Christmas 1985 was supposed to be about getting a bike. I’d been dropping hints for months, circling the red Schwinn in the Sears catalog, leaving strategic notes around the house. Instead, my parents got me a Sega Master System because it was marked down at Kay-Bee Toys and they figured video games were video games. Best parental mistake ever made.
That Master System came with Alex Kidd in Miracle World built right into the system, and while Alex wasn’t exactly Mario, he was mine. I spent that entire winter break figuring out his weird punch-based combat and those rock-paper-scissors boss fights that made absolutely no sense but somehow worked perfectly. This was my introduction to platformers, and it set the stage for what would become a lifelong obsession with jumping on things.
Looking back now, I can see how these eight games didn’t just entertain me—they fundamentally rewired my brain. The pattern recognition, timing, and persistence required to master platformers became part of my mental makeup in ways that still surprise me. When I’m teaching high school history and a kid complains that the Civil War timeline is too complicated to remember, I want to tell them about memorizing the exact timing for the moving platforms in Ice Man’s stage. But I don’t, because I’m a professional.
Super Mario Bros. hit the Master System later as part of some weird licensing deal that I didn’t understand and still don’t, but when it did, everything changed. That first Goomba in World 1-1 taught me more about game design than four years of playing Alex Kidd. The physics felt perfect—Mario’s momentum, the variable jump height, that little skid when you stopped running. These weren’t just technical achievements; they were creating a language that would define platforming forever.
I remember my friend Mike coming over and watching me play through the entire game without warping. This was probably 1987, and beating Super Mario Bros. the “real way” was still considered a legitimate achievement. When I finally reached Bowser in 8-4, my hands were sweating so much the controller kept slipping. Mike was giving me a running commentary like he was calling a sports match: “Okay, fire bars are down, go go go!” When that bridge finally collapsed and the Princess delivered her famous thank you message, we both cheered like we’d won the World Series.
But Super Mario Bros. 3 was the game that made me understand platformers weren’t just about getting from point A to point B—they were about mastery, exploration, and creative problem-solving. Got it for my Genesis… just kidding, never happened. Had to play it at my cousin’s house every weekend because he had the Nintendo and I was stuck in Sega land. The raccoon tail power-up blew my mind. Flying in a 2D platformer? The level design that taught you mechanics gradually without ever feeling like a tutorial? Revolutionary stuff.
The world map alone was a revelation. You could see your progress, choose your path, find secret areas. My cousin and I kept a notebook mapping out all the warp whistle locations and hidden coin ships. That notebook became legendary in our neighborhood—kids would actually ask to borrow it like it was homework. Pre-internet gaming required this kind of community knowledge sharing, and I loved being part of it.
Then Sonic happened, and suddenly being a Sega kid was cool instead of weird. First time I played Sonic the Hedgehog at the mall kiosk, I knew Sega had created something special. Where Mario was precise and methodical, Sonic was pure momentum and attitude. The physics were completely different—speed-based, rewarding flow over careful planning. This wasn’t just “Mario but faster”; it was a totally different philosophy of movement.
Sonic 2 perfected everything the first game started. Chemical Plant Zone remains one of the greatest platforming experiences ever designed—those purple water sections where you had to frantically search for air bubbles while the toxic liquid rose below you. Pure panic translated into gameplay mechanics. I must have played through that zone hundreds of times, and it still gets my heart racing.
The spin dash in Sonic 2 added a new dimension to the movement that felt absolutely revolutionary. Being able to build momentum from a standstill opened up entirely new ways to approach level design. And Tails! Having a AI companion that could help but couldn’t actually die meant my little sister could finally “play” with me without the frustration of constantly losing lives. Game-changing stuff for family gaming dynamics.
Getting to the end of Sonic 2 and facing that final robot with no rings was the ultimate test of pattern memorization and execution. No power-ups, no safety net, just pure skill. When I finally beat it after probably fifty attempts, I screamed loud enough that our neighbor Mrs. Peterson knocked on the door to make sure everything was okay. Try explaining to a concerned elderly neighbor that you’re emotionally overwhelmed by defeating a cartoon robot.
