Growing Up with Games That Taught Me How to Feel
I have been thinking a lot about the games I grew up with and how differently I experience games today. As a child, I was deeply attached to titles like Legend of Mana, Need for Speed, and Call of Duty. There was something genuinely joyful about them—something effortless. Among all of them, Legend of Mana stood out the most. Its 2D world, hand-drawn aesthetic, and gentle atmosphere felt magical. It did not rely on realism or complexity, yet it felt alive. At that age, I did not need high-end graphics or massive open worlds to feel immersed.
As I grew older and began playing games on more modern consoles, I noticed a strange shift. Even when revisiting similar genres or franchises with improved visuals and smoother mechanics, I became bored quickly. The excitement faded fast, and more often than not, I would uninstall the game without hesitation. What once felt engaging now felt exhausting. It was as if modern games demanded more attention and energy than I was willing—or able—to give.
I also spent a significant amount of time with games like Harvest Moon and Rune Factory. These games were incredibly addictive in their own way. The cycle of farming, building relationships, and slowly shaping a virtual life pulled me in completely. Yet, there was a clear pattern: once the main character got married, something inside me switched off. The sense of purpose was gone. The journey had reached its emotional conclusion, and continuing beyond that felt unnecessary. Deleting the game felt natural, not disappointing.
Interestingly, one genre that still holds my attention strongly is survival horror—especially the Resident Evil franchise. I have been a fan since I was around six or seven years old, which sounds absurd considering the amount of gore and horror involved. Still, those early experiences left a lasting mark. One of my strongest childhood fears came from the opening video of Resident Evil 3: Nemesis. The image of zombies with destroyed faces and white, lifeless eyes genuinely terrified me, yet I could not look away.
What makes Resident Evil special to me is the combination of nostalgia, gameplay, and storytelling. Resident Evil 4, in particular, feels emotionally heavy. The atmosphere of its castle sections, inspired by old European settings, carries a sense of sorrow and suffering. The music amplifies that feeling—it is not just scary, but melancholic. Similarly, Resident Evil 3’s theme, “Free From Fear,” carries a sadness that is difficult to explain but deeply affecting.
Beyond the horror, the franchise’s narrative depth keeps me invested. The research into bio-weapons, the shadowy history of Umbrella, and the personal pasts of the characters create a world that feels disturbingly believable. These elements give weight to the experience. I am not just reacting to monsters; I am uncovering fragments of a tragic, corrupted human ambition.
Looking back, I realize that what I have always valued in games is not novelty or technical advancement, but emotional resonance. Whether it was the quiet beauty of a 2D fantasy world, the comforting routine of virtual farming life, or the sorrowful horror of a ruined city, the games that stayed with me are the ones that made me feel something. That feeling—once found—is rare, and perhaps that is why I no longer settle for games that fail to offer it.
