I’ve been on the Fediverse for a very long time. If you Google my username, you’ll find a trail of posts going back years—thousands of them. My style has always been consistent, and I’ve stayed true to it.
I also happen to be autistic, and I often use ChatGPT for tone checks—it’s a tool that helps me communicate more clearly.
This isn’t an ad. I’m just someone who genuinely loves this game. And if enthusiasm makes me look like a shill, then so be it.
That said, your comment is a good reminder of why I recently added two new rules to ![email protected], the community I moderate.
I think there might be a small misunderstanding. I wasn’t saying they’re one company—just noting the influence they both still carry today. However you look at it, Square Enix are the caretakers of Final Fantasy and Dragon Quest, much like how Bandai Namco continue to carry Pac-Man forward.
Instead of focusing on the negatives, why not celebrate what these games have meant to so many of us? Their impact is still worth appreciating.
This isn’t about “a lot of games.” It’s about building something no other JRPG studio has ever pulled off—a single, continuous saga that’s been unfolding since Trails in the Sky in 2004.
No resets, no reboots, no discarded lore. Every event, faction, and character connects across a dozen titles. That kind of long-form narrative discipline doesn’t exist anywhere else in the genre.
And don’t minimize how hard that is. Most JRPG studios can barely keep one trilogy coherent. Falcom has been weaving one uninterrupted storyline for over twenty years—through console generations and shifting hardware.
Holding a narrative together across decades isn’t just impressive, it’s almost impossible. Doing this wasn’t just because of luck. It’s taken discipline, patience, and vision on a scale no other studio has matched.
Influence is easy to trace. XSEED’s Trails in the Sky localization raised the bar for how seriously Western publishers approach text-heavy JRPGs. At the time, bringing over a game with hundreds of thousands of lines of dialogue was considered unworkable. They did it, and it set a precedent for the kind of effort fans now expect from localizations.
Falcom also helped legitimize PC as a JRPG platform in the West—back when most people dismissed the genre as “console only.”
And if you look at modern RPGs built around serialized storytelling and grounded politics—Disco Elysium, Baldur’s Gate 3, even the way Persona 5 structures its arcs—you can see Falcom’s fingerprints everywhere.
Critics agree. RPG Site flat out said this about the remake of Trails in the Sky FC:
If you’re here strictly for the magical number, here it is: Trails in the Sky 1st Chapter remake is a 10/10. What’s more, it’s the easiest 10/10 I’ve ever given.”
And the numbers back it up. Trails in the Sky sits at Overwhelmingly Positive on Steam with a 93% approval rating from thousands of reviews. Recent reviews are even better—96% positive.
Rather than burning energy on outrage, put that time into actually playing more games. You’ll get more out of them—and you’re better than just dismissing something this significant.
The technical merits mattered when it launched. Do they matter now? Not at all. Otherwise FFVII would’ve gone the way of Battle Arena Toshinden—big splash at the time, forgotten in the long run.
What gives FFVII its staying power is the art. That’s why we play games. Not for specs. For creativity.
And this is where FFVII and Trails meet: at the rarefied height of JRPG artistry. The pinnacle. God-tier.
Auto-correct changed “glam” to “glamour”, and now lemmy.world won’t let me make the edit.
Anyway, here’s my further opportunity to say that The Beatles changed the world by being everywhere. The Velvet Underground changed the world by changing the people who mattered next.
And if this motivates you to go listen to the Velvet Underground, then I’m jealous—because I wish I could hear the VU for the first time all over again.
Okay, but I’m not talking about commercial appeal. I’m talking about artistic achievement.
What Nihon Falcom accomplished with this game is unmatched. Trails in the Sky is, without question, the most expansive and intricate saga in JRPG history.
Because unlike other series that reset with each new title, Falcom committed to one continuous world. Every town, every political faction, every character connects across dozens of games.
As I said in my review: this is a re-imagining of the first Trails game. It’s part of a much, much larger saga that continues to this day—but this is a self-contained game.
You don’t have to wait for the rest of the games. The sequels have already been released.
Think of this like Final Fantasy VII Remake. Final Fantasy VII already exists, and you can buy it for cheaper. And, well, same deal with Trails in the Sky.
Totally is. FFVII was a watershed moment for JRPGs on PSX. Same is true for Trails on PC.
It’s just that recognition in the West for FFVII was instant. Meanwhile, due to localization, it took more than a decade for Trails to get recognition.
Maybe this is a better comparison: if FFVII is The Beatles, then Trails is the Velvet Underground. Beatles sold massive copies immediately. VU took awhile, but now everyone knows they’re just as impactful as the Beatles.
Play the original. Right now, It’s C$11.00 on GOG.
And while FFVII was ported to PC—I own that port—FFVII was more impactful as a PSX game and was a major factor in Sony winning the Gen 5 console war.
On the other hand Trails in the Sky started off as a PC game, and never really got a mainstream console release—but this was the genesis of the Trails series.
cross-posted from: https://atomicpoet.org/objects/3d9c9c3e-14e9-446f-9d5c-83af4227bbfc
> Trails in the Sky 1st Chapter, a JRPG, just got released on Steam—and this is a big deal because this game is to PC what Final Fantasy VII was to PlayStation.
>
> You play as Estelle Bright, a stubborn but big-hearted teen, and her adopted brother Joshua, calm and secretive, as they work as junior agents of the Bracer Guild—mercenaries who handle everything from lost pets to bandit raids.
>
> What begins as simple small-town jobs in the idyllic kingdom of Liberl slowly peels back into a slow-burn political thriller about coups, ancient technology, and rival nations circling like sharks. The genius of Trails in the Sky is how it ties everyday people and personal stories into that larger web of conspiracies, making the upheaval feel like it’s your neighbours and your home on the line.
>
> Some history is in order. The two most influential JRPG developers are Square Enix and Nihon Falcom. Square Enix gave us Dragon Quest and Final Fantasy. Nihon Falcom gave us Dragon Slayer and Ys. Square pushed the turn-based JRPG. Falcom’s big innovation was the action JRPG.
>
> Dragon Slayer in particular was groundbreaking—without it, there’s no Zelda, no Hydlide, no Neutopia. It was the template for action RPGs to follow, and it was so successful it spawned spin-offs. One of them was The Legend of Heroes. That series was so successful it spun off again into Trails in the Sky. And yes—Trails itself kept spinning into more games, until it became a saga of its own.
>
> So why haven’t you heard of it? Because Falcom wasn’t console-first like Square. Their heyday was the PC-88 and PC-98—computers that never came west. When Japan switched to Windows, so did Falcom. Trails in the Sky first arrived on Windows in 2004—but only in Japan. A PSP port followed in 2006. Still Japan only. North America finally got it in 2011... on PSP. By then, nobody here was playing PSP anymore.
>
> It wasn’t until 2014 that the Windows version—better than the PSP one—was localized and released on Steam and GOG. It took more than a decade for Westerners to notice. But once they did, they realised this wasn’t just another RPG—this was a landmark.
>
> The comparison to Final Fantasy VII is apt. Trails in the Sky is Falcom’s premiere JRPG. It cemented their reputation for long-form storytelling and kicked off a serialized epic that continues today. And if you think there are a lot of Final Fantasy games, Trails makes it look modest.
>
> The difference is in the type impact each had. Final Fantasy VII was an atomic bomb. Trails in the Sky was a hurricane—starting as a whisper, then building into a storm. Westerners know the sequels like Trails of Cold Steel and Trails from Zero, but how many ever went back to the original?
>
> Now they can. Trails in the Sky 1st Chapter is a re-imagining of that first game. And “re-imagining” is exactly the right word. Same story, not a simple remake.
>
> What’s new? A lot. The original was purely turn-based. This version lets you switch on the fly between the classic grid system and a new real-time action mode. Combat feels fluid and layered, and Falcom themselves estimate about 80 hours to clear—double the original’s runtime—thanks to extra quests and expanded exploration.
>
> The graphics are completely redone. The old game was 2.5D isometric sprites—think Diablo with anime characters. The new one is full 3D, third-person, HDR-enabled, yet still faithful. Rolent, the first town, looks like you remember, just rebuilt in polygons.
>
> Sound has levelled up. Fully animated cutscenes. Professional actors in both Japanese and English. Steam even lists French, German, and Spanish text, though only English and Japanese get full voice tracks. Most importantly, Falcom’s iconic music is intact—because unlike too many remakes, they didn’t dare mess with perfection.
>
> Controls are flexible. The devs push gamepads, but keyboard and mouse works beautifully. Xbox and PlayStation controllers are supported natively, and thanks to Steam Input, just about anything—Logitech, 8BitDo, you name it—will work.
>
> Steam officially says Windows-only and lists Deck support as “unknown.” But previews already note it runs smooth on Deck, looks gorgeous on OLED screens, and will almost certainly get the “Verified” badge. I tested it myself on Linux—it’s flawless.
>
> Specs are reasonable: Ryzen 5 1600, 8GB RAM, GTX 1050, and 33GB storage will net you 60fps at 1080p.
>
> The price is steep—C$77.99. Steam also launched it with a pile of optional DLC: costumes, boosters, items. Normally I’d balk at paying that much. But this is Trails in the Sky 1st Chapter—rebuilt so a new generation can see why it’s legendary. And if that’s still too much, the 2014 version is cheap: C$21.99 on Steam, or just C$11.00 on GOG.
>
> Reception so far is glowing. Steam already shows a 96% positive rating across 233 reviews. Players love the balance of modern upgrades with old-school heart.
>
> Either way—whether you buy today’s re-imagining or grab the older version—you owe it to yourself to play Trails in the Sky. Because if you care about JRPGs, even a little, this is the one you don’t skip.
>
> https://store.steampowered.com/app/3375780/Trails_in_the_Sky_1st_Chapter/
>
> @[email protected]
cross-posted from: https://piefed.social/post/1233021
> After a week of building and curating [email protected], the community already has 58 subscribers—and it’s only getting started.
>
>
>
> I’ve been thinking hard about the kind of place I want this to be. The vision comes down to three things:
>
>
>
> 1. Real conversations about games
>
> 2. Minimal memes
>
> 3. Zero outrage culture
>
>
>
> I want this community to be about joy—a space for people who actually play video games to share what excites them. Not a dumping ground for culture wars. Not another echo chamber for Gamergate-era nonsense.
>
>
>
> Games are for everyone. And everyone should feel comfortable digging deep here. Talk about an obscure Japanese console. Explore weird European PCs. Or break down the craft behind how a game actually got made. That’s the stuff I want to see flourish.
>
>
>
> Here’s to the next 100 posts—and beyond. Come join in:
>
>
>
> https://piefed.social/c/videogames
RNG = random number generator. In gaming, this just means random chance. Whenever loot drops, critical hits land, enemies spawn, or dice rolls decide outcomes, that’s RNG at work.
Eurojank is a term for European-developed games (usually from Central or Eastern Europe) that are ambitious, creative, and full of unique ideas… but also full of technical rough edges.
There’s a lot of subgenres I wanted to include, but I felt this document was already too long. Here’s more of them:
DBRPG = Deck-building RPG
SurRPG = Survival RPG
RLRPG = Rogue-like RPG
SLRPG = Souls-like RPG
I don’t know why I overlooked GRPGs since Germany has some pretty important ones. You mentioned Gothic, but there’s also both the Sacred series and ELEX series.
I’d say that while both GRPGs and PRPGs are releated to each other, there’s some big differences that go beyond nationality. I’d say GRPGs are more like a muddy Renaissance faire going on while PRPGs have more of a storybook style.
EDIT: In the interest of thoroughness, I added even more subgenre acronyms.
For people unaware of all the role-playing game (RPG) subgenres, here’s a brief explainer:
**TTRPG** – Tabletop RPG. The original RPG. Played on a literal table. Dice, paper, friends, arguments. Everything else evolved from here.
Examples:
* Dungeons & Dragons
* Pathfinder
* Shadowrun
**LARP / LARPG** – Live Action Role-Playing Game. The version where people physically dress as their characters and act things out in person. Foam weapons, costumes, fake accents, and enough in-character drama to power three soap operas. LARPing as a concept goes back to the 1970s, right alongside early tabletop like D&D, but it didn’t get the “LARP” acronym until the 1980s.
Examples:
* Vampire: The Masquerade LARP events
* Amtgard
* Dagorhir
**CRPG** – Computer RPG. Born from tabletop, moved onto computers. The CPU handles all the dice rolls you don’t want to argue about.
Examples:
* Baldur’s Gate
* Fallout (1997)
* Planescape: Torment
**TBRPG** – Turn-Based RPG. Everyone takes turns. This is the “classic” RPG format, so people often just call it an RPG.
Examples:
* Divinity: Original Sin II
* Wasteland 3
* Trails in the Sky
**SRPG / TRPG** – Strategy (or Tactical) RPG. Same turn-based idea, but on grids—squares or hexes—with multiple units to command.
Examples:
* Fire Emblem
* Final Fantasy Tactics
* Tactics Ogre
**RTwPRPG** – Real-Time with Pause RPG. You pause to assign orders, unpause to watch them happen. Baldur’s Gate fans still swear by this.
Examples:
* Baldur’s Gate II
* Pillars of Eternity
* Dragon Age: Origins
**ARPG** – Action RPG. Real-time combat. No turns, no waiting—just swing when you feel like it.
Examples:
* Diablo II
* Dark Souls
* Kingdom Hearts
**IRPG** – Idle RPG. The game mostly plays itself. Perfect for people who like progression bars but don’t like playing.
Examples:
* Clicker Heroes
* Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms
* AFK Arena
**DBRPG** – Deck-Building RPG. RPG progression tied to card decks. You level up by upgrading your deck rather than just your stats.