Around this time, I discovered Mega Man 2 at a friend’s house, and it introduced me to a completely different approach to platforming challenge. The Robot Master selection screen was brilliant—being able to tackle challenges in any order meant you could create your own difficulty curve. Stuck on one boss? Go fight someone else, get their weapon, come back stronger. This was problem-solving disguised as entertainment.
The controls in Mega Man 2 were rigid compared to Mario or Sonic—fixed jump heights, constant movement speed—but perfectly suited to the precision-based design. Success wasn’t about physics mastery; it was about timing and positioning. Those disappearing block sections in Dr. Wily’s castle taught me more about persistence and pattern recognition than any motivational poster ever could.
Quick Man’s stage with those instant-death laser beams was basically a masterclass in memorization and timing. You couldn’t react fast enough—you had to know where every beam would appear and when. Beating that level felt like graduating from some kind of advanced gaming university. The satisfaction was purely earned through repetition and improvement, no luck involved.
When Donkey Kong Country hit the Super Nintendo, I was still stuck in Sega world but managed to experience it at yet another friend’s house. Those pre-rendered graphics looked like something from the future—I remember pressing my face closer to the TV trying to figure out how they’d achieved that fur texture on DK. But the visuals weren’t just for show; the level design genuinely expanded what 2D platforming could be.
Mine Cart Carnage was the level that separated the casual players from the serious ones. That relentless forward momentum combined with perfectly timed jumps over broken rails and gaps—it was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. My friend Chris and I developed a system where the non-playing person would serve as a spotter, yelling warnings about upcoming obstacles. “JUMP! GAP GAP GAP!” became our panic language.
The barrel cannon mechanics in DKC added a timing element that was completely unique. You had to launch yourself at exactly the right moment to reach the next cannon or platform. Miss the timing by even a few frames and you’d plummet to your death. It was this weird combination of skill and rhythm that no other platformer had attempted.
Super Mario 64 was the game that convinced me I needed to own a Nintendo console alongside my Sega systems. The first time I controlled Mario in full 3D—running in circles around Princess Peach’s castle just because I could—was a genuine revelation. The camera system wasn’t perfect (that damn lakitu had issues), but it was solving problems most of us didn’t even know existed yet.
The movement options in Mario 64 expanded the platforming vocabulary exponentially. Triple jump, long jump, backflip, wall jump—each had specific applications and mastering them all was required for 100% completion. I spent hours in that castle courtyard just practicing these moves, finding the limits of what was possible. Discovering you could chain a long jump into a dive and ground pound to cover huge distances felt like breaking the game in the best possible way.
Collecting all 120 stars became my obsession for most of 1997. I created a physical checklist, crossing off each star as I found it. My mom started asking if “my little plumber friend” had saved the princess yet, with that special tone parents perfect when their kids are spending too much time on video games. The Rainbow Ride 100-coin star was my white whale—probably took me thirty attempts before I finally secured it.
Crash Bandicoot represented Sony’s entry into serious platforming, and while I didn’t own a PlayStation initially, weekends at my cousin’s house became Crash marathons. The “into the screen” chase sequences created a completely new type of platforming tension that wasn’t possible in 2D. Running toward the camera while being chased by a boulder was pure adrenaline translated into game mechanics.
We developed this informal competitive system where we’d switch controllers after each death and keep track of who progressed furthest and collected the most Wumpa fruits. The later levels were brutal enough that controller handoffs happened frequently, creating this blend of frustration and encouragement that defined our gaming sessions. “You got further but I collected more fruit” became the kind of meaningless-yet-meaningful debate that shaped our relationship.
Rayman was this beautiful anomaly—hand-drawn 2D animation in an era when everyone was rushing toward early 3D graphics. The floating limbs and surreal environments were unlike anything I’d seen, and the fluid animation influenced my terrible teenage attempts at drawing my own game characters. The difficulty was unforgiving though. I got stuck on Mr. Sax—that psychedelic musical boss fight—for what felt like weeks.
What made Rayman special was how it proved that artistic vision could be just as revolutionary as technical advancement. While other games were pushing polygons and texture mapping, Rayman showed that hand-drawn 2D could still create magical, immersive worlds. I didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate it then, but I knew it looked “really cool and weird” in ways that mattered.
