Christmas morning, 1985. I’m sitting cross-legged on our shag carpet, staring wide-eyed at this gray box connected to our family Zenith TV. Dad’s showing me how to blow into a cartridge “to make it work better” (complete myth, turns out, but we all believed it). Mom’s already worrying about my eyes sitting “too close to that thing.” And me? I’m watching a chunky Italian plumber stomp on mushroom creatures, completely unaware that this moment would shape the next four decades of my life.
The NES wasn’t just my first console—it was my first love. But was it the best? After spending entirely too much time thinking about this question (seriously, I made a spreadsheet and everything, which my girlfriend found both amusing and concerning), I’ve ranked the defining consoles of my childhood and teenage years. This isn’t some technical comparison or sales analysis—this is purely based on which machines defined gaming for me personally during those formative years. You’ll probably disagree with some of these. Heck, I disagreed with myself multiple times while writing this. But that’s the beauty of gaming nostalgia—it’s deeply personal.
Let’s start with the system that’s probably going to get me the most hate mail—the Sega Master System comes in at number 8 on my list. Look, I didn’t even own one. My cousin Derek did, and visiting his house was my only exposure to it. The controller felt weird in my hands, and while Phantasy Star was legitimately amazing, nothing else grabbed me enough to cause console envy. The SMS always felt like the off-brand cola of gaming to me—technically similar to the real thing, but something was just… off. Sorry, Sega fans. I know it had a technical edge over the NES in many ways, but hardware specs don’t always translate to gaming magic.
Sitting at number 7 is the Atari 7800. This is kind of cheating because it was already considered retro by the time I played it. My best friend Tom’s dad was a serious collector and had one set up in their basement. Playing Asteroids and Centipede on that thing during sleepovers, with Mr. Wilson telling us stories about waiting in line to play these games in arcades—that was my first taste of gaming history. But let’s be honest, those games, while historically important, couldn’t hold my attention for long after I’d experienced the NES. The 7800’s library diversity analysis doesn’t hold up compared to later consoles, though its backward compatibility value with 2600 games was pretty impressive for its time.
The TurboGrafx-16 lands at number 6, and I can almost hear the outrage from the dedicated fans of this underappreciated system. I didn’t know a single person who owned one when it was current—I discovered it years later at a flea market in 1994. The seller had the console with a bunch of HuCards for $45, which I immediately blew my lawn-mowing money on. Bonk’s Adventure and Military Madness became weekend obsessions. The TurboGrafx had this weird, alternative-universe quality to its games—familiar genres but with completely different approaches. It was like discovering a parallel gaming timeline. While its market share history in North America was dismal, it deserved better.
The Nintendo 64 takes the slightly controversial number 5 spot. Now, before you close this tab in disgust, hear me out. The N64 had some of the most influential games ever made—Super Mario 64 literally wrote the rulebook for 3D platformers, and GoldenEye revolutionized console FPS games. But it also had lonnnng stretches with no new releases, and the controller, while innovative with its analog stick, felt like it was designed for someone with three hands. I have vivid memories of saving up $199.99 to buy the system (plus tax!) on launch day, then having nothing new to play for what felt like months after blasting through Mario 64. The cartridge vs. CD loading times debate definitely favored the N64—no lengthy load screens—but the limited space meant fewer and often more expensive games. Quality over quantity, for sure, but my teenage wallet felt the pain.
The Sega Genesis claims spot number 4, and it remains the console that best represents the 90s console war era to me. I was a Nintendo kid, but the day my brother Dave brought home a Genesis with Sonic the Hedgehog was the day my brand loyalty first wavered. That blue blur moving at speeds that made Mario look like he was running in molasses… it was revelatory. The Genesis had an attitude that perfectly matched my snarky teenage years. “Genesis does what Nintendon’t” wasn’t just marketing—it felt true when you were playing Mortal Kombat with actual blood instead of the neutered SNES version. The console’s regional exclusive releases created this mystique around Japanese titles that never made it stateside, fueling playground rumors about games we’d never get to play.
The bronze medal position at number 3 goes to the Super Nintendo, a console so perfect it makes me emotional just thinking about it. The SNES was a refinement of everything that made the NES special, with a controller that set the standard for ergonomic design considerations for years to come. The console’s technical comparison to its competition showed Nintendo at the height of its hardware powers—Mode 7 scaling and rotation effects blew my teenage mind. Final Fantasy III (VI in Japan) remains my favorite game of all time, a 16-bit epic that made me realize games could tell stories on par with any other medium. I literally faked being sick for three days straight to finish it uninterrupted, emerging from my room bleary-eyed but triumphant. My mom knew exactly what I was doing but let it slide—probably because she’d been “borrowing” the SNES to play Tetris Attack when I was at school. The SNES library diversity analysis shows it excelled across virtually every genre, from RPGs to racing games to puzzlers.