Examples:
* Slay the Spire
* Monster Train
* Griftlands
**SurRPG** – Survival RPG. Harsh environments, resource scarcity, and RPG progression systems. The game’s main plot is “don’t die.”
Examples:
* Outward
* Kenshi
* The Long Dark
**RLRPG** – Rogue-like RPG. Procedural generation, permadeath, and heavy RNG baked into an RPG framework.
Examples:
* Darkest Dungeon
* Stoneshard
* Tangledeep
**SLRPG** – Souls-like RPG. RPGs built around Soulsborne-style combat: stamina-based melee, brutal bosses, minimalist storytelling.
Examples:
* Dark Souls III
* The Surge 2
* Lords of the Fallen
**JRPG** – Japanese RPG. Made in Japan or heavily inspired by Japan’s approach. Console-heavy. Drama-heavy. Usually turn-based or action hybrid.
Examples:
* Final Fantasy VII
* Persona 5
* Dragon Quest XI
**KRPG** – Korean RPG. Similar to JRPGs but usually more PC-oriented. Often online.
Examples:
* Lost Ark
* MapleStory
* Vindictus
**WRPG** – Western RPG. Pretty much any RPG from the West that isn’t imitating JRPGs.
Examples:
* The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
* Mass Effect
* Fallout: New Vegas
**PRPG** – Polish RPG. Technically a WRPG branch, but with its own personality. Darker tone, folkloric influences, and PC-first mentality.
Examples:
* The Witcher series
* Seven: The Days Long Gone
* The Thaumaturge
**GRPG** – German RPG. RPGs developed in Germany, usually open-world Eurojank epics with handcrafted maps, tough early-game difficulty, and an earnest-but-campy tone.
Examples:
* Gothic II
* Risen
* ELEX
**LatRPG** – Latin American RPG. RPGs from Latin America, often mixing local folklore, indigenous mythology, and JRPG/ARPG elements. “LARPG” isn’t used because Live Action Role-Playing already took it.
Examples:
* Mulaka
* Tunche
* Cris Tales
**MORPG** – Multiplayer Online RPG. Small-scale online RPGs, often instanced or lobby-based.
Examples:
* Phantasy Star Online 2
* Monster Hunter: World,
* Dauntless
**MMORPG** – Massively Multiplayer Online RPG. Persistent worlds, thousands of players, endless grinds.
Examples:
* World of Warcraft
* Final Fantasy XIV
* Guild Wars 2
**MOORPG** – Massive Online Open-World RPG. Marketing term for the “bigger” MMOs. You’ve seen the ads.
Examples:
* Black Desert Online
* ArcheAge
* EVE Online
**MRPG** – Mobile RPG. Made for phones. Often gacha-heavy, session-based, or both.
Examples:
* Honkai: Star Rail
* Raid: Shadow Legends
* Summoners War
**BRPG** – Browser RPG. Runs in your web browser. Lightweight, accessible, usually free-to-play.
Examples:
* Kingdom of Loathing
* AdventureQuest Worlds
* Urban Dead
**VRRPG** – Virtual Reality RPG. Built for VR platforms. Often more about immersion than traditional RPG mechanics.
Examples:
* Zenith: The Last City
* OrbusVR
* The Mage’s Tale
**BBRPG** – Bulletin Board RPG. Forum- or post-based roleplay. Writing-heavy, rules-light.
Examples:
* Gaia Online RP forums
* NationStates roleplay boards
* Myth-Weavers
So yeah, there’s a lot of alphabet in the RPG soup. Some of it’s legit, some of it’s marketing garbage, and some of it’s just fans inventing labels because that’s what fans do.
But they’re all chasing the same dopamine hit: numbers go up, loot gets shinier, and suddenly your “quick session” has eaten the entire weekend.
Let’s not beat around the bush: Will Rock is basically Serious Sam.
That’s the first comparison anyone makes. And they’re not wrong. It plays almost exactly like Croteam’s arena shooter—fast, chaotic, and ridiculous. But calling it a copy misses something important. Because Will Rock isn’t just a clone. It’s a four-month miracle, a budget game from a brand-new studio, and a strange, beautiful mess stuffed with quirks that make it unforgettable. That is, if you were lucky enough to stumble into it.
Saber Interactive was brand new in 2003. Will Rock was their very first game. They built it in just over four months. Four months to create an entire FPS from scratch on a brand-new engine. An engine that didn’t even have a name yet—it would later become Saber3D. At the time, Will Rock was basically a tech demo wearing an Ancient Greece skin.
The game came out in June 2003 under Ubisoft. But the marketing wasn’t exactly explosive. The most famous thing about it wasn’t a trailer. It was the soundtrack. Specifically: Twisted Sister’s “I Wanna Rock.” It’s definitely in the trailer. It’s apparently in the main menu. YouTube uploads show it.
And yet… after replaying the game, I never heard it once. That’s not a song you just miss. So maybe it’s a ghost track. Maybe it’s a Mandela Effect. Either way, it’s the most famous song that may or may not actually be in the game.
Distribution was weird, too. Ubisoft sold it in stores. But it also came bundled with Gigabyte PC-CDROM drives. A lot of players didn’t buy it—they just found it on their new hardware. That’s how many people first played Will Rock: by accident. Which might explain why it feels like a half-remembered fever dream now.
The story is early-2000s action nonsense. Willford Rockwell, archaeologist, gets possessed by Prometheus. Prometheus gives him powers. He goes to war with Zeus to save his girlfriend. That’s it. But the Greek mythology setting works. Where Serious Sam had Egypt and aliens, Will Rock has Minotaurs, Harpies, Centaurs, Cyclops, skeleton warriors, and massive Atlas statues that rip themselves free from pedestals and come for you.
And this is where the boom begins.
Minotaurs don’t just die—they split into more Minotaurs when you kill them. Atlas statues don’t just stand there—they crash forward like a granite linebacker. Harpies dive-bomb screaming. Rat-bombs explode. Enemies accidentally damage each other in the chaos. The screen becomes a mess of smoke, blood, and flying marble.
The weapons make it louder. You’ve got the standard pistol, shotgun, machine gun, and minigun. But then it gets weird. The shotgun looks like a lever-action rifle and uses rifle ammo. The Medusa Gun turns enemies to stone so you can smash them into gravel. The Acid Gun inflates enemies until they burst with a wet rubber squeal. The Atomic Gun fires a miniature nuke. And the shovel—the humble melee weapon—is absurdly effective, especially against archers. Every weapon feels tuned for chaos.
Then there are the Titan powers. You collect gold to buy them at altars. Immortality makes sense. Titan Damage makes sense. Titan Motion? It slows down time—and slows you down too. It’s basically useless. A broken power-up in a game already running at maximum speed. But that’s Will Rock. Half the fun is in its glorious mistakes.
The level design swings wildly. Sometimes you’re in wide-open killboxes built for maximum slaughter. Sometimes you’re in cramped switch-hunts that feel like filler. You’ll bounce on trampolines, fire yourself from catapults, sneak through a Trojan horse, pull endless levers. Sometimes it’s fun. Sometimes it’s busywork. But it’s never quiet.
Reviews at the time were mixed. Metacritic score: 63. GameSpot called it a “mindless knockoff.” IGN called it “hard.” Other critics called it too easy because enemies dropped in three hits and health pickups were everywhere. Even the difficulty became a quirk—easy for some, brutal for others.
For most players, Will Rock disappeared quickly. It was overshadowed by Serious Sam and never got a sequel. But for the people who remember it? It’s the quirks that stand out. The regenerating Minotaurs. The statues that wake up. The useless Titan Motion. The shotgun that’s somehow a rifle. The shovel that’s better than half the guns. The ghost of Twisted Sister haunting the main menu.
For everyone else, Will Rock is just another budget shooter from 2003. But for those who stumbled into it—maybe from a Gigabyte CD-ROM—it’s something stranger. A flawed, loud, chaotic snapshot of early-2000s FPS excess. A game that didn’t just copy Serious Sam. It kept the boom going.
Let’s not beat around the bush: Will Rock is basically Serious Sam.
That’s the first comparison anyone makes. And they’re not wrong. It plays almost exactly like Croteam’s arena shooter—fast, chaotic, and ridiculous. But calling it a copy misses something important. Because Will Rock isn’t just a clone. It’s a four-month miracle, a budget game from a brand-new studio, and a strange, beautiful mess stuffed with quirks that make it unforgettable. That is, if you were lucky enough to stumble into it.
Saber Interactive was brand new in 2003. Will Rock was their very first game. They built it in just over four months. Four months to create an entire FPS from scratch on a brand-new engine. An engine that didn’t even have a name yet—it would later become Saber3D. At the time, Will Rock was basically a tech demo wearing an Ancient Greece skin.
The game came out in June 2003 under Ubisoft. But the marketing wasn’t exactly explosive. The most famous thing about it wasn’t a trailer. It was the soundtrack. Specifically: Twisted Sister’s “I Wanna Rock.” It’s definitely in the trailer. It’s apparently in the main menu. YouTube uploads show it.
And yet… after replaying the game, I never heard it once. That’s not a song you just miss. So maybe it’s a ghost track. Maybe it’s a Mandela Effect. Either way, it’s the most famous song that may or may not actually be in the game.
Distribution was weird, too. Ubisoft sold it in stores. But it also came bundled with Gigabyte PC-CDROM drives. A lot of players didn’t buy it—they just found it on their new hardware. That’s how many people first played Will Rock: by accident. Which might explain why it feels like a half-remembered fever dream now.
The story is early-2000s action nonsense. Willford Rockwell, archaeologist, gets possessed by Prometheus. Prometheus gives him powers. He goes to war with Zeus to save his girlfriend. That’s it. But the Greek mythology setting works. Where Serious Sam had Egypt and aliens, Will Rock has Minotaurs, Harpies, Centaurs, Cyclops, skeleton warriors, and massive Atlas statues that rip themselves free from pedestals and come for you.
And this is where the boom begins.
Minotaurs don’t just die—they split into more Minotaurs when you kill them. Atlas statues don’t just stand there—they crash forward like a granite linebacker. Harpies dive-bomb screaming. Rat-bombs explode. Enemies accidentally damage each other in the chaos. The screen becomes a mess of smoke, blood, and flying marble.
The weapons make it louder. You’ve got the standard pistol, shotgun, machine gun, and minigun. But then it gets weird. The shotgun looks like a lever-action rifle and uses rifle ammo. The Medusa Gun turns enemies to stone so you can smash them into gravel. The Acid Gun inflates enemies until they burst with a wet rubber squeal. The Atomic Gun fires a miniature nuke. And the shovel—the humble melee weapon—is absurdly effective, especially against archers. Every weapon feels tuned for chaos.
Then there are the Titan powers. You collect gold to buy them at altars. Immortality makes sense. Titan Damage makes sense. Titan Motion? It slows down time—and slows you down too. It’s basically useless. A broken power-up in a game already running at maximum speed. But that’s Will Rock. Half the fun is in its glorious mistakes.
The level design swings wildly. Sometimes you’re in wide-open killboxes built for maximum slaughter. Sometimes you’re in cramped switch-hunts that feel like filler. You’ll bounce on trampolines, fire yourself from catapults, sneak through a Trojan horse, pull endless levers. Sometimes it’s fun. Sometimes it’s busywork. But it’s never quiet.
Reviews at the time were mixed. Metacritic score: 63. GameSpot called it a “mindless knockoff.” IGN called it “hard.” Other critics called it too easy because enemies dropped in three hits and health pickups were everywhere. Even the difficulty became a quirk—easy for some, brutal for others.
For most players, Will Rock disappeared quickly. It was overshadowed by Serious Sam and never got a sequel. But for the people who remember it? It’s the quirks that stand out. The regenerating Minotaurs. The statues that wake up. The useless Titan Motion. The shotgun that’s somehow a rifle. The shovel that’s better than half the guns. The ghost of Twisted Sister haunting the main menu.
For everyone else, Will Rock is just another budget shooter from 2003. But for those who stumbled into it—maybe from a Gigabyte CD-ROM—it’s something stranger. A flawed, loud, chaotic snapshot of early-2000s FPS excess. A game that didn’t just copy Serious Sam. It kept the boom going.
They’re gone. No mascots. No background worlds. Just the “elemental” machine skins.
Tetris Worlds had eye monsters because THQ wanted a console-friendly mascot game.
Tetris Elements has industrial pipes because ValuSoft (THQ’s budget imprint) wanted a cheap, self-contained PC release that didn’t require any cross-project asset wrangling.
Turns out Tetris Elements is my favourite Tetris.
And I’ve played a lot of Tetris. Atari Tetris, Nintendo Tetris, SEGA Tetris, Capcom Tetris, EA Tetris… I’ve even played multiple board game versions—and yes, there are more than you’d think.
But nothing fills me with joy like Tetris Elements, the 2004 THQ release that stayed stuck on Windows and Mac. Never consoles. Never handhelds. Just a weird budget disc for early-2000s computers.
It was meant to follow Tetris Worlds. ImaginEngine built it under THQ’s ValuSoft label. Mostly an educational-games studio, with a little help from a programming shop in India. Small budget, short schedule. The kind of game you’d expect to look rushed.
And it does. But it also tries things other official Tetris games never touched again.
On the surface, it’s simple: Classic mode plus five elemental modes. Earthquake, Fire, Ice, Stratosphere, Tempest. But these aren’t harmless gimmicks. They mess with the core game. Earthquake shakes the board and warps your stack. Tempest forces you to manage two rotating wells. Stratosphere drops meteors that can open perfect holes—or land garbage in the exact spot you needed clear.
