worked out—I’d sneak into his room when he was at football practice to play Sonic, and he’d creep into the basement at night to get time with Chrono Trigger. We maintained this elaborate pretense of loyalty to our respective systems while secretly enjoying both. Years later, over beers, we finally admitted to this mutual betrayal and laughed until we couldn’t breathe.
The ritual of renting games defined my weekends. Fridays after school, Dad would drive me to Video Town, where I’d spend what felt like hours analyzing the back of each box, making impossible choices. Return the game late? That was coming out of next week’s allowance, so Sunday nights were a mad dash to finish whatever I could before the dreaded Monday return. I once stayed up until 4 AM finishing Streets of Rage 2, only to fall asleep during a math test the next day. Worth it? Absolutely.
My first gaming heartbreak came when my original NES finally died. It wasn’t dramatic—no smoke or sparks—it just… stopped working one day. No amount of blowing, Q-tip cleaning, or ritual cartridge dances could revive it. I held a mock funeral in the backyard. Dave came, wearing sunglasses indoors “out of respect.” Mom thought we’d lost our minds, but played along, even bringing out cookies as “funeral refreshments.” Dad quietly ordered a replacement from a catalog without telling me, and when it arrived two weeks later, he acted surprised that it had shown up. “Must have been a mistake in shipping,” he said with a wink. I never called him on it.
The N64 hit during my high school years, and suddenly gaming became weirdly social. Mario Kart tournaments in my basement drew crowds—actual crowds!—of kids who’d previously made fun of gaming. The football captain showing up to play GoldenEye was like witnessing some bizarre alternate reality. My reputation transformed overnight from “that nerdy kid” to “the guy with the cool N64 setup.” I’d like to say I remained humble, but lord, the power went straight to my head. I made people take off their shoes before entering the “gaming zone” and instituted a complex bracket system for tournaments.
My best friend Tom and I developed an entire ritual around NFL Blitz. Whoever was losing after the first quarter had to make the snack run. Second quarter loser made drinks. Third quarter loser had to sit slightly farther from the TV for the final quarter. We tracked stats in a spiral notebook that became increasingly elaborate, eventually including weather conditions in my basement (depending on whether Dad had adjusted the thermostat) and “referee bias” (random calls we’d attribute to imaginary life problems the game’s refs were having).
PlayStation changed everything. Suddenly games weren’t just games—they were experiences. I still remember the first time I played Final Fantasy VII, sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, jaw literally hanging open as the opening sequence played. The leap from cartridge to CD felt like science fiction. The fact that games now had VOICE ACTING blew my teenage mind. I’d been reading text boxes for so long that hearing actual dialogue felt almost intrusive, like someone reading my diary aloud.
College dorm life transformed gaming into a social currency. My well-worn N64 controllers became more valuable than my meal card. My room became known as “The Arcade,” with a rotating cast of characters stopping by at all hours. My poor roommate Brian—who didn’t game at all—developed the ability to sleep through anything, even twenty drunk freshmen screaming at each other during heated Super Smash Bros. matches at 3 AM. The RA would knock on our door to quiet us down, then inevitably stay for “just one quick match”—a phrase that never, ever meant just one match.
Then there was the rental store incident that my friends still won’t let me forget. I’d reserved the last copy of Metal Gear Solid the day it released. When I went to pick it up, the clerk couldn’t find it. After ten minutes of searching, she realized she’d given it to someone else by mistake. I—sleep-deprived from finals and hopped up on mountain dew—dramatically slid down the wall onto the floor and just sat there, staring blankly. The poor girl felt so bad she gave me a month of free rentals. I may have slightly played up my devastation for effect, but the emotional trauma was real, I swear.
The used game store near campus became my second home. The owner, Gary—a bearded guy who always smelled faintly of pizza and wore the same Dreamcast t-shirt—started setting aside rare finds for me. “Got in a mint copy of Suikoden,” he’d say casually when I walked in, knowing I’d been searching for it. We developed a bartering system that made no sense to outsiders. I once traded him a broken SNES, three Sega Game Gear games, and a half-eaten bag of Doritos for Xenogears. In retrospect, he was definitely just being nice to the weird college kid who spent more time in his store than in class.
After graduation, gaming and I had a complicated relationship. My first real job left little time for marathon sessions. My PlayStation 2 gathered dust for weeks at a time, which felt like betraying an old friend. I’d occasionally fire up Tony Hawk at 1 AM when insomnia hit, muscle memory kicking in as I landed combos I didn’t consciously remember. Adult responsibilities were kicking my ass, but for those brief midnight sessions, I was 16 again, without a care in the world beyond landing that perfect 900.
My marriage (and subsequent divorce) created another gaming gap. My ex wasn’t anti-gaming, but she viewed it as “Mike’s weird hobby” rather than something to share. I’d sneak in sessions when she was at yoga, feeling absurdly guilty about playing God of War instead of doing something “productive.” After we split, one of my first acts of reclaimed freedom was setting up my gaming station exactly how I wanted it—consoles spanning generations all connected to one TV, wires everywhere, zero aesthetic appeal, and absolutely perfect.
Looking back now from my mid-forties (with significantly less hair but maybe a bit more wisdom), I realize that gaming wasn’t just entertainment for me—it was a constant companion through life’s transitions. Those pixels and polygons marked time more effectively than any calendar. I can track major life events by what I was playing: breakups (lots of angry Doom sessions), job promotions (celebratory all-night RPG binges), moving to new cities (setting up the gaming station before unpacking anything else).
The technology evolved—from blowing on cartridges to downloading patches—but that essential magic never changed. The first time I showed my nephew Jake how to play SSX Tricky, watching his face light up with the same wonder I felt decades ago, I realized gaming had come full circle. I was passing down not just games, but an entire culture, a way of experiencing worlds beyond our own.
There’s a weird, bittersweet feeling in revisiting the classics now. Sometimes I’ll hook up the old SNES, hear that startup chime, and be instantly transported to my parents’ basement. For a brief moment, I’m that kid again, with nothing more pressing than beating the next level before dinner. Then my back starts to hurt from sitting on the floor, and reality crashes back in—I’ve got emails to answer, a mortgage to pay, and a receding hairline to pretend I’m not worried about. But for those few stolen hours, time travel feels possible.
I’ve still got that notebook where Tom and I tracked our NHL ’94 stats. The pages are yellow now, the pencil marks fading. Sometimes I flip through it and laugh at how seriously we took it all. But maybe that’s the beauty of it—we created whole universes and histories around these games, built friendships and memories that outlasted the technology itself. The cartridges may not work anymore, but man, those moments still do. They’re still perfect, still loading instantly, no blowing required.
