An intimate exploration of retrogaming, the passage of time, and the unspoken fear of loss.

Author: Timothy Devrieze (translated by the author)

(AI generated image)

My room is dimly lit, and I face my silhouette, waiting for the startup of a game console that’s not quite vintage but has seen better days. As I am dazzled by the startup screen animated with Z-fighters and orchestral rock music, I am overwhelmed by a complex mix of emotions.

I feel an exhilarating thrill, akin to coming home after a tough school day - returning to the beloved and almost sacred part of my younger years.

This nostalgia, seemingly simple, is intertwined with more complex and introspective feelings that plunge me into a state of contemplation. I find myself asking a difficult question: If the games that were the backdrop of my childhood are now relegated to the "retro" category, what does this imply about my own place in the flow of time?

Am I, barely on the cusp of mid-twenties, already a relic in the merciless museum of modernity alongside my Game Boy Advance cartridges and CDs? This questioning is amplified by another, more existential reality: the inevitable mortality of my parents.

Beyond this worry, retrogaming has always been a sanctuary for me, serving as an emotional vault for the purity and innocence of simplicity. Perhaps I am chasing an older version of myself, still able to afford the luxury of naivety in the face of many hard realities?

This haven goes beyond a simple break from the reality of existence; it is for me and many others a true pilgrimage to a lost self who had not yet faced the hassles of adult life.

These moments of peace take me back to days filled with unrestrained laughter, close brotherly friendships, and pure joy that I can’t help but miss.

Continuing down this winding path of nostalgia, I realize that, as passionately as I indulge and lose myself in these retro games, I cannot escape the shadows that subtly tint my experience. When a victory or Game Over imposes a black screen and silence, I again confront my incredulous self, worried about job searching and a receding hairline. This screen turns my TV into a one-way mirror, making me aware of time and my fear of losing something from my past. Among these fears, the most unsettling is the seldom expressed apprehension of losing my parents - a universal yet deeply personal milestone that draws closer with every tick of the clock. This harsh reality, often relegated to the darkest corners of my subconscious, resurfaces during these solitary gaming sessions, forcing me to question: can I quell this irreversible feeling of loss by completing another level?

As I delve deeper into these pixelated universes, I realize that the escape they offer is paradoxical. On the surface, they provide a fleeting peace from the labyrinthine complexities and burdens that adulthood invariably brings. However, there is a danger - the risk that these games could become platforms for denial, fortresses where life's most uncomfortable truths can be conveniently swept under the rug. This is particularly evident in a virtual world where effort is generally rewarded and failures are often nothing more than a prelude to a "Continue?" screen, in stark contrast to the finite, unpredictable, and irreversible nature of human existence.

The joy and comfort I find in retro games act both as a tribute to the person I once was and as an invitation to accept the person I am becoming. As I navigate the challenges of the quarter-century mark, it’s crucial to remember that the imminent responsibilities and trials of adulthood should not be overshadowed by the ephemeral comfort these games provide. Instead, they should act as a catalyst for motivation, pushing me to confront my deepest and most visceral fears, including the inevitable loss of those who gave me life. These real-world challenges won’t grant me extra lives or bonus levels, but they offer something far more valuable: deeper emotional intelligence, enhanced resilience, and a nuanced understanding of the ephemeral and fragile nature of human life.

So, where does this introspection place me? I believe the answer lies in finding a delicate balance - a nuanced equilibrium between the pixelated comfort of years past and the pressing realities of today. It’s not necessary to completely renounce the games that have brought me so much emotional comfort and psychological relief. However, they should not serve as walls, blocking my full engagement with the world as it is now. It’s about leveraging these moments of digital escapism not only as a refuge but also as an opportunity for introspection, to examine the broader tapestry of my existence - a tapestry woven from diverse threads of happiness, sadness, and inevitable conclusions. Through this prism, I can cultivate a richer, more textured understanding of the complex game that is life itself.

Walking the tightrope between a digital past I hold in high esteem and an uncertain but inevitably tangible future, I've realized that the inherent tension in this duality can be a catalyst for growth. Retrogaming, with its powerful blend of nostalgia and sanctuary, is not just an echo of a simpler time, but a resounding call to engage fully in the present. It pushes me to face the uncomfortable truths and uncertainties that come with the adult life package. Even more strikingly, it highlights the need to confront the mortality of those who matter most to me—a heart-wrenching reality that becomes more palpable with every passing second. By acknowledging and embracing this complex interplay, I can lead a life that is not only nuanced but authentically mine—a life that honors the past while bravely preparing for the inevitable future.