Even the safe-looking modes have teeth. Ice will slam a piece straight to the bottom if an icicle hits it. Fire can chain explosions if you heat-drop pieces in sequence. These weren’t casual distractions. They were strange, playable twists on Tetris that you couldn’t get anywhere else.
And then there are the quirks.
The game says it uses the modern SRS rotation system. But pieces spawn in odd orientations, like the letters they’re named after. Wall kicks are inconsistent. The configuration files literally include a “–99, –99” coordinate—developer shorthand for “don’t use this”—as an actual kick entry. It shipped like that.
Hard drops don’t even behave consistently. Sometimes the next piece spawns instantly. Sometimes there’s a pause just long enough to throw off your rhythm. It feels half-finished.
Look in the game’s files and it gets stranger. All the rotation data, piece definitions, and rules are in plain-text .INI files. No encryption, no compression. It’s like the studio assumed no one would bother to check. That’s how players found five unused pieces just sitting there. Pentominoes, oversized blocks, even odd trimino shapes. All fully defined. None ever used.
The audio hides unused tracks too. Better quality than what shipped. There are unused menu graphics, leftover text strings. “Name Exists” sits quietly in the files. There’s even an unused “You Lose” screen. It’s a Tetris game with the workshop still attached.
Even the presentation feels slightly off. Clearing a Tetris flashes the screen white, like the game’s trying to burn your retinas as a reward. The music is fine—light techno, some nods to the classics—but the big feature was loading your own MP3s. And then the game speeds them up in pitch as your stack rises. A nice idea if you like drum ’n’ bass. Less nice if you don’t want your playlist chipmunked mid-match.
Reception at the time was muted. Two critics reviewed it. Scored in the 70s. People moved on. Hardcore players dismissed it. Casual players bought it in a bargain bin, played Fire mode once, and forgot it.
But the quirks gave it a second life.
The .INI structure made it one of the easiest official Tetris games to modify. Fans enabled the unused pieces. They rewrote gravity. They fixed rotation bugs themselves. It became a little laboratory for people who liked taking Tetris apart.
On Mac, it stuck around longer than expected. The disc ran on both OS 9 and OS X. PowerPC Macs could run it cleanly. Classic mode on OS X 10.4 ran even better. Intel Macs killed it, but by then it was already out of print.
On PC, it lived as long as people kept CD drives. No keys, just disc-based protection. When drives vanished, so did the game—until no-CD patches and Archive.org brought it back. Today it runs on Windows 10 with glitches. Windows 11 is hit or miss.
Its reputation now? Not a classic. Not even a cult favourite. Just an oddball entry people dig up because it’s strange, moddable, and unlike anything else in the series.
It’s not polished. It’s not balanced. But it’s an official Tetris that doesn’t fit neatly anywhere in the series history. And somehow, that makes it fit perfectly.
Turns out Tetris Elements is my favourite Tetris.
And I’ve played a lot of Tetris. Atari Tetris, Nintendo Tetris, SEGA Tetris, Capcom Tetris, EA Tetris… I’ve even played multiple board game versions—and yes, there are more than you’d think.
But nothing fills me with joy like Tetris Elements, the 2004 THQ release that stayed stuck on Windows and Mac. Never consoles. Never handhelds. Just a weird budget disc for early-2000s computers.
It was meant to follow Tetris Worlds. ImaginEngine built it under THQ’s ValuSoft label. Mostly an educational-games studio, with a little help from a programming shop in India. Small budget, short schedule. The kind of game you’d expect to look rushed.
And it does. But it also tries things other official Tetris games never touched again.
On the surface, it’s simple: Classic mode plus five elemental modes. Earthquake, Fire, Ice, Stratosphere, Tempest. But these aren’t harmless gimmicks. They mess with the core game. Earthquake shakes the board and warps your stack. Tempest forces you to manage two rotating wells. Stratosphere drops meteors that can open perfect holes—or land garbage in the exact spot you needed clear.
Even the safe-looking modes have teeth. Ice will slam a piece straight to the bottom if an icicle hits it. Fire can chain explosions if you heat-drop pieces in sequence. These weren’t casual distractions. They were strange, playable twists on Tetris that you couldn’t get anywhere else.
And then there are the quirks.
The game says it uses the modern SRS rotation system. But pieces spawn in odd orientations, like the letters they’re named after. Wall kicks are inconsistent. The configuration files literally include a “–99, –99” coordinate—developer shorthand for “don’t use this”—as an actual kick entry. It shipped like that.
Hard drops don’t even behave consistently. Sometimes the next piece spawns instantly. Sometimes there’s a pause just long enough to throw off your rhythm. It feels half-finished.
Look in the game’s files and it gets stranger. All the rotation data, piece definitions, and rules are in plain-text .INI files. No encryption, no compression. It’s like the studio assumed no one would bother to check. That’s how players found five unused pieces just sitting there. Pentominoes, oversized blocks, even odd trimino shapes. All fully defined. None ever used.
The audio hides unused tracks too. Better quality than what shipped. There are unused menu graphics, leftover text strings. “Name Exists” sits quietly in the files. There’s even an unused “You Lose” screen. It’s a Tetris game with the workshop still attached.
Even the presentation feels slightly off. Clearing a Tetris flashes the screen white, like the game’s trying to burn your retinas as a reward. The music is fine—light techno, some nods to the classics—but the big feature was loading your own MP3s. And then the game speeds them up in pitch as your stack rises. A nice idea if you like drum ’n’ bass. Less nice if you don’t want your playlist chipmunked mid-match.
Reception at the time was muted. Two critics reviewed it. Scored in the 70s. People moved on. Hardcore players dismissed it. Casual players bought it in a bargain bin, played Fire mode once, and forgot it.
But the quirks gave it a second life.
The .INI structure made it one of the easiest official Tetris games to modify. Fans enabled the unused pieces. They rewrote gravity. They fixed rotation bugs themselves. It became a little laboratory for people who liked taking Tetris apart.
On Mac, it stuck around longer than expected. The disc ran on both OS 9 and OS X. PowerPC Macs could run it cleanly. Classic mode on OS X 10.4 ran even better. Intel Macs killed it, but by then it was already out of print.
On PC, it lived as long as people kept CD drives. No keys, just disc-based protection. When drives vanished, so did the game—until no-CD patches and Archive.org brought it back. Today it runs on Windows 10 with glitches. Windows 11 is hit or miss.
Its reputation now? Not a classic. Not even a cult favourite. Just an oddball entry people dig up because it’s strange, moddable, and unlike anything else in the series.
It’s not polished. It’s not balanced. But it’s an official Tetris that doesn’t fit neatly anywhere in the series history. And somehow, that makes it fit perfectly.
A 1991 ad for Renovation's SEGA Genesis games.
At first I laughed—but they weren’t wrong. We *do* have 8-way TVs now. Just run eight emulators side by side and tile them across your screen.
Hell, today’s budget TVs are bigger than the one in the ad. Dan was ahead of his time.
Before Tetris took over arcades and consoles, it was just a computer game.
Not even a Western one. It started on a Soviet mainframe.
What most people don’t know is that its first home versions were for DOS. The very first DOS port came out in 1986, made by Vadim Gerasimov—a Russian developer who adapted Alexey Pajitnov’s original concept for IBM PCs.
Then came the flood. Lots of other DOS ports followed, some barely licensed, others “licensed” in the Cold War handshake sense.
But the first official DOS release made specifically for the West? That was Spectrum Holobyte’s version in 1988. It beat the NES. It beat the arcade version.
And yes—this version was still based on Gerasimov’s DOS design.
Now, I don’t think it’s the best home version of Tetris. But it’s easily the strangest—and maybe the most interesting.
For starters, Spectrum Holobyte leaned hard into the Cold War theming. One of their print ads straight-up asked: “What are the Three Greatest Things to Come Out of the U.S.S.R.?” The answer? The Bolshoi ballet. Stolichnaya vodka. And Tetris. That was the pitch. The ad featured dancers in mid-leap, a frosty bottle of Stoli on ice, and a red game box with Cyrillic text and Saint Basil’s Cathedral slapped right on the cover. It was less a software ad than a cultural export campaign—equal parts kitsch, nationalism, and Cold War tourism. You didn’t just buy a puzzle game. You bought a Russian moment.
Inside the game, every screen drips with Soviet vibes: fishing vessels, space cosmonauts, Russian folk music, even a reference to the “Miracle on Ice.” The high score list? Labeled “Top Ten Comrades.” That kind of commitment.
This was deliberate. Spectrum Holobyte’s CEO literally asked the devs to preserve the “Soviet spirit,” not tone it down. He wanted Americans to want to buy a Russian product. Which, in 1988, was a pretty wild ask.
There was also a plane that flew across the title screen—an easter egg referencing Mathias Rust’s illegal flight into Red Square, which had humiliated the Soviet military the year before. Elorg, the Soviet licensing agency, didn’t love that. It got patched out. Along with a bunch of other Cold War touches. Fighter jets? Gone. Submarines? Replaced with a man on a horse.
Pajitnov himself insisted that Tetris be “a peaceful game heralding a new era in superpower relations.” Apparently, that meant fewer tanks.
Technically, this version of Tetris is barebones—but in a foundational kind of way. It’s missing a lot of what we now take for granted. There’s no hold piece. No wall kicks. No 180° rotation. Some versions don’t even give you bonus points for clearing four lines. Which, let’s be honest, kind of defeats the point of a Tetris.
Instead, scoring is mostly about how fast you drop pieces and whether you survive. That’s it. There is a hard drop, though. And you can set the starting height and level. Which was a nice touch.
Rotation is basic. Just clockwise and counterclockwise. No fancy adjustments. If a piece doesn’t fit, it just doesn’t. There’s no wall-kick logic to save you. And once a piece touches down? It locks immediately.
No second chances. No little delay. You either commit or you stack badly and panic.
Even visually, it’s oddly compelling. Only CGA and EGA are supported—VGA was still too new—but the artwork is stylized in a way that sticks with you. The backgrounds are moody and distinct. It doesn’t feel like it’s trying to be flashy. It feels… ideological.
I know the Mac, Amiga, and Atari ST versions had more colors. And some fancier music. But the DOS version has *character*. It’s a cultural time capsule disguised as a puzzle game.
Also worth noting: this version sold like crazy. Over 100,000 units in its first year. The average player? Mid-30s, probably an engineer or middle manager. Half were women—which, for a PC game in the ’80s, is almost unheard of.
And if you’re running this today? You’ll probably get a divide overflow error. You’ll need a patch just to launch it.
This wasn’t just a game. It was a diplomatic artifact. A licensing mess. A Cold War curiosity. A version of Tetris that, for all its simplicity, tells you more about 1988 than most history books.
Before Tetris took over arcades and consoles, it was just a computer game.
Not even a Western one. It started on a Soviet mainframe.
What most people don’t know is that its first home versions were for DOS. The very first DOS port came out in 1986, made by Vadim Gerasimov—a Russian developer who adapted Alexey Pajitnov’s original concept for IBM PCs.
Then came the flood. Lots of other DOS ports followed, some barely licensed, others “licensed” in the Cold War handshake sense.
But the first official DOS release made specifically for the West? That was Spectrum Holobyte’s version in 1988. It beat the NES. It beat the arcade version.
And yes—this version was still based on Gerasimov’s DOS design.
Now, I don’t think it’s the best home version of Tetris. But it’s easily the strangest—and maybe the most interesting.
For starters, Spectrum Holobyte leaned hard into the Cold War theming. One of their print ads straight-up asked: “What are the Three Greatest Things to Come Out of the U.S.S.R.?” The answer? The Bolshoi ballet. Stolichnaya vodka. And Tetris. That was the pitch. The ad featured dancers in mid-leap, a frosty bottle of Stoli on ice, and a red game box with Cyrillic text and Saint Basil’s Cathedral slapped right on the cover. It was less a software ad than a cultural export campaign—equal parts kitsch, nationalism, and Cold War tourism. You didn’t just buy a puzzle game. You bought a Russian moment.
Inside the game, every screen drips with Soviet vibes: fishing vessels, space cosmonauts, Russian folk music, even a reference to the “Miracle on Ice.” The high score list? Labeled “Top Ten Comrades.” That kind of commitment.
This was deliberate. Spectrum Holobyte’s CEO literally asked the devs to preserve the “Soviet spirit,” not tone it down. He wanted Americans to want to buy a Russian product. Which, in 1988, was a pretty wild ask.
There was also a plane that flew across the title screen—an easter egg referencing Mathias Rust’s illegal flight into Red Square, which had humiliated the Soviet military the year before. Elorg, the Soviet licensing agency, didn’t love that. It got patched out. Along with a bunch of other Cold War touches. Fighter jets? Gone. Submarines? Replaced with a man on a horse.
Pajitnov himself insisted that Tetris be “a peaceful game heralding a new era in superpower relations.” Apparently, that meant fewer tanks.
Technically, this version of Tetris is barebones—but in a foundational kind of way. It’s missing a lot of what we now take for granted. There’s no hold piece. No wall kicks. No 180° rotation. Some versions don’t even give you bonus points for clearing four lines. Which, let’s be honest, kind of defeats the point of a Tetris.
Instead, scoring is mostly about how fast you drop pieces and whether you survive. That’s it. There is a hard drop, though. And you can set the starting height and level. Which was a nice touch.
Rotation is basic. Just clockwise and counterclockwise. No fancy adjustments. If a piece doesn’t fit, it just doesn’t. There’s no wall-kick logic to save you. And once a piece touches down? It locks immediately.
No second chances. No little delay. You either commit or you stack badly and panic.
Even visually, it’s oddly compelling. Only CGA and EGA are supported—VGA was still too new—but the artwork is stylized in a way that sticks with you. The backgrounds are moody and distinct. It doesn’t feel like it’s trying to be flashy. It feels… ideological.