Banjo-Kazooie represented the culmination of everything 3D platforming had learned by the late 90s. It took Mario 64’s collectathon approach and expanded it into something more structured and content-rich. The bear-and-bird partnership created movement possibilities that built logically on Mario 64’s foundation—the high jump, the glide, the various attacks all felt like natural evolutions of established mechanics.
Click Clock Wood remains one of the most ambitious level designs in gaming history. A single environment experienced through four seasonal variations, each with unique challenges and collectibles. It rewarded environmental awareness and attention to detail in ways that blew my mind. I mapped the seasonal changes in another notebook, creating reference guides that helped ensure I hadn’t missed anything.
Looking back at these games now, what strikes me is how each contributed something essential to the platforming language. Mario established the fundamental grammar of movement. Sonic added speed and momentum. Mega Man introduced tool-based problem solving. DKC brought environmental variety and visual innovation. Mario 64 translated everything into three dimensions. Crash maintained challenge in 3D space. Rayman emphasized artistic expression. Banjo-Kazooie synthesized and expanded all these lessons.
The evolution wasn’t just technical—it reflected changing ideas about what games could be. Early platformers were primarily challenge-focused, testing reflexes and timing. As the genre matured, exploration, collection, and narrative became equally important. The progression from linear levels to open worlds mirrored my own development from kid to teenager, my growing desire for autonomy and self-directed experience.
These games taught me persistence in ways that probably shaped my personality permanently. The exact timing needed for those auto-scrolling airship levels in Mario 3, anticipating cannonball movements and jumping slightly before you thought necessary—modern games often smooth out these rough edges, but there was something valuable in that unyielding precision. They didn’t adapt to you; you adapted to them.
The transition from 2D to 3D represented one of gaming’s biggest challenges, and many beloved franchises failed to make the leap. It wasn’t just about adding an extra dimension—it required completely rethinking design principles. How do you guide attention in open 3D space? How do you maintain challenge when players have so much movement freedom? The games that succeeded understood that 3D platforming was an entirely new language, not just 2D with depth.
Camera control emerged as the critical component nobody saw coming. The camera was essentially another character that needed to work in partnership with the player. Bad camera systems led to countless cheap deaths and thrown controllers. I still get slightly anxious thinking about those Mario 64 moments where the camera would shift mid-jump, sending Mario into the void through no fault of your inputs.
The collectathon approach changed what completion meant. Simply reaching the end wasn’t enough anymore—you needed to master the entire space, understand every secret. This rewarded curiosity and thoroughness over pure reflexes. Finding that final musical note in Banjo-Kazooie after searching every inch of a level provided a different but equal satisfaction to beating a difficult boss.
What’s remarkable is how well these games hold up today. I recently showed my nephew Super Mario Bros. 3 through Switch Online. After initial complaints about the graphics looking “old,” he became completely absorbed. Good design transcends technological limitations. Watching his face light up when he discovered his first hidden block—that same excitement I’d felt thirty years earlier—reminded me why these games mattered and continue to matter.
These platformers established a vocabulary that influenced virtually every game that followed. Modern dual-analog controls evolved from camera solutions pioneered by 3D platformers. Open-world design builds on exploration principles established by Mario 64 and Banjo-Kazooie. Even “flow state” game design was being worked out through Sonic’s momentum-based movement and Mario’s precision jumping.
From that Christmas morning in 1985 with my Master System to the end of the millennium, these games taught me timing, persistence, exploration, and the pure joy of movement. They provided entertainment, sure, but also education—lessons in physics, problem-solving, and curiosity that served me well beyond those pixelated worlds. The pattern recognition skills I developed trying to memorize Mega Man boss patterns? Turns out they’re useful for teaching history too. The persistence required to collect 120 stars in Mario 64? Pretty applicable to grading papers and dealing with school administration.
I don’t regret a single hour spent mastering these games. They shaped not just my gaming preferences but my actual brain development, teaching skills and attitudes that became fundamental parts of who I am. Modern games are incredible, but there was something special about that era when platformers were figuring out the basic language of interactive entertainment. We were all learning together—developers, players, the medium itself—and these eight games represent the moments when everything clicked into place.
Joe’s a history teacher who treats the console wars like actual history. A lifelong Sega devotee from Phoenix, he writes with passion, humor, and lingering heartbreak over the Dreamcast. Expect strong opinions, bad puns, and plenty of “blast processing.”
