NOSTALGIA & HISTORY

In the mid-90s, when first-person shooters were evolving rapidly but often lacked personality, Duke Nukem 3D burst through the door with a cigar in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Released in 1996 by 3D Realms, this game didn’t just add another notch to the belt of classic shooters—it blew a hole in the wall and rewrote what people expected from the genre. It was chaotic, irreverent, brutally fun, and packed with charisma.

At a time when many FPS protagonists were voiceless avatars—mere weapons with legs—Duke Nukem brought swagger. He didn’t just shoot aliens. He taunted them. He dropped one-liners mid-battle, flexed in mirrors, and quoted action movies with a grin that bordered on parody. He wasn’t just part of the game—he was the game.

Beyond Duke’s personality, the game introduced elements that pushed the genre forward: interactive environments, multi-layered level design, alternate firing modes, and an arsenal that felt dangerous in all the right ways. It wasn’t just about shooting your way through a corridor. It was about blowing holes in walls, flushing toilets, watching strippers, and laughing maniacally while sending pig cops to hell.

In the early 1990s, the gaming world was flooded with mascots trying to capture the magic of Sonic and Mario. But nestled quietly among them was a green amphibian with a crown, a cape, and a surprisingly rich sense of humor—Superfrog. Released in 1993 by the British developers at Team17, this game wasn’t just another mascot platformer. It was, in many ways, a love letter to the Amiga scene—a platform known more for its depth than its flash.

What made Superfrog stand out wasn’t just its responsive controls or colorful visuals—it was how it blended charm, challenge, and playfulness without trying too hard to be “cool.” It didn’t rely on attitude or edgy humor like some of its contemporaries. Instead, it leaned into whimsy. The story was simple: a prince turned into a frog by an evil witch must navigate six worlds to rescue his princess. Classic setup. But the delivery? Fast-paced levels, hidden areas, power-ups galore, and a soundtrack that wormed its way into your brain.

 In 1993, the video game world was saturated with side-scrolling platformers. But few had the backing, charm, or cinematic polish of Disney’s Aladdin on the Sega Genesis. Developed by Virgin Games in collaboration with Disney, this version of Aladdin wasn't just another licensed tie-in—it was a technological and artistic leap that stunned players and critics alike. For the first time, it felt like a game truly looked and moved like an animated film.

At the center of this achievement was a rare partnership: actual Disney animators were brought in to create the character frames. These weren’t reinterpretations by game artists—they were literal hand-drawn frames scanned directly into the game using a technique called “Digicel,” developed by Virgin’s animation team. This gave Aladdin a visual style that hadn’t been seen before on a home console. The movement, expressions, and fluidity of the characters rivaled anything players had seen up to that point.

The collaboration came with risk. Disney was known for being highly protective of its properties, and the idea of lending their animators to a video game was uncharted territory. But the gamble paid off. Led by programmer David Perry, the Virgin team created a game that wasn’t just beautiful—it was tightly constructed, deeply playable, and faithful to the spirit of the animated movie without simply rehashing it.

It’s not every day a game turns your television into a comic book. In 1995, Comix Zone did exactly that—and did it with a confidence few games could match. Developed by Sega Technical Institute and released on the Sega Genesis during the console's final flourish, this beat-’em-up broke free from the genre’s growing sameness. It didn’t just deliver fights and combos—it did so inside an actual comic book. And no, that’s not a metaphor. From the panel-to-panel movement, to the sound-effect text that popped up with every punch, Comix Zone fully embraced its theme.

At the time, it was a visual stunner, but even beyond the graphics, there was something distinctly different about this game. It had style, grit, and a kind of meta-cleverness that most titles didn’t dare to attempt. You played as Sketch Turner, a comic book artist quite literally pulled into his own work. You didn’t just move through levels—you tore through pages. Enemies didn't spawn; they were drawn in by the villain, Mortus. Cutscenes weren’t between levels—they were printed in frames. That raw idea, executed with such polish and creativity, made Comix Zone an experience that was hard to forget.