I know the Mac, Amiga, and Atari ST versions had more colors. And some fancier music. But the DOS version has *character*. It’s a cultural time capsule disguised as a puzzle game.
Also worth noting: this version sold like crazy. Over 100,000 units in its first year. The average player? Mid-30s, probably an engineer or middle manager. Half were women—which, for a PC game in the ’80s, is almost unheard of.
And if you’re running this today? You’ll probably get a divide overflow error. You’ll need a patch just to launch it.
This wasn’t just a game. It was a diplomatic artifact. A licensing mess. A Cold War curiosity. A version of Tetris that, for all its simplicity, tells you more about 1988 than most history books.
I love Operation Thunderstorm.
This game did something that almost no other game does. It kept me playing for an entire day.
No alt-tabbing. No checking my phone. Just me, glued to the screen. And I actually beat it. Which is saying something, because I own thousands of games and rarely finish any of them. But this one? I couldn’t stop.
Not because it’s polished. Not because it’s some hidden masterpiece. But because it’s the most bizarrely satisfying budget WWII shooter I’ve ever played.
And I mean budget. This game came out in 2008, right when WWII shooters were collapsing under their own weight. Everyone assumed it was just another Call of Duty clone. But Operation Thunderstorm isn’t that.
What it actually is… is Polish Wolfenstein.
Made by City Interactive—now CI Games—a company that was known, back then, for shoveling out low-cost shooters by the dozen. In fact, this game was released during a very specific and weird moment in their history.
In 2007, City Interactive went public on the Warsaw Stock Exchange. And in 2008—the same year this game came out—they announced they were done with “budget-range operations.” They were rebranding. Shifting away from quantity toward quality. Operation Thunderstorm was the last gasp of their old model.
So what you’re playing here isn’t just a weird shooter. It’s a fossil. A transitional relic. The final entry in a dying era before City Interactive pivoted to big-boy games like Sniper: Ghost Warrior and Lords of the Fallen.
And you can feel it.
The game was developed with a team of 111 people. It used LithTech Jupiter EX—the same engine as F.E.A.R. Which is hilariously overpowered for what they made. But it gives the whole thing a crunchy, snappy, almost haunted-house quality that’s impossible to fake.
You play as British MI6 agent Jan Mortyr—practically the Polish B.J. Blazcowicz. He stars in quite a few FPS games—he was an established brand in Poland. Over there, this was Mortyr 4: Operation Thunderstorm.
But since nobody outside Poland had any clue what Mortyr was, we just got stuck with the most generic name in video game history. Operation Thunderstorm.
Which has a similar name to a Capcom arcade shmup, a Wii helicopter shooter, several real-world military operations, and at least one anti-logging initiative. Good luck Googling it.
Anyway, let’s talk about the actual game.
You’re sent behind enemy lines in 1942 to assassinate Goebbels, Göring, and Himmler. Yes, really, that’s the plot.
You just straight-up kill Nazi high command. No moral gray area. No pretense of realism. No problem. Never mind that these people died years later in real life. Operation Thunderstorm doesn’t care. It’s historical fan fiction. And it’s amazing.
Unless you’re playing the German version, where all the names are removed, the swastikas are replaced with “evil symbols,” and the blood is turned off permanently. The German version literally censors its own premise. It becomes a weird mission about killing… unnamed bureaucrats. It’s surreal.
But the actual gameplay? Surprisingly fun.
It’s a corridor shooter. Pure and simple. You walk forward. You shoot Nazis. You move to the next room. You peek around corners. You lean left and right. It’s Wolfenstein with some extra jank. But there’s one mechanic that makes it stand out: blind fire.
You crouch behind cover, and instead of popping up, you can raise your arm just high enough to fire over a box—guided by a little arrow icon. It’s crude. It’s clunky. But it works. And it gives the game a weird, accidental layer of tactics.
Then there’s the Karabiner 98k.
This rifle is absurd. You can shoot a guy in the leg and he dies instantly. Arm shots? Instant ragdoll. It’s one of the most overpowered rifles I’ve ever used in a game. And I love it. Because the ragdoll physics are completely unhinged.
Shoot a Nazi and watch him cartwheel off a balcony. Toss a grenade and send three enemies bouncing like crash test dummies. The game is full of “odd death positions” and physics bugs so wild they start to feel intentional.
And that’s the point. The game’s flaws are what make it good.
You get a broken knife that does nothing. You get a dumb mini-map that’s never needed. You get canned voice lines delivered with the emotional range of a voicemail. And yet—somehow—all of it clicks.
I mean, this game has a “see your own foot” feature. You look down, and there’s your left leg. Why? No reason. It’s just there. One foot. Floating. Always watching.
The campaign’s short. Maybe four hours if you take your time. Maybe two and a half if you sprint through.
And yet, I played it twice. Once on Steam Deck. Once on my TV with a Steam Controller. And shockingly? It’s incredible with a controller.
The gyro aiming on Deck is perfect. You line up shots from across the room and drop enemies before they even react. It was never designed for this kind of control scheme, but it accidentally became one of the best Steam Deck shooters I’ve played.
There’s multiplayer, technically. Deathmatch, team deathmatch, capture the flag. All recycled single-player maps. No one plays it. No one should. It’s clearly a checkbox feature—something slapped on to tick off “multiplayer” on the back of the box.
Now, at launch? Critics hated this game. We’re talking 40–50% scores. Called it cramped. Monotonous. Ugly. Said it looked like a shooter from the ‘90s. Said the AI was dumb. Said the levels were boring.
But the critics were definitely wrong.
Because by 2025, Operation Thunderstorm has clawed its way back. It now holds a “Mostly Positive” rating on Steam. Over 300 reviews. 77% positive. It’s become a cult hit.
People buy it for a dollar during sales and walk away surprised. Not because it’s refined—but because it’s fun.
And not in the way the developers intended.
It’s fun because it’s broken. Because the physics are hilarious. Because the design is dumb in just the right way.
This isn’t “so bad it’s good.” It’s “so weird it’s great.”
A weird little game from a weird little moment in Eastern European game development history. A snapshot of a studio about to evolve. A broken, budget shooter that overshot its limits and became something memorable by accident.
Not many games can say that.
So yeah, I love Operation Thunderstorm. Not despite the mess. Because of it.
I love Operation Thunderstorm.
This game did something that almost no other game does. It kept me playing for an entire day.
No alt-tabbing. No checking my phone. Just me, glued to the screen. And I actually beat it. Which is saying something, because I own thousands of games and rarely finish any of them. But this one? I couldn’t stop.
Not because it’s polished. Not because it’s some hidden masterpiece. But because it’s the most bizarrely satisfying budget WWII shooter I’ve ever played.
And I mean budget. This game came out in 2008, right when WWII shooters were collapsing under their own weight. Everyone assumed it was just another Call of Duty clone. But Operation Thunderstorm isn’t that.
What it actually is… is Polish Wolfenstein.
Made by City Interactive—now CI Games—a company that was known, back then, for shoveling out low-cost shooters by the dozen. In fact, this game was released during a very specific and weird moment in their history.
In 2007, City Interactive went public on the Warsaw Stock Exchange. And in 2008—the same year this game came out—they announced they were done with “budget-range operations.” They were rebranding. Shifting away from quantity toward quality. Operation Thunderstorm was the last gasp of their old model.
So what you’re playing here isn’t just a weird shooter. It’s a fossil. A transitional relic. The final entry in a dying era before City Interactive pivoted to big-boy games like Sniper: Ghost Warrior and Lords of the Fallen.
And you can feel it.
The game was developed with a team of 111 people. It used LithTech Jupiter EX—the same engine as F.E.A.R. Which is hilariously overpowered for what they made. But it gives the whole thing a crunchy, snappy, almost haunted-house quality that’s impossible to fake.
You play as British MI6 agent Jan Mortyr—practically the Polish B.J. Blazcowicz. He stars in quite a few FPS games—he was an established brand in Poland. Over there, this was Mortyr 4: Operation Thunderstorm.
But since nobody outside Poland had any clue what Mortyr was, we just got stuck with the most generic name in video game history. Operation Thunderstorm.
Which has a similar name to a Capcom arcade shmup, a Wii helicopter shooter, several real-world military operations, and at least one anti-logging initiative. Good luck Googling it.
Anyway, let’s talk about the actual game.
You’re sent behind enemy lines in 1942 to assassinate Goebbels, Göring, and Himmler. Yes, really, that’s the plot.
You just straight-up kill Nazi high command. No moral gray area. No pretense of realism. No problem. Never mind that these people died years later in real life. Operation Thunderstorm doesn’t care. It’s historical fan fiction. And it’s amazing.
Unless you’re playing the German version, where all the names are removed, the swastikas are replaced with “evil symbols,” and the blood is turned off permanently. The German version literally censors its own premise. It becomes a weird mission about killing… unnamed bureaucrats. It’s surreal.
But the actual gameplay? Surprisingly fun.
It’s a corridor shooter. Pure and simple. You walk forward. You shoot Nazis. You move to the next room. You peek around corners. You lean left and right. It’s Wolfenstein with some extra jank. But there’s one mechanic that makes it stand out: blind fire.
You crouch behind cover, and instead of popping up, you can raise your arm just high enough to fire over a box—guided by a little arrow icon. It’s crude. It’s clunky. But it works. And it gives the game a weird, accidental layer of tactics.
Then there’s the Karabiner 98k.
This rifle is absurd. You can shoot a guy in the leg and he dies instantly. Arm shots? Instant ragdoll. It’s one of the most overpowered rifles I’ve ever used in a game. And I love it. Because the ragdoll physics are completely unhinged.
Shoot a Nazi and watch him cartwheel off a balcony. Toss a grenade and send three enemies bouncing like crash test dummies. The game is full of “odd death positions” and physics bugs so wild they start to feel intentional.
And that’s the point. The game’s flaws are what make it good.
You get a broken knife that does nothing. You get a dumb mini-map that’s never needed. You get canned voice lines delivered with the emotional range of a voicemail. And yet—somehow—all of it clicks.
I mean, this game has a “see your own foot” feature. You look down, and there’s your left leg. Why? No reason. It’s just there. One foot. Floating. Always watching.
The campaign’s short. Maybe four hours if you take your time. Maybe two and a half if you sprint through.
And yet, I played it twice. Once on Steam Deck. Once on my TV with a Steam Controller. And shockingly? It’s incredible with a controller.
The gyro aiming on Deck is perfect. You line up shots from across the room and drop enemies before they even react. It was never designed for this kind of control scheme, but it accidentally became one of the best Steam Deck shooters I’ve played.
There’s multiplayer, technically. Deathmatch, team deathmatch, capture the flag. All recycled single-player maps. No one plays it. No one should. It’s clearly a checkbox feature—something slapped on to tick off “multiplayer” on the back of the box.
Now, at launch? Critics hated this game. We’re talking 40–50% scores. Called it cramped. Monotonous. Ugly. Said it looked like a shooter from the ‘90s. Said the AI was dumb. Said the levels were boring.
But the critics were definitely wrong.
Because by 2025, Operation Thunderstorm has clawed its way back. It now holds a “Mostly Positive” rating on Steam. Over 300 reviews. 77% positive. It’s become a cult hit.
People buy it for a dollar during sales and walk away surprised. Not because it’s refined—but because it’s fun.
And not in the way the developers intended.
It’s fun because it’s broken. Because the physics are hilarious. Because the design is dumb in just the right way.
This isn’t “so bad it’s good.” It’s “so weird it’s great.”
A weird little game from a weird little moment in Eastern European game development history. A snapshot of a studio about to evolve. A broken, budget shooter that overshot its limits and became something memorable by accident.
Not many games can say that.
So yeah, I love Operation Thunderstorm. Not despite the mess. Because of it.
Yaiba: Ninja Gaiden Z is, at the very least, ambitious.
Is it good? Debateable.
It suffers from what I like to call Poochie syndrome. If you don’t know what that is, it’s when a franchise tries so hard to be cool and edgy that it ends up alienating everyone. Poochie was a character on The Simpsons added to The Itchy & Scratchy Show to make it more “youth-oriented.” It backfired. Spectacularly.
This game is the Poochie of Ninja Gaiden.
You play as Yaiba Kamikaze—an undead ninja who got sliced in half by Ryu Hayabusa, then resurrected as a cyborg with a robot arm and unresolved anger issues. The story? He wants revenge. Also, zombies exist now.
So yeah. Not your typical Ninja Gaiden.
This isn’t a tight, serious action game like the NES classics or the 2004 reboot. This is a loud, cel-shaded beat-’em-up where you chain combos, dismember clown zombies, and occasionally say things like “BOOM, baby” while swinging from grappling hooks.
It’s ridiculous by design.
But weirdly, it’s not that far off from the original arcade Ninja Gaiden, which was more of a side-scrolling brawler than a precision platformer. In that sense, Yaiba feels like a spiritual detour—not a betrayal, just a case of missed execution.
And to say this game wasn’t received well is an understatement.
Critics hated it. Players hated it. Metacritic slapped it with a “generally unfavorable” rating. Polygon gave it a 3. The most common complaints? Repetitive gameplay, terrible camera, sloppy controls, and painfully unfunny writing. Fair.
But I’m going to make the case that Yaiba isn’t as bad as people say. It’s just weird. And weird games don’t always land, especially when they carry a legacy name.
Spark Unlimited handled the development. They weren’t exactly industry royalty. Team Ninja helped out. So did Keiji Inafune—yes, that Inafune, the guy behind Mighty No. 9. He designed Yaiba and pitched the whole zombie-cyborg-ninja concept. The idea was East-meets-West. Japanese combat with American humor. The problem is: it leaned too hard into the West part.
