THERE’S A reason why nostalgia and videogames are so inextricably linked. For those of us of a certain age, playing video games is in part an attempt to reconnect with our youths. As we grow older, we search to replicate the endorphin rush of discovery brought about by our formative game experiences. But they can never be recreated.
Our brains are now too developed, we’re too cynical, too analytical. We know too much. Where once games were things of mysterious beauty arriving from exotic lands, they are now the product of mere mortals in California and, er, Guildford. We know how they were made and what market they are aimed at. We know the individuals that create them and the sordid legal squabbles that surround them. We know everything about them, before they even reach our homes. Child-like wonderment and veneration are not made of these things.
So we remember those days when it was different. When a new game wasn’t gained as the result of endeavor and played at the expense of responsibility. For us as children, a new game was acquired through the sheer weight of our desire, a desire fed by a glimpse of beautiful box art on a shop shelf, an appealing title or a fuzzy screenshot in a cherished magazine.
This is why we love the games of our youth. This is why I love Phantasy Star.
(Read more at Resolution Magazine)
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