Revisiting old games from my youth isn’t so much about the games themselves, but how they can bring me back to such specific moments in my life. I never realized it at the time, but I was tying my experience with games with various times, events, and places in my memory. Like a familiar scent or long-forgotten picture, replaying a game has the ability to transport me back to memories I thought were lost, almost like a time machine.
For me, the years I want to go back to most are encapsulated by the SNES through the PS2 generations. One of my greatest regrets is losing my entire SNES catalog and a good chunk of essential N64 cartridges, but I at least knew better than to part with my PS2 library. When access to classic games from these specific console generations opened up on PS5 and Switch 2, it felt like a dream come true. However, I still hung on to those original copies even years after I could easily emulate them.
As convenient as these emulation services are, replaying my original copies reminded me that there’s one major reason why I will never part with them.
My own unique fingerprint
Generally speaking, there’s no difference between how the PS5 and Switch 2 present these classic games. Sure, the resolution might be different, they add some quality of life options, and I’m not on a tiny CRT in my childhood home’s basement anymore, but they are intended to be as direct a port as possible rather than a remake or remaster.
What I didn’t realize was missing until I decided to hook up my old hardware again was that intangible but completely personal fingerprint we leave on our games.
Replaying Ocarina of Time on the Switch 2 for the first time in decades overwhelmed me with emotion. Starting the game up, I was yanked back to that birthday party when I finally got my copy. After the party ended and only three of my closest friends remained for the sleepover portion, we booted it up for the first time. Memories I didn’t know I still had of one friend cackling when Navi accidentally flew into the fence during the opening segment, or another trying in vain to hide his fear when we encountered Ghoma crystalized in my head.
Flashes of the past hit me like punches to the gut as I played, almost to the point where I wasn’t sure I could continue without breaking down in tears.
Grabbing my original N64 cartridge, I couldn’t even make it past the main menu without losing it.
What began my emotional spiral was flipping over my old, discoloring cart and seeing “JESSE” scribbled in bold, shaky letters with a marker. I had written my name on the game when I first brought it over to a friend’s house to play and was terrified of losing it, somehow thinking having my name on it would help. Slotting it into my N64, that familiar title screen appeared and I was hit with my old original save files. That’s when I broke down.
My slot was number 2, named 7 Jay — my first alias. Slot three was Ian, my older brother. Except his wasn’t always slot three; he had originally claimed the first slot for himself. One day, I had turned on the console to play and encountered what I now know was stick drift. The cursor on the main menu scrolled through all the files like a roulette wheel without me touching the controller. I should have just turned the system off, but I thought I could time it right to access my game. Instead, I accidentally selected Ian’s file and then into the Erase option. The icon fluttered back and forth between Erase and Back. I was sweating with nerves to the point where the thought of turning the console off never crossed my mind. Praying with all my heart, I hit A…deleting my brother’s file.
Ian had essentially grown out of games by that point and hardly cared, but I was crushed. I swore to make him a new file and get him back to exactly where he left off. And I did. Still, he never played again and I always blamed myself.
I spent an entire day going through my old games and finding tons of these individual marks I left on my games that emulators just can’t replicate. My original Pokémon Blue team, with my Bulbasaur named after my childhood cat, Kiwi. My Harvest Moon farm with each of my chickens named after members of my family. My abandoned save file in Arc the Lad that I never touched after realizing my father had taken me out to buy it the day he learned my mother was divorcing him, and so many more details in the seams.
From a preservation and access standpoint, services like PlayStation Classics and Nintendo Switch Online’s classic games are vital to the industry. I’m not arguing against them, and would even say they need to go further to expand their offerings. But there’s no denying that they can never fully satisfy our own personal nostalgia. Sometimes there’s value in just holding the same controller you used a decade ago.