The visuals are the one thing that really works. The cel-shaded “living comic book” look still holds up. Blood flies in huge red arcs. Enemies explode into color-coded gore. Yaiba himself looks like a pissed-off character from a graphic novel you’d find in a Hot Topic clearance bin. I mean that as a compliment.
Unfortunately, once the game starts, the wheels start coming off.
Combat is fast but shallow. You get a sword, a cybernetic punch, and a few environmental executions. There’s a rage mode called Bloodlust that lets you tear through enemies, but it takes forever to charge and burns out too quickly. Enemies come in waves. Then more waves. Then more. It doesn’t evolve.
There’s an elemental system layered on top—some zombies explode, some zap, some poison. If you get two types near each other, you can cause secondary effects like electric tornadoes or poison crystallization. It sounds cool but plays like a checklist. The game doesn’t reward experimentation. It just wants you to solve the puzzle its way.
Boss fights are worse. Giant sponges. They kill you in three hits, and you fight them in arenas where the camera actively works against you.
Speaking of: the camera. It’s fixed. You can’t control it. It’s bad. It hides enemies behind geometry and cuts off parts of the screen during fights. No lock-on. No recentering. Just vibes.
Also, the platforming. There isn’t any. You don’t jump. Seriously—there’s no jump button. Movement sequences are QTEs. That’s it. No room for improvisation, no exploration, just press A when prompted.
PC performance is another mess. The game is hard-capped at 62 FPS, and if you try to lift that cap by editing the config files, the game starts breaking. Physics glitches. Soft locks. Entire levels stop working. The framerate is literally tied to game logic. You’d think someone would’ve caught that.
Controls aren’t much better. Dodge is mapped weird. Block is inconsistent. Inputs sometimes just don’t register. It feels like you’re fighting the engine more than the enemies.
There’s a skill tree, but it’s shallow. You unlock new combos and passive buffs, but nothing that dramatically changes the way you play. Some users even reported skill points not saving properly unless you exit the menu a certain way.
And then there’s the humor. The writing aims for B-movie irreverence and lands somewhere between 2007 YouTube and straight-to-DVD energy drink ad. It’s all juvenile innuendo, “cool guy” one-liners, and grotesque slapstick. One scene has a truck fly through a pair of giant mannequin legs. Another has you beating zombies to death with their own intestines. And Yaiba himself? He never shuts up. It gets old fast.
But I’ll give the game this—it commits.
It doesn’t half-ass the tone. It full-asses it. The voice acting is bad on purpose. The plot makes no sense. And every single thing feels like it was made by someone yelling “more awesome!” into a headset. That kind of confidence, even when misplaced, is rare.
Length-wise, it’s short. Maybe 6 hours. Eight if you’re bad. It doesn’t overstay its welcome, which is honestly a blessing.
There are bugs. Tons of them. Cutscenes sometimes run at 30 FPS even if gameplay is smooth. Loading screens are long and repetitive. Collectibles bug out and vanish. Some levels don’t load properly if you die in the wrong spot. There’s a DLC where you can play as Beck from Mighty No. 9. It adds nothing.
So yeah. Yaiba is janky, shallow, crude, and annoying.
But also: kinda fun.
It’s not a good Ninja Gaiden game. But it’s not trying to be. The problem is it shares the name. If this had just been called Yaiba: Zombie Slayer 2099 or something, I don’t think anyone would’ve cared. The expectations wouldn’t have crushed it.
What you get here is a loud, dumb, cartoonish splatterfest with a lot of rough edges and a couple moments of actual brilliance—mostly in its visuals and sense of identity. When it’s not glitching out or annoying the hell out of you, it can be strangely entertaining.
Buy it on sale. Don’t take it seriously. And absolutely don’t go in expecting Ninja Gaiden.
It’s not good. But it’s definitely not boring.
Yaiba: Ninja Gaiden Z is, at the very least, ambitious.
Is it good? Debateable.
It suffers from what I like to call Poochie syndrome. If you don’t know what that is, it’s when a franchise tries so hard to be cool and edgy that it ends up alienating everyone. Poochie was a character on The Simpsons added to The Itchy & Scratchy Show to make it more “youth-oriented.” It backfired. Spectacularly.
This game is the Poochie of Ninja Gaiden.
You play as Yaiba Kamikaze—an undead ninja who got sliced in half by Ryu Hayabusa, then resurrected as a cyborg with a robot arm and unresolved anger issues. The story? He wants revenge. Also, zombies exist now.
So yeah. Not your typical Ninja Gaiden.
This isn’t a tight, serious action game like the NES classics or the 2004 reboot. This is a loud, cel-shaded beat-’em-up where you chain combos, dismember clown zombies, and occasionally say things like “BOOM, baby” while swinging from grappling hooks.
It’s ridiculous by design.
But weirdly, it’s not that far off from the original arcade Ninja Gaiden, which was more of a side-scrolling brawler than a precision platformer. In that sense, Yaiba feels like a spiritual detour—not a betrayal, just a case of missed execution.
And to say this game wasn’t received well is an understatement.
Critics hated it. Players hated it. Metacritic slapped it with a “generally unfavorable” rating. Polygon gave it a 3. The most common complaints? Repetitive gameplay, terrible camera, sloppy controls, and painfully unfunny writing. Fair.
But I’m going to make the case that Yaiba isn’t as bad as people say. It’s just weird. And weird games don’t always land, especially when they carry a legacy name.
Spark Unlimited handled the development. They weren’t exactly industry royalty. Team Ninja helped out. So did Keiji Inafune—yes, that Inafune, the guy behind Mighty No. 9. He designed Yaiba and pitched the whole zombie-cyborg-ninja concept. The idea was East-meets-West. Japanese combat with American humor. The problem is: it leaned too hard into the West part.
The visuals are the one thing that really works. The cel-shaded “living comic book” look still holds up. Blood flies in huge red arcs. Enemies explode into color-coded gore. Yaiba himself looks like a pissed-off character from a graphic novel you’d find in a Hot Topic clearance bin. I mean that as a compliment.
Unfortunately, once the game starts, the wheels start coming off.
Combat is fast but shallow. You get a sword, a cybernetic punch, and a few environmental executions. There’s a rage mode called Bloodlust that lets you tear through enemies, but it takes forever to charge and burns out too quickly. Enemies come in waves. Then more waves. Then more. It doesn’t evolve.
There’s an elemental system layered on top—some zombies explode, some zap, some poison. If you get two types near each other, you can cause secondary effects like electric tornadoes or poison crystallization. It sounds cool but plays like a checklist. The game doesn’t reward experimentation. It just wants you to solve the puzzle its way.
Boss fights are worse. Giant sponges. They kill you in three hits, and you fight them in arenas where the camera actively works against you.
Speaking of: the camera. It’s fixed. You can’t control it. It’s bad. It hides enemies behind geometry and cuts off parts of the screen during fights. No lock-on. No recentering. Just vibes.
Also, the platforming. There isn’t any. You don’t jump. Seriously—there’s no jump button. Movement sequences are QTEs. That’s it. No room for improvisation, no exploration, just press A when prompted.
PC performance is another mess. The game is hard-capped at 62 FPS, and if you try to lift that cap by editing the config files, the game starts breaking. Physics glitches. Soft locks. Entire levels stop working. The framerate is literally tied to game logic. You’d think someone would’ve caught that.
Controls aren’t much better. Dodge is mapped weird. Block is inconsistent. Inputs sometimes just don’t register. It feels like you’re fighting the engine more than the enemies.
There’s a skill tree, but it’s shallow. You unlock new combos and passive buffs, but nothing that dramatically changes the way you play. Some users even reported skill points not saving properly unless you exit the menu a certain way.
And then there’s the humor. The writing aims for B-movie irreverence and lands somewhere between 2007 YouTube and straight-to-DVD energy drink ad. It’s all juvenile innuendo, “cool guy” one-liners, and grotesque slapstick. One scene has a truck fly through a pair of giant mannequin legs. Another has you beating zombies to death with their own intestines. And Yaiba himself? He never shuts up. It gets old fast.
But I’ll give the game this—it commits.
It doesn’t half-ass the tone. It full-asses it. The voice acting is bad on purpose. The plot makes no sense. And every single thing feels like it was made by someone yelling “more awesome!” into a headset. That kind of confidence, even when misplaced, is rare.
Length-wise, it’s short. Maybe 6 hours. Eight if you’re bad. It doesn’t overstay its welcome, which is honestly a blessing.
There are bugs. Tons of them. Cutscenes sometimes run at 30 FPS even if gameplay is smooth. Loading screens are long and repetitive. Collectibles bug out and vanish. Some levels don’t load properly if you die in the wrong spot. There’s a DLC where you can play as Beck from Mighty No. 9. It adds nothing.
So yeah. Yaiba is janky, shallow, crude, and annoying.
But also: kinda fun.
It’s not a good Ninja Gaiden game. But it’s not trying to be. The problem is it shares the name. If this had just been called Yaiba: Zombie Slayer 2099 or something, I don’t think anyone would’ve cared. The expectations wouldn’t have crushed it.
What you get here is a loud, dumb, cartoonish splatterfest with a lot of rough edges and a couple moments of actual brilliance—mostly in its visuals and sense of identity. When it’s not glitching out or annoying the hell out of you, it can be strangely entertaining.
Buy it on sale. Don’t take it seriously. And absolutely don’t go in expecting Ninja Gaiden.
It’s not good. But it’s definitely not boring.
The NES version is one of the greatest titles of all time. The DOS version? Decidedly not.
It starts like a bait-and-switch. You see the name *Ninja Gaiden*—and your brain lights up with nostalgia: the cinematic cutscenes, the frantic wall-jumping, that savage, surgical difficulty.
But this? This is something else entirely. A freak of nature. A shadow of a shadow. Like someone described the original game to a committee over a bad phone connection, and the committee was made up of interns with insomnia and a shared allergy to fun.
Made by Hi-Tech Expressions—a company whose entire business model seemed to be "take beloved franchises and make them worse for DOS"—this port wasn’t so much developed as it was extruded. They didn’t craft games. They manufactured obligations. And what they slapped together here was less a port than a low-rent hallucination of the arcade version, which itself was already the dumber cousin of the NES masterpiece. So now what we’ve got is a port of a knockoff of a spin-off of a legend. A Xerox of a Xerox with ketchup on it.
You’re Ryu Hayabusa, allegedly.
You shuffle from left to right like you're late for work in a pool full of molasses. Your enemies? Identical mime-goons in red jackets, looking like rejected extras from a community theatre production of *West Side Story*. The punch button makes a noise. Not a satisfying thud—just the PC speaker trying its best to simulate impact and accidentally triggering your fight-or-flight reflex. You’ve got a life bar, but really it’s more of a countdown to when you give up.
Technically, it has graphics. EGA support, sure, if you’re feeling brave. But everything is drawn in migraine-vision. Sprites blend into the background like camouflage designed by a prankster. Choppy scrolling turns the act of walking into an act of protest. The cutscenes? Redrawn from scratch, probably by someone who only heard about the NES cinematics second-hand and thought, “Eh, I’ll just wing it.”
Audio is a crime scene. The entire soundtrack is piped through the PC speaker, which is like asking a kazoo to perform Beethoven. Every track is a remix in the same way banging two forks together is a remix of jazz. Worse still, the wrong songs often play in the wrong places.
Compatibility is its own boss fight. The game only runs properly on a CPU slower than time itself—an 8086. Try it on anything faster, and it plays at hyperspeed like someone sat on the fast-forward button. Unless you’re lucky enough to own a Tandy 1000—and if you are, bless your vintage heart—you’ll spend more time configuring slowdown utilities than actually playing. Assuming you even get that far.
Even the disks were garbage. Cheap floppies that degraded like bread in the sun. The physical media was actively trying to forget it existed.
Yes, they included environmental interaction. Throw an enemy into a phone booth and it explodes. Because... why not? But the animations are stiffer than taxidermy. You can’t tell if that pixel smear is a dude, a trash can, or your own disappointment rendered in 16 colors.
Critics tried to be diplomatic. Players didn’t. One called it “a slap in the face.” Another said “avoid it like the plague”—which is putting it gently. This isn’t just a bad game. It’s an experiment in how low expectations can go before they punch through the floor. It’s a warning label masquerading as software. Proof that even iconic franchises can be fed through a woodchipper if you give the license to the wrong team.
It belongs in a museum, sure. But only in the kind of museum that’s attached to a condemned strip mall. With a flickering light. And carpet that smells like old ketchup.
This is not Ninja Gaiden.
This is Ninja *Gaiden’t*.
The NES version is one of the greatest titles of all time. The DOS version? Decidedly not.
It starts like a bait-and-switch. You see the name *Ninja Gaiden*—and your brain lights up with nostalgia: the cinematic cutscenes, the frantic wall-jumping, that savage, surgical difficulty.
But this? This is something else entirely. A freak of nature. A shadow of a shadow. Like someone described the original game to a committee over a bad phone connection, and the committee was made up of interns with insomnia and a shared allergy to fun.
Made by Hi-Tech Expressions—a company whose entire business model seemed to be "take beloved franchises and make them worse for DOS"—this port wasn’t so much developed as it was extruded. They didn’t craft games. They manufactured obligations. And what they slapped together here was less a port than a low-rent hallucination of the arcade version, which itself was already the dumber cousin of the NES masterpiece. So now what we’ve got is a port of a knockoff of a spin-off of a legend. A Xerox of a Xerox with ketchup on it.
You’re Ryu Hayabusa, allegedly.