The PlayStation lands at number 2, representing the moment gaming grew up alongside me. I was 17 when I got mine—purchased with my first real paycheck from that summer job at the mall food court. I still remember the distinct smell when I first opened that iconic gray box—a mixture of plastic, possibility, and just a hint of industrial solvents. The PlayStation wasn’t just a technological leap forward with its CD-ROM format; it represented a cultural shift. Suddenly gaming wasn’t just for “kids”—the marketing, the game selection, everything felt more mature just as I was trying desperately to be taken seriously as an almost-adult. The console exclusive killer app games were mind-blowing—Metal Gear Solid felt like playing through an action movie, and Final Fantasy VII’s pre-rendered cutscenes were like nothing I’d ever seen. I skipped two days of classes when FFVII came out and didn’t regret it for a second (though my Calculus grade might disagree). The PlayStation’s market share history shows how it dominated the era, but living through that domination in real-time was something special—suddenly everyone was a gamer, even people who’d never touched a controller before.
And at number 1, probably to nobody’s surprise who knows me, sits the original NES. Not because it had the best graphics (it didn’t), the most comfortable controller (definitely didn’t), or even the most sophisticated games (nope). The NES takes the top spot because it was my first, yes, but more importantly because it was the console that defined what gaming could be. The NES library covered everything from simplistic sports games to surprisingly complex RPGs like Dragon Warrior. It was the wild west of game design, where developers were making up the rules as they went along. That cartridge hardware durability, though occasionally requiring the infamous “blow and reinsert” ritual, meant my original NES still works today, sitting proudly in my entertainment center right next to my PS5.
The Christmas I got my NES created core memories that have never faded. Dad stayed up all night trying to hook it up, cursing quietly (but not quietly enough) at the RF switch adapter. Mom worried it would rot my brain but still asked for turns playing Duck Hunt. My brother Dave hogging the controller for hours before I finally got my chance at Super Mario Bros. The family competition that erupted over Excitebike track creation. The way Ice Hockey became a legitimate family bonding activity every Sunday after dinner.
The NES wasn’t just a gaming console—it was the centerpiece of so many childhood experiences. I learned reading comprehension from Final Fantasy’s text-heavy storytelling. I developed problem-solving skills trying to figure out Zelda’s labyrinthine dungeons without Nintendo Power’s help. I even learned rudimentary resource management from trying to prepare properly for Ninja Gaiden’s punishing later levels. (I also learned several colorful words from my brother when he repeatedly fell into pits on those same levels, but that’s a different kind of education.)
Each of these consoles represents a different chapter in my life. The NES was childhood wonder. The SNES was adolescent discovery. The PlayStation was young adult independence. Together, they track not just the evolution of gaming technology but my own growth as a person. The console backward compatibility value became increasingly important to me over time—not just for practical reasons but because those older games were connections to earlier versions of myself.
What’s fascinating is how certain games become inextricably linked with life events. I can’t think about Chrono Trigger without remembering the week my parents were fighting constantly, and I retreated into its time-travel narrative as an escape. Playing Resident Evil reminds me of the first apartment I lived in after college—tiny studio, questionable neighborhood, but it was mine, and I celebrated my independence by scaring myself half to death with zombie dogs crashing through windows at 2 AM.
Console hardware durability differences meant something personal too. My original NES survived three house moves, a basement flood (thanks to quick action from Dad), and my younger cousin Jeremy dropping it down the stairs. It still works. Meanwhile, my first PlayStation died after exactly 13 months—one month after the warranty expired, naturally. I was broke, heartbroken, and had to wait six weeks, saving every penny from my crappy entry-level job, to replace it.
The funny thing about gaming nostalgia is how it smooths over the rough edges. I look back fondly at cartridge-based systems, conveniently forgetting the limitations of their libraries compared to CD-based consoles. The technical comparison between generations shows obvious improvements, but there’s something special about those early, more limited experiences. Constraints bred creativity in game design that sometimes feels missing in today’s anything-is-possible development environment.
I still have most of these consoles, displayed on shelves in my home office like museum pieces—a personal console generation technical exhibit. Friends’ kids are always drawn to them, fascinated by these strange, boxy machines from another era. “They look so… old,” they say, not meaning to wound me but managing it anyway. But then I hook up the NES, hand them a controller, and watch their initial skepticism melt away as they discover the pure, unfiltered fun of Super Mario Bros. or the strategic depth of Mega Man. Good game design truly is timeless.
So there it is—my completely subjective, nostalgia-soaked ranking of the consoles that defined my youth. Your list would undoubtedly look different. Maybe you were a Genesis kid who saw the light with the Dreamcast. Maybe your journey started with the PlayStation or N64. That’s the beauty of gaming—there’s no universal experience, just millions of individual stories shaped by when we were born, what our parents could afford, and which games spoke to us personally.
But if you ever want to understand who I am, just know that somewhere in my brain, there’s still a seven-year-old boy sitting too close to a wood-paneled TV, clutching a rectangular controller with sweaty hands, convinced that if he just tries one more time, he can rescue the princess. Games may have evolved, but that fundamental magic—that sense of possibility, challenge, and wonder—has never left me. And I hope it never does.
