Is it the games you loved, or the time in your life when you played them?
You have your list. The games that meant something. The ones you’ll bring up in every conversation about how gaming used to be better. Maybe it was your first console. Maybe it was that one summer you played nothing else. Whatever it is, it’s not just about the game. It’s about the version of you who played it.
That’s the thing about nostalgia. It feels honest, but it edits heavily. It gives you the memory of wonder and cuts out the loading screens, the crashes, the aimless hours stuck on bad design. You’re not lying to yourself on purpose. You just remember the best parts and forget the rest.
You say games back then had more soul. Maybe they did. Or maybe you were just easier to impress.
Older games were harder to finish, not deeper
People say older games made you think more. What they often mean is the game didn’t explain itself. You were dumped into a level, given no instructions, and expected to figure it out. That wasn’t clever. That was the result of limited design. The games didn’t have the tools or the space to guide you.
What felt like a challenge was often confusion. You stuck with it because you had no choice. You got one or two games a year and played them to death. That created attachment. You weren’t learning deep mechanics. You were just determined not to waste the only thing you had.
Now, if a game is frustrating, you move on. You have dozens in your library and more waiting to be downloaded. The attachment doesn’t have time to form, and that changes the whole experience.
You didn’t care about graphics until they improved
You thought your favourite games looked incredible. GoldenEye felt real. Final Fantasy VII looked like a movie. Doom was the future. Then time moved on and those visuals aged badly. Not because the games were bad, but because the medium advanced.
And still, you find yourself defending them. Not just the way they looked, but the way they made you feel. You’re not protecting the game. You’re protecting the memory.
That’s the trick. You tell yourself the game is still great. Maybe it is. But the stronger feeling is wanting the experience to still matter in the present.
It’s not the game that changed
It’s you. You expect things to work now. You expect clarity. You want to spend more time playing and less time guessing what to do. That’s not laziness. That’s experience. You’ve already put up with bad controls, vague objectives, and missing save data. You just don’t have the energy for that anymore.
When people say modern games are too easy, they often mean they don’t spark the same feeling. The games are smoother, more reliable, and better made. But the emotional connection is missing. The magic is gone, not because the games are worse, but because they no longer meet you at the same place in your life.
It’s fine to love the past. Just don’t rewrite it.
Some old games hold up. They are still smart and satisfying. But plenty of them don’t. You loved them for the moment they gave you, not because they were perfect. You were younger. You had time. You played for hours without worrying about efficiency or mechanics. That freedom shaped the memory.
You don’t need to pretend those games were better. They were what they were. You are allowed to move on without disowning what they meant to you.
What’s a game you swore was amazing, but secretly know hasn’t aged well?