You shuffle from left to right like you're late for work in a pool full of molasses. Your enemies? Identical mime-goons in red jackets, looking like rejected extras from a community theatre production of *West Side Story*. The punch button makes a noise. Not a satisfying thud—just the PC speaker trying its best to simulate impact and accidentally triggering your fight-or-flight reflex. You’ve got a life bar, but really it’s more of a countdown to when you give up.
Technically, it has graphics. EGA support, sure, if you’re feeling brave. But everything is drawn in migraine-vision. Sprites blend into the background like camouflage designed by a prankster. Choppy scrolling turns the act of walking into an act of protest. The cutscenes? Redrawn from scratch, probably by someone who only heard about the NES cinematics second-hand and thought, “Eh, I’ll just wing it.”
Audio is a crime scene. The entire soundtrack is piped through the PC speaker, which is like asking a kazoo to perform Beethoven. Every track is a remix in the same way banging two forks together is a remix of jazz. Worse still, the wrong songs often play in the wrong places.
Compatibility is its own boss fight. The game only runs properly on a CPU slower than time itself—an 8086. Try it on anything faster, and it plays at hyperspeed like someone sat on the fast-forward button. Unless you’re lucky enough to own a Tandy 1000—and if you are, bless your vintage heart—you’ll spend more time configuring slowdown utilities than actually playing. Assuming you even get that far.
Even the disks were garbage. Cheap floppies that degraded like bread in the sun. The physical media was actively trying to forget it existed.
Yes, they included environmental interaction. Throw an enemy into a phone booth and it explodes. Because... why not? But the animations are stiffer than taxidermy. You can’t tell if that pixel smear is a dude, a trash can, or your own disappointment rendered in 16 colors.
Critics tried to be diplomatic. Players didn’t. One called it “a slap in the face.” Another said “avoid it like the plague”—which is putting it gently. This isn’t just a bad game. It’s an experiment in how low expectations can go before they punch through the floor. It’s a warning label masquerading as software. Proof that even iconic franchises can be fed through a woodchipper if you give the license to the wrong team.
It belongs in a museum, sure. But only in the kind of museum that’s attached to a condemned strip mall. With a flickering light. And carpet that smells like old ketchup.
This is not Ninja Gaiden.
This is Ninja *Gaiden’t*.
Demonlisher is awesome.
Forget the Steam reviews. Most of them are bitter because this isn’t the game those folks wanted.
It’s basically a Pac-Man clone from 2004, but one of the most unique I’ve played. Better way to put it: Demonlisher is what you get if Hexen became Pac-Man.
You’re a wizard running through different dungeons, collecting souls to save. Meanwhile, demon hordes chase you down, and you have to kill them.
It has all the usual maze-game stuff: power-ups, bonuses. But also a bunch of clever traps.
Not everyone likes the graphics. I do. I spent a ton of my youth playing low-poly 3D shareware from random corners of the web (anyone remember TuCows?). Demonlisher feels like that genuine old-school deal.
I wish more games like this worked on modern PCs and showed up on Steam.
Yeah, Demonlisher is awesome. Sometimes Steam reviews just get it wrong.
Demonlisher is awesome.
Forget the Steam reviews. Most of them are bitter because this isn’t the game those folks wanted.
It’s basically a Pac-Man clone from 2004, but one of the most unique I’ve played. Better way to put it: Demonlisher is what you get if Hexen became Pac-Man.
You’re a wizard running through different dungeons, collecting souls to save. Meanwhile, demon hordes chase you down, and you have to kill them.
It has all the usual maze-game stuff: power-ups, bonuses. But also a bunch of clever traps.
Not everyone likes the graphics. I do. I spent a ton of my youth playing low-poly 3D shareware from random corners of the web (anyone remember TuCows?). Demonlisher feels like that genuine old-school deal.
I wish more games like this worked on modern PCs and showed up on Steam.
Yeah, Demonlisher is awesome. Sometimes Steam reviews just get it wrong.
And yet, when I look at my library, only half of new games released within the past five years support X-input. They are still exclusively keyboard-and-mouse.
Granted, that’s way more than what was available 10 years ago, but it’s still a problem.
Or it would be if the Steam Deck didn’t make it trivially easy to adapt keyboard-and-mouse controls to a controller. Which happened because of the innovation first introduced with the Steam Controller.
It’s now at the point where keyboard-and-mouse is optional—just a preference if you want to use it.
The original Steam Controller is undoubtedly one of the coolest pieces of gear I own—and one of the most innovative, too.
I got mine right when it launched in 2015. I wanted to solve a very real problem: I was trying to turn my PC into a console.
You see, Valve had Big Picture Mode, which truly turned your PC into a console-like experience. The problem was that some of my favorite PC games didn’t support controllers. They were keyboard-and-mouse only.
But then—here comes the Steam Controller. Suddenly, I was able to reprogram all the inputs. I could take basic keys, like the spacebar, and map them to a button on the controller—like the A button. And once you did that, you could share your controller configuration with the Steam community, or reuse a config someone else already made. It was pretty awesome.
And those dual trackpads? They were swank. Incredible for first-person shooters and real-time strategy games. They were the next best thing to a mouse. And because of the angle of the handles, it all felt very comfortable in the hand—probably the most comfortable controller experience I’ve ever had.
It’s funny—just a little over five years ago, gamers hated it. Not because they ever used one, but because it was a failure. And as we all know about gamers, there’s nothing they hate more than a failure. It was dismissed as a novelty—something no one would ever use again.
Well, Valve had the last laugh. A few years ago, they released the Steam Deck. And what do you know? It’s a direct evolution of the Steam Controller. And now everyone loves the Steam Deck.
Just take a look at it—it’s got so many of the same things the Steam Controller had: dual trackpads, back paddles, the ability to remap buttons and customize layouts. Having owned a Steam Deck since launch, I can say this confidently: the most killer features on the Deck originated with the Steam Controller.
That said, it wasn’t perfect. There were a few quirks I wish they had fixed. For one, it would’ve been nice if it had dual analog sticks instead of just one. Using a trackpad in place of a right stick is fine in theory, but let’s be real: a trackpad does not replace an analog stick.
Also, unlike most modern controllers, this one didn’t have a rechargeable battery. You needed AA batteries. Now, to be fair, those batteries lasted a long time—but it still would’ve been nicer to just recharge it and forget about replacements.
Then there’s the back paddles. Only two of them. In hindsight, yeah, Valve knew they needed to evolve. I’ve grown so used to having four back paddles on the Steam Deck. They’re incredibly useful—especially in games with lots of inputs. Just good to have.
Still, this was one of the first mainstream controllers to even have back paddles. So hats off to Valve for that.
Honestly, I really wish there was another Steam Controller on the market. I know Hori makes a licensed controller for the Steam Deck in Japan, but it’s missing a core feature the original had: the dual trackpads.
To me, the dual trackpads make the Steam Deck experience. It’s something almost no other handheld has. My wife has a Legion Go, and it does have a trackpad—but only one. And honestly? That makes all the difference. It’s fine. But man… it would’ve been a better handheld with two.
Definitely one of the most innovative controllers ever made.
And yeah, I still use mine. I use it when I dock my handheld. Or when I’m on my living room PC.
The original Steam Controller is undoubtedly one of the coolest pieces of gear I own—and one of the most innovative, too.
I got mine right when it launched in 2015. I wanted to solve a very real problem: I was trying to turn my PC into a console.
You see, Valve had Big Picture Mode, which truly turned your PC into a console-like experience. The problem was that some of my favorite PC games didn’t support controllers. They were keyboard-and-mouse only.
But then—here comes the Steam Controller. Suddenly, I was able to reprogram all the inputs. I could take basic keys, like the spacebar, and map them to a button on the controller—like the A button. And once you did that, you could share your controller configuration with the Steam community, or reuse a config someone else already made. It was pretty awesome.
And those dual trackpads? They were swank. Incredible for first-person shooters and real-time strategy games. They were the next best thing to a mouse. And because of the angle of the handles, it all felt very comfortable in the hand—probably the most comfortable controller experience I’ve ever had.
It’s funny—just a little over five years ago, gamers hated it. Not because they ever used one, but because it was a failure. And as we all know about gamers, there’s nothing they hate more than a failure. It was dismissed as a novelty—something no one would ever use again.
Well, Valve had the last laugh. A few years ago, they released the Steam Deck. And what do you know? It’s a direct evolution of the Steam Controller. And now everyone loves the Steam Deck.
Just take a look at it—it’s got so many of the same things the Steam Controller had: dual trackpads, back paddles, the ability to remap buttons and customize layouts. Having owned a Steam Deck since launch, I can say this confidently: the most killer features on the Deck originated with the Steam Controller.
That said, it wasn’t perfect. There were a few quirks I wish they had fixed. For one, it would’ve been nice if it had dual analog sticks instead of just one. Using a trackpad in place of a right stick is fine in theory, but let’s be real: a trackpad does not replace an analog stick.
Also, unlike most modern controllers, this one didn’t have a rechargeable battery. You needed AA batteries. Now, to be fair, those batteries lasted a long time—but it still would’ve been nicer to just recharge it and forget about replacements.
Then there’s the back paddles. Only two of them. In hindsight, yeah, Valve knew they needed to evolve. I’ve grown so used to having four back paddles on the Steam Deck. They’re incredibly useful—especially in games with lots of inputs. Just good to have.
Still, this was one of the first mainstream controllers to even have back paddles. So hats off to Valve for that.
Honestly, I really wish there was another Steam Controller on the market. I know Hori makes a licensed controller for the Steam Deck in Japan, but it’s missing a core feature the original had: the dual trackpads.
To me, the dual trackpads make the Steam Deck experience. It’s something almost no other handheld has. My wife has a Legion Go, and it does have a trackpad—but only one. And honestly? That makes all the difference. It’s fine. But man… it would’ve been a better handheld with two.
Definitely one of the most innovative controllers ever made.
And yeah, I still use mine. I use it when I dock my handheld. Or when I’m on my living room PC.
Rambo III for DOS genuinely surprised me.
I’d previously played the Commodore 64 version—a predictable top-down shooter with decent graphics for the old brown breadbox, but nothing remarkable.
The DOS version, released in 1989, really stands out. It supports VGA graphics and AdLib sound, delivering crisp colors and catchy music that were impressive for the time.
What blew me away, though, was the control options. Not only does it support keyboard and joystick, but you can also move and shoot using the mouse—a rarity for the platform back then. Even better, it actually works pretty well by the standards of the day.
Rambo III came out in many versions: arcade, Master System, Genesis. The computer versions are mostly similar, each carrying quirks unique to their platforms—you could find it on Atari ST, Amiga, MSX, C64, Amstrad CPC, and even ZX Spectrum.
The DOS release covers CGA, EGA, and VGA graphics modes plus a variety of sound options, offering a surprisingly eclectic experience. While critics favored the Genesis version, I think the DOS port holds its own. It’s more than playable and can deliver some solid fun.
Rambo III for DOS genuinely surprised me.
I’d previously played the Commodore 64 version—a predictable top-down shooter with decent graphics for the old brown breadbox, but nothing remarkable.
The DOS version, released in 1989, really stands out. It supports VGA graphics and AdLib sound, delivering crisp colors and catchy music that were impressive for the time.
What blew me away, though, was the control options. Not only does it support keyboard and joystick, but you can also move and shoot using the mouse—a rarity for the platform back then. Even better, it actually works pretty well by the standards of the day.
Rambo III came out in many versions: arcade, Master System, Genesis. The computer versions are mostly similar, each carrying quirks unique to their platforms—you could find it on Atari ST, Amiga, MSX, C64, Amstrad CPC, and even ZX Spectrum.
The DOS release covers CGA, EGA, and VGA graphics modes plus a variety of sound options, offering a surprisingly eclectic experience. While critics favored the Genesis version, I think the DOS port holds its own. It’s more than playable and can deliver some solid fun.
Silverfall delivers exactly what you'd expect from a hack-'n-slash CRPG—nothing groundbreaking, but if you’re like me, those low-poly visuals are a serious charm.
What sets it apart, though, is its difficulty. Unlike Fate or Dungeon Siege, dying here means losing whatever gear you had equipped. That forces you to either hold back on using your best loot or grind to replace it, adding a tense layer of risk and reward.
So if you’ve already beaten the usual hack-'n-slash suspects and crave a tougher challenge, Silverfall might just be worth your time.
Silverfall delivers exactly what you'd expect from a hack-'n-slash CRPG—nothing groundbreaking, but if you’re like me, those low-poly visuals are a serious charm.
What sets it apart, though, is its difficulty. Unlike Fate or Dungeon Siege, dying here means losing whatever gear you had equipped. That forces you to either hold back on using your best loot or grind to replace it, adding a tense layer of risk and reward.
So if you’ve already beaten the usual hack-'n-slash suspects and crave a tougher challenge, Silverfall might just be worth your time.
Why do I play all these games? Because it’s important that they’re played.
Because every game is a story, a world, a moment in time crafted by someone who cared enough to create it.
Because each one teaches me something new—about design, about culture, about myself.
Because in a sea of pixels, there’s magic waiting to be found.
And because, honestly? Sometimes I just want to escape, explore, and lose myself in different worlds.
So yeah. I own thousands of games, and I’ll keep playing them.
Why do I play all these games? Because it’s important that they’re played.
Because every game is a story, a world, a moment in time crafted by someone who cared enough to create it.
Because each one teaches me something new—about design, about culture, about myself.
Because in a sea of pixels, there’s magic waiting to be found.
And because, honestly? Sometimes I just want to escape, explore, and lose myself in different worlds.
So yeah. I own thousands of games, and I’ll keep playing them.
Old gamers often misunderstand the quality of mobile games.
I realized this a couple of weeks ago when I asked my 12-year-old daughter whether she wanted to bring her Nintendo Switch or her Android tablet on our two-week vacation. She chose the tablet.
Why? Because her Android has Genshin Impact, Fortnite, Roblox, Candy Crush, Wuthering Waves, and Sky: Children of Light. She simply prefers those over her Switch library — which is decent but doesn’t compare to what she’s got on the tablet.
Adults tend to dismiss mobile gaming by saying things like, “There’s no 1:1 equivalent to Super Mario Odyssey, Tears of the Kingdom, or Cyberpunk 2077 on mobile.”
Fine. My daughter has access to all those games. Our family owns over 8,000 games across PC and consoles. She can play Super Mario Odyssey any time she wants, but she doesn’t. She’d rather play Genshin Impact.
And she’s not alone. Most of her friends are on their tablets or phones. It makes sense — gaming is as much about socializing as playing, and iOS and Android dominate for a reason.
Sure, we can scoff and say, “Kids these days don’t recognize a good game when it hits them in the face.”
But I remember feeling that way about Pokémon and Yu-Gi-Oh. They’re still thriving today, with now-grown adults still playing.
I also think back to my own childhood. My mom hated Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Yet, I snuck a TMNT Game Boy game into the house and played it behind her back. TMNT never disappeared — it’s still around.
With the original Switch’s price rising (at least here in Canada), it just makes sense to consider Android tablets — especially for kids. Sure, you can’t play Black Myth: Wukong on Android, but that’s why I have PCs ready for that. Kids? They just want to have fun and connect with friends.
That’s right, for hardware that’s now eight years old and never got a price discount. It currently sells for C$400 – but they’re about to jack the price.
There are Android tablets that are much cheaper than the Switch, more powerful, more battery efficient. Also, play games better.
Yet, Nintendo is jacking the price.
It’s funny watching console gamers mourn the “death” of Xbox.
I was a diehard fan of the original Xbox and 360. But to me, Xbox actually died back in December 2012—the day Valve launched Big Picture mode. That’s when every PC suddenly became a console.
The only reason I ever bought an Xbox in the first place was because it brought PC gaming into the living room. The original Xbox was basically a stripped-down PC with a custom OS—and I loved it for that. Finally, I had PC-grade performance on my TV.
But let’s be real: Valve ate Microsoft’s lunch. And with the Steam Deck, they came back for seconds.
The good news? Microsoft finally seems to understand that Valve—not Sony—is their real competition. And now they’re answering with the Xbox handheld.
About time.
What if Sherlock Holmes met Resident Evil? Well, here you go:
**Curse: Eye of Isis.**
No, it’s not actually Sherlock Holmes battling bioweapons, but you *do* play as a 19th-century detective investigating the theft of an Egyptian artifact at a British museum—only to stumble onto undead monsters that want you very, very dead.
You get to choose between two detectives: Dr. Darien Dane or his assistant, Victoria Sutton. They even have different scenarios, though, let’s be honest, you’ll be hunting for keys and weapons either way. Expect plenty of zombies. And mummies. Lots of mummies.
This one’s ancient by gaming standards—2003—so you’re dealing with the classic fixed camera angles and tank controls that defined survival horror back then.
Reviews were meh when it came out, but since nobody really makes games like this anymore, I’d wager a lot of people today would actually get a kick out of it. Sure, the controls are a little wonky, but it’s easy to pick up and play.
Definitely worth a spin!
What if Sherlock Holmes met Resident Evil? Well, here you go:
**Curse: Eye of Isis.**
No, it’s not actually Sherlock Holmes battling bioweapons, but you *do* play as a 19th-century detective investigating the theft of an Egyptian artifact at a British museum—only to stumble onto undead monsters that want you very, very dead.
You get to choose between two detectives: Dr. Darien Dane or his assistant, Victoria Sutton. They even have different scenarios, though, let’s be honest, you’ll be hunting for keys and weapons either way. Expect plenty of zombies. And mummies. Lots of mummies.
This one’s ancient by gaming standards—2003—so you’re dealing with the classic fixed camera angles and tank controls that defined survival horror back then.
Reviews were meh when it came out, but since nobody really makes games like this anymore, I’d wager a lot of people today would actually get a kick out of it. Sure, the controls are a little wonky, but it’s easy to pick up and play.
Definitely worth a spin!
After visiting the Vancouver Retro Gaming Expo, I keep asking myself the same question:
What’s the purpose of it all?
Sure, part of it’s just fun. But mostly, it comes down to whether I can actually share something I love—or not. Let me explain.
I’m just as into music. I listen to vinyl every day with my daughter. Easy to share: put on a record, and people get it.
Same with photography. Snap a picture, share it. Instant enjoyment.
Video games? Not so much. The barrier to entry is just so damn high.
First, you need the hardware—not just any hardware, but often something specific.
Then you need the software. Sometimes you can stream it, but streaming usually sucks. I’ve tried—multiple times. Even with 2Gbps at home, the latency ruins it. So you’re left with physical media or downloading everything locally.
And even if you’ve got all that, there’s still a dilemma. On consoles, the game might be optimized, but unless it’s exclusive, it’s rarely the “definitive” experience. On PC, you can get the definitive version, but you’re always tweaking, chasing that ideal.
And what even is “definitive”? Is it keyboard and mouse on a monitor? Gamepad on a TV? Handheld in bed? Everyone’s experience is different, and unless you find someone with the exact same setup, yours is unique. As a PC gamer, finding that overlap is rare.
I’d love for gaming to be more social, but because of who I am, I mostly play solo campaigns—except with family, who’ve been good sports about it.
I’ve tried dragging friends into gaming. I’ve even gifted games and hardware. Never works. I get it.
Online, I talk about games I love, review hidden gems, try to explain why certain things matter to me. But my taste has veered so far from the mainstream—not because I’m a contrarian. I’ve never played StarCraft, WoW, or Dota. Not because I think they suck. I’ll probably love them when I do get around to it. Like how I finally tried Oblivion this year and loved it, despite hating the older Elder Scrolls games.
But I have a whole library of games I wish got more attention—not because I want them canonized, but just because I want to talk about what makes me happy.
And honestly, the sad thing is, if something never enters the “canon,” it’ll probably die in obscurity.
Which brings me to something sort of related: the older I get, the more things I love disappear. The diner I used to visit? Gone. My elementary school? Demolished.
As a kid, I loved those candy cigarettes that puffed out powdered “smoke.” They don’t exist anymore—nobody wants to encourage kids to smoke, and that’s fine, but I remember them. They were a core part of my childhood.
All these things—I can’t share them anymore.
But I can still talk about old video games. I can’t play arcade games in a convenience store with Slurpee cups and magazines everywhere. I don’t own a 386 with a ball mouse. But I can still play those games, talk about them, and build new memories—ones I’ll remember with my grandkids someday.
Eventually, all of it will go away. That’s life. It’s impermanent.
But there’s still purpose in all of it. We’re social by nature. And there’s something magical about transmitting meaning from one person to another.
Even if it’s just about a damn video game.
After visiting the Vancouver Retro Gaming Expo, I keep asking myself the same question:
What’s the purpose of it all?
Sure, part of it’s just fun. But mostly, it comes down to whether I can actually share something I love—or not. Let me explain.
I’m just as into music. I listen to vinyl every day with my daughter. Easy to share: put on a record, and people get it.
Same with photography. Snap a picture, share it. Instant enjoyment.
Video games? Not so much. The barrier to entry is just so damn high.
First, you need the hardware—not just any hardware, but often something specific.
Then you need the software. Sometimes you can stream it, but streaming usually sucks. I’ve tried—multiple times. Even with 2Gbps at home, the latency ruins it. So you’re left with physical media or downloading everything locally.
And even if you’ve got all that, there’s still a dilemma. On consoles, the game might be optimized, but unless it’s exclusive, it’s rarely the “definitive” experience. On PC, you can get the definitive version, but you’re always tweaking, chasing that ideal.
And what even is “definitive”? Is it keyboard and mouse on a monitor? Gamepad on a TV? Handheld in bed? Everyone’s experience is different, and unless you find someone with the exact same setup, yours is unique. As a PC gamer, finding that overlap is rare.
I’d love for gaming to be more social, but because of who I am, I mostly play solo campaigns—except with family, who’ve been good sports about it.
I’ve tried dragging friends into gaming. I’ve even gifted games and hardware. Never works. I get it.
Online, I talk about games I love, review hidden gems, try to explain why certain things matter to me. But my taste has veered so far from the mainstream—not because I’m a contrarian. I’ve never played StarCraft, WoW, or Dota. Not because I think they suck. I’ll probably love them when I do get around to it. Like how I finally tried Oblivion this year and loved it, despite hating the older Elder Scrolls games.
But I have a whole library of games I wish got more attention—not because I want them canonized, but just because I want to talk about what makes me happy.
And honestly, the sad thing is, if something never enters the “canon,” it’ll probably die in obscurity.
Which brings me to something sort of related: the older I get, the more things I love disappear. The diner I used to visit? Gone. My elementary school? Demolished.
As a kid, I loved those candy cigarettes that puffed out powdered “smoke.” They don’t exist anymore—nobody wants to encourage kids to smoke, and that’s fine, but I remember them. They were a core part of my childhood.
All these things—I can’t share them anymore.
But I can still talk about old video games. I can’t play arcade games in a convenience store with Slurpee cups and magazines everywhere. I don’t own a 386 with a ball mouse. But I can still play those games, talk about them, and build new memories—ones I’ll remember with my grandkids someday.
Eventually, all of it will go away. That’s life. It’s impermanent.
But there’s still purpose in all of it. We’re social by nature. And there’s something magical about transmitting meaning from one person to another.
Even if it’s just about a damn video game.
Previous years, I went massively over budget. This time, I stuck to around $100. And I swore, I’d only get stuff that I’m truly excited about.
So here’s what I got:
* Warioland 1, 2, & 3. These are the Japanese versions. All were C$5 each.
* Sub Terrania. I’ve wanted this game ever since I was a kid. Thrilled to have it in box for C$20.
* Black & White 2. One of the best PC games of all time, but you can’t get it on any storefront anymore. Got it in box for C$15.
* Dark Cloud. Despite what the cover art indicates, it is not like Zelda—this is the spiritual sequel to Landstalker: The Treasures of King Nole. Got it in box for C$20.
* Untold Legends: Brotherhood of the Blade. A hack-‘n-slash action RPG. This was C$2.
I was tempted to buy a PC Engine console for C$50 but then I’d have yet another console hanging around my house.
All of the games I got are, in my opinion, must-haves.
Who are the mascots of PC gaming?
I recently read a thread elsewhere that says one big reason for Nintendo's enduring popularity is their use of mascots: Mario, Link, Kirby, and Samus. But I have to say, PC gaming has its own mascots too. And if you grew up on PC gaming, you know exactly who I’m talking about. To me, these are the most obvious PC gaming mascots:
**Sir Graham**
Sierra’s signature character. He’s the protagonist of King's Quest, the game that pretty much "made" PC gaming. If you’ve ever typed "look at tree" only to die instantly, you know this guy.
**Guybrush Threepwood**
For a good long time, the Monkey Island series was the jewel of PC adventure games, and Guybrush was the poster child. For an entire generation of smart-alecks, Guybrush was what made pointing and clicking actually cool.
**Commander Keen**
PC’s answer to Mario, but with a football helmet and a pogo stick. If you played Keen, you knew that saving the galaxy could happen in between spelling homework and dinner. The alien menace never stood a chance.
**Duke Nukem**
Duke started out as just another run-and-gun guy, but Duke Nukem 3-D turned him into a legend. Those one-liners were the soundtrack of every ‘90s gaming session. If your parents ever walked in at the wrong time, you know exactly which line I mean.
**B.J. Blazkowicz**
Possibly the oldest mascot here, since Wolfenstein dates back to 1981. But it was Wolfenstein 3-D where B.J. got a face and a vendetta. He’s been fighting Nazis since before most of us knew what a floppy disk was.
**Jill of the Jungle**
Jill is the game that put Epic on the map. She was Epic’s answer to Commander Keen, and while the graphics weren’t exactly cutting edge, the level design made up for it. Plus, Jill could turn into a bird. That never gets old.
**Doomguy**
Probably the most recognizable of the bunch. When people think of PC gaming, Doomguy’s battered face at the bottom of the screen is what flashes in their mind. Doom is forever, and so is the guy with the shotgun.
**Gordon Freeman**
For a whole generation, Half-Life is PC gaming. Gordon Freeman in that orange hazard suit, holding his crowbar, is basically the Valve logo in human form. He never says a word and still manages to be iconic.
**Vault Boy**
You don’t actually play as Vault Boy, but he’s everywhere in Fallout. His little thumbs-up and cheesy grin follow you from the vault to the wasteland. With the TV series, he’s basically mainstream now. No mascot is more cheerful about the end of the world.
**Kerrigan**
The Zerg Queen of Blades herself. If you’re into Starcraft—and millions are—Kerrigan is the face you remember. Blizzard made her the ultimate badass, and she wears it well.
**Geralt of Rivia**
Geralt first found fame on PC. The original Witcher didn’t even get a console port, so for a while Geralt was our little secret. Now he’s everywhere, but if you played those early games, he still feels like a PC icon.
**Chell**
Portal’s silent protagonist. You only ever see her in reflections or through portals, but somehow she sticks in your memory anyway. If there’s ever a Hall of Fame for "quietly iconic," Chell gets a spot.
**Faith Connors**
Maybe not as famous as some others here, but Faith deserves her place. Mirror’s Edge is the best first-person parkour you’ll ever play, and Faith’s red glove and city-leaping acrobatics are instantly memorable.
**Madeline**
Celeste is one of the greatest indie platformers ever made, and Madeline is what makes it work. She’s determined, stubborn, and endlessly relatable. I’ve never wanted to climb a mountain so much in my life.
**Goose**
The newest mascot, but maybe the most beloved. Untitled Goose Game turned one honking bird into the hero none of us expected but all of us needed. An awkward bird never looked so adorable.
---
So there you have it: the PC gaming mascot hall of fame. They may not have a theme park, but let’s be honest, nobody’s ever wanted to watch Mario lock eyes with Doomguy at the breakfast table. The world just isn’t ready for that much star power in one room.
Who are the mascots of PC gaming?
I recently read a thread elsewhere that says one big reason for Nintendo's enduring popularity is their use of mascots: Mario, Link, Kirby, and Samus. But I have to say, PC gaming has its own mascots too. And if you grew up on PC gaming, you know exactly who I’m talking about. To me, these are the most obvious PC gaming mascots:
**Sir Graham**
Sierra’s signature character. He’s the protagonist of King's Quest, the game that pretty much "made" PC gaming. If you’ve ever typed "look at tree" only to die instantly, you know this guy.
**Guybrush Threepwood**
For a good long time, the Monkey Island series was the jewel of PC adventure games, and Guybrush was the poster child. For an entire generation of smart-alecks, Guybrush was what made pointing and clicking actually cool.
**Commander Keen**
PC’s answer to Mario, but with a football helmet and a pogo stick. If you played Keen, you knew that saving the galaxy could happen in between spelling homework and dinner. The alien menace never stood a chance.
**Duke Nukem**
Duke started out as just another run-and-gun guy, but Duke Nukem 3-D turned him into a legend. Those one-liners were the soundtrack of every ‘90s gaming session. If your parents ever walked in at the wrong time, you know exactly which line I mean.
**B.J. Blazkowicz**
Possibly the oldest mascot here, since Wolfenstein dates back to 1981. But it was Wolfenstein 3-D where B.J. got a face and a vendetta. He’s been fighting Nazis since before most of us knew what a floppy disk was.
**Jill of the Jungle**
Jill is the game that put Epic on the map. She was Epic’s answer to Commander Keen, and while the graphics weren’t exactly cutting edge, the level design made up for it. Plus, Jill could turn into a bird. That never gets old.
**Doomguy**
Probably the most recognizable of the bunch. When people think of PC gaming, Doomguy’s battered face at the bottom of the screen is what flashes in their mind. Doom is forever, and so is the guy with the shotgun.
**Gordon Freeman**
For a whole generation, Half-Life is PC gaming. Gordon Freeman in that orange hazard suit, holding his crowbar, is basically the Valve logo in human form. He never says a word and still manages to be iconic.
**Vault Boy**
You don’t actually play as Vault Boy, but he’s everywhere in Fallout. His little thumbs-up and cheesy grin follow you from the vault to the wasteland. With the TV series, he’s basically mainstream now. No mascot is more cheerful about the end of the world.
**Kerrigan**
The Zerg Queen of Blades herself. If you’re into Starcraft—and millions are—Kerrigan is the face you remember. Blizzard made her the ultimate badass, and she wears it well.
**Geralt of Rivia**
Geralt first found fame on PC. The original Witcher didn’t even get a console port, so for a while Geralt was our little secret. Now he’s everywhere, but if you played those early games, he still feels like a PC icon.
**Chell**
Portal’s silent protagonist. You only ever see her in reflections or through portals, but somehow she sticks in your memory anyway. If there’s ever a Hall of Fame for "quietly iconic," Chell gets a spot.
**Faith Connors**
Maybe not as famous as some others here, but Faith deserves her place. Mirror’s Edge is the best first-person parkour you’ll ever play, and Faith’s red glove and city-leaping acrobatics are instantly memorable.
**Madeline**
Celeste is one of the greatest indie platformers ever made, and Madeline is what makes it work. She’s determined, stubborn, and endlessly relatable. I’ve never wanted to climb a mountain so much in my life.
**Goose**
The newest mascot, but maybe the most beloved. Untitled Goose Game turned one honking bird into the hero none of us expected but all of us needed. An awkward bird never looked so adorable.
---
So there you have it: the PC gaming mascot hall of fame. They may not have a theme park, but let’s be honest, nobody’s ever wanted to watch Mario lock eyes with Doomguy at the breakfast table. The world just isn’t ready for that much star power in one room.
Ah yes, Kool-Aid Man. On the intro screen, he bursts through a brick wall—and if you're going to make a game about Kool-Aid Man, that's mandatory.
If Kool-Aid Man doesn't crash through something at the start, is it even a Kool-Aid Man game? (No. It’s not.)
Now the goal here is simple: protect the precious Kool-Aid from what I can only describe as sentient bombs with straws. They’re called Thirsties, which sounds like the name of a failed emo band, but whatever. These little creeps try to slurp up all your Kool-Aid—which is weird, because I thought drinking the Kool-Aid was the *entire point* of Kool-Aid.
Anyway, you’ve got to wait until they actually start drinking before you slam into them. Do it too early and nothing happens. Wait too long and they tap you first, sending you careening across the screen like a sentient bowling ball. Bonus tip: don’t touch the walls either, because apparently the Kool-Aid Man is so full of juice that the slightest touch make him bounce.
People like to blame games like this for the Great Video Game Crash. But I say no way. This game has charm. It's got bounce (literally). It's got bright colors. It’s got Kool-Aid Man yelling "OH YEAH!" like he just snorted a line of Pixy Stix. Okay, he doesn't literally do this, but in my head canon, he does.
Sure, this is advertising. But so was Cool Spot for the SEGA Genesis, and most people agree that game was pretty darn good too. So cut Kool-Aid Man some slack. He may be a glass-bodied corporate shill, but by god, he’s *our* glass-bodied corporate shill.
Oddly, this was made by Mattel Electronics for their M Network imprint, which they used for systems that weren't published for Intellivision. In this case, Kool-Aid Man was an Atari 2600. And I don't understand why this game wasn't available for Mattel's own console. Was Kool-Aid Man too cool for those dweebs who played Intellivision?
We may never know. But one thing’s for sure: Kool-Aid Man definitely belonged on the Atari.
Here’s the thing most people *still* miss about the Steam Deck—and I’m saying this as someone who’s been yelling about it since forever—is that for decades, the PC had countless exclusive games that never set foot on a console. No ports, no Nintendo love, no Sony handshake—nothing.
And trust me, I begged. Pleaded. Lit prayer candles. Still nothing.
Then along came the Steam Deck, Valve’s magic handheld that finally turned PC gaming into something I could carry around without feeling like a dork dragging my laptop onto a city bus. Suddenly, all these brilliant PC-only classics felt like they’d always been console games—only better.
So, here are 10 games that console gamers never got their hands on, until the Steam Deck made dreams come true:
**1. Blood**. The nastiest corner of the Build Engine Holy Trinity—alongside Duke Nukem and Shadow Warrior. It’s gory, hilarious, and way smarter than it ever got credit for. Still holds up, especially with a gamepad.
**2. Septerra Core**. PC’s underrated response to Final Fantasy VII. A JRPG-styled epic, crafted by Western devs who knew how to nail the vibe. It deserved controller support years ago—now it finally feels at home.
**3. Blake Stone: Aliens of Gold**. Imagine Wolfenstein 3D in space, add aliens and vending machines that heal you, and you’ve got Blake Stone. Campy, colourful, and always overlooked—perfect for handheld fun.
**4. Jazz Jackrabbit 2**. Epic’s fast, snarky response to Sonic. It somehow managed to outdo Sega at their own game, and it’s criminal it never left PC—until now.
**5. Super Fighter**. DOS Street Fighter 2 was trash, but this Taiwanese indie fighter landed a clean KO instead. Fast, fluid, and shockingly addictive—a perfect fit for thumbstick abuse.
**6. The Witcher (2007)**. Yep, Geralt’s gruff first adventure never landed on console. Plans were cancelled, dreams shattered. But now? The Deck’s got you covered.
**7. Divine Divinity**. The name is ridiculous, but the game? Undeniably one of the best action-RPGs ever made. A mashup of Diablo-style combat and Ultima-style worldbuilding that somehow works. Never saw a console port.
**8. Ghost Master**. Haunt houses, traumatize homeowners, and delight in their terrified screams. Think The Sims, except you’re the one causing trauma. A joy on handheld.
**9. Flight of the Amazon Queen**. Adventure gaming at its pixel-perfect finest. Indiana Jones-style puzzles, lush visuals, and humour that aged surprisingly well. Built for a comfy couch or commute.
**10. Spark the Electric Jester 3**. A new-school 3D platformer that beats Sonic at his own speed game. Tight level design, dazzling speed, and didn't arrive on consoles—until the Deck gave it the spotlight it deserves.
Bottom line: Steam Deck didn’t just make PC gaming portable—it gave these gems a proper handheld life. It brought decades of overlooked, underplayed brilliance out of the desktop dungeon and into the light.
Here’s the thing most people *still* miss about the Steam Deck—and I’m saying this as someone who’s been yelling about it since forever—is that for decades, the PC had countless exclusive games that never set foot on a console. No ports, no Nintendo love, no Sony handshake—nothing.
And trust me, I begged. Pleaded. Lit prayer candles. Still nothing.
Then along came the Steam Deck, Valve’s magic handheld that finally turned PC gaming into something I could carry around without feeling like a dork dragging my laptop onto a city bus. Suddenly, all these brilliant PC-only classics felt like they’d always been console games—only better.
So, here are 10 games that console gamers never got their hands on, until the Steam Deck made dreams come true:
**1. Blood**. The nastiest corner of the Build Engine Holy Trinity—alongside Duke Nukem and Shadow Warrior. It’s gory, hilarious, and way smarter than it ever got credit for. Still holds up, especially with a gamepad.
**2. Septerra Core**. PC’s underrated response to Final Fantasy VII. A JRPG-styled epic, crafted by Western devs who knew how to nail the vibe. It deserved controller support years ago—now it finally feels at home.
**3. Blake Stone: Aliens of Gold**. Imagine Wolfenstein 3D in space, add aliens and vending machines that heal you, and you’ve got Blake Stone. Campy, colourful, and always overlooked—perfect for handheld fun.
**4. Jazz Jackrabbit 2**. Epic’s fast, snarky response to Sonic. It somehow managed to outdo Sega at their own game, and it’s criminal it never left PC—until now.
**5. Super Fighter**. DOS Street Fighter 2 was trash, but this Taiwanese indie fighter landed a clean KO instead. Fast, fluid, and shockingly addictive—a perfect fit for thumbstick abuse.
**6. The Witcher (2007)**. Yep, Geralt’s gruff first adventure never landed on console. Plans were cancelled, dreams shattered. But now? The Deck’s got you covered.
**7. Divine Divinity**. The name is ridiculous, but the game? Undeniably one of the best action-RPGs ever made. A mashup of Diablo-style combat and Ultima-style worldbuilding that somehow works. Never saw a console port.
**8. Ghost Master**. Haunt houses, traumatize homeowners, and delight in their terrified screams. Think The Sims, except you’re the one causing trauma. A joy on handheld.
**9. Flight of the Amazon Queen**. Adventure gaming at its pixel-perfect finest. Indiana Jones-style puzzles, lush visuals, and humour that aged surprisingly well. Built for a comfy couch or commute.
**10. Spark the Electric Jester 3**. A new-school 3D platformer that beats Sonic at his own speed game. Tight level design, dazzling speed, and didn't arrive on consoles—until the Deck gave it the spotlight it deserves.
Bottom line: Steam Deck didn’t just make PC gaming portable—it gave these gems a proper handheld life. It brought decades of overlooked, underplayed brilliance out of the desktop dungeon and into the light.
It’s silly to compare Switch 2 sales to Steam Deck sales.
The Switch 2 is a locked-down, vertically integrated platform. There are no ROG Switch 2s. No Lenovo Switch 2s. No Switch laptops or tower PCs with discrete GPUs. If you want to play *Mario Kart World*, your only option is to buy a Switch 2. Period.
Steam Deck, by contrast, isn’t a platform. It’s just one hardware option—one entry point into the sprawling, open ecosystem known as PC gaming.
Every year, around 245 million PCs are shipped globally. If even 20–25% of those are gaming-focused, that’s 49–61 million gaming PCs annually. Steam Deck is a sliver of that. So of course it won’t outsell a console that’s the *only* gateway to a major IP.
But that’s exactly the point.
PC gaming is too decentralized for any single device to dominate. The last “PC” that did was the Commodore 64, which sold 12.5–17 million units over 12 years because it was a self-contained platform, unlike modern Windows, Mac, or Linux machines.
That the Steam Deck has sold 4 million units despite *competing with every other gaming PC in existence* is remarkable. It didn’t just sell—it legitimized a category. Handheld PC gaming is now a thing. That’s why Lenovo, ASUS, and MSI have followed. Even Microsoft is getting in, optimizing Windows for handhelds—something they would never have done if the Steam Deck didn't hold their feet to the fire.
So no, Steam Deck didn’t outsell the Switch 2. It didn’t need to.
It won by changing the landscape.
English
I’ve been on the Fediverse for a very long time. If you Google my username, you’ll find a trail of posts going back years—thousands of them. My style has always been consistent, and I’ve stayed true to it.
I also happen to be autistic, and I often use ChatGPT for tone checks—it’s a tool that helps me communicate more clearly.
This isn’t an ad. I’m just someone who genuinely loves this game. And if enthusiasm makes me look like a shill, then so be it.
That said, your comment is a good reminder of why I recently added two new rules to ![email protected], the community I moderate.