There’s no question about it. There’s no doubt that the best way to experience Street Fighter II is at an arcade. I’ll admit it – I was hooked from the moment I stepped into the Pizza Ranch in the summer of 1991, watching a high school kid perform moves I hadn’t known existed in a video game. He was playing as Guile, the military dude with the ridiculously long hairdo, and he was launching curved energy blasts while yelling “Sonic Boom!” in a voice that was more digitized than anyone else’s I had heard in an arcade.
Before I spent all of my allowance money, which happened in less than 15 minutes, I was glued to the seat. What I was seeing was not just another beat-em-up where you walk right and punch everything in sight. This was something entirely new, and I was smart enough to realise it at the age of 13.
I had played the original Street Fighter at the Southdale Mall about two years prior. In my opinion, it was a terrible game. Only one playable character, very stiff controls, and special moves that were impossible to execute; the special moves were essentially mythical creatures. However, the sequel was a completely different story. Not only was there eight playable characters, but each of them had unique personalities and fighting styles, and the controls responded to input; it was like comparing a bicycle to a Ferrari.
When my mother picked me up at 4 pm, I spent the entire drive home explaining to her why she needed to take me back to the arcade the next day with more quarters. “It’s educational,” I told her. “I am learning… uh… hand-eye coordination.” She was not buying it, however, it was obvious that my excitement had reached her, and she eventually agreed to let me ride my bike back to the arcade the next day.
That next day turned into every day for the remainder of the summer. I had been saving my birthday money for months to purchase new games for my SNES, however, I ended up pouring the funds directly into this machine like it was a parking metre. My friend Jake began referring to the arcade as my “expensive girlfriend” because I was spending more time and money on it than any reasonable thirteen-year-old should be spending.
The SNES port arrived that fall, and I was more aggressive in campaigning for the cartridge than any politician has ever campaigned for office. I drew up charts illustrating how much money I would save by not going to the arcade (of course I ignored the fact that I would have gone anyway). I promised to do additional chores. I even offered to give up my Halloween candy, which in hindsight was a stupid bargaining chip because I would have never followed through on that promise.
My dad eventually gave in after I agreed to clean the garage without complaining for the remainder of the year. Cleaning the garage was worth every minute of sifting through Dad’s collection of broken lawn equipment and paint cans.
Having Street Fighter II at home was akin to having your own personal arcade. While the SNES version was far from perfect – many of the colours were muted compared to the arcade, and a few of the voice samples sounded like the characters were speaking through a mouthful of marshmallows – the ability to play at will, without having to feed the machine coins every two minutes, was pure magic.
Jake and I would spend hours playing the game. Literally hours. I would often stumble into the living room around midnight to see Jake and I still huddled around the television, our eyes bloodshot from staring at the screen. “You boys are going to go blind,” Mom would exclaim, then would shut off the console, knowing that neither of us had the self-control to stop ourselves.
Each player developed their own character, and the character you chose said something about who you were as a person. I was a Ryu guy from start to finish – simple, perhaps, but I enjoyed the basics. Clean input, reliable moves, and no flair. Jake favored Zangief simply because he thought the spinning piledriver was hilarious; however, he never mastered the technique to become a threat.
Tom, my older brother, selected Guile because the flat top reminded him of his G.I. Joe action figures, and Guile’s moves were much easier to execute than most of the other characters.
Practicing the special moves became an obsession. I practiced Ryu’s Dragon Punch motion – forward, down, down-forward + punch – until my thumb was sore from pressing the D-pad. The timing had to be precise, and the motion had to be fluid and deliberate. When I executed my first clean Shoryuken on the computer, I leaped up and yelled so loudly that our dog barked, and my mom came running downstairs thinking I was injured.
Street Fighter II’s competitive environment was similar to nothing I had previously experienced. The Pizza Ranch began holding weekly tournaments with a $5 entry fee, which may as well have been $50 to me at the time. I saved my money for two weeks to enter, made it exactly one round, and was thoroughly destroyed by a college student using Dhalsim who seemed to know combinations I had never seen or heard of before.
However, I was not mad about losing. I was intrigued. I watched this guy play for an additional hour, attempting to learn how he linked moves together, how he spaced his attacks, and why he chose specific moves at specific times. It was as if I was watching a chess grandmaster, except he was using fireballs and flying kicks.
Word spread differently back then. Someone would arrive from another city with new techniques, and suddenly, everyone at your local arcade was attempting to master them. I recall this one individual arriving from Minneapolis claiming he had discovered a method to play as the boss characters, which sounded like absolute hogwash until he actually did it. Turns out, Champion Edition had been released in other areas, and we were still playing the original version like Neanderthals.
My friend’s older brother worked at Electronics Boutique and somehow acquired the Japanese version of Street Fighter II Turbo months before it arrived in the United States. We treated that cartridge like it was made of gold. Every day after school, Jake and I would bike over to his residence and gather around the television, gawking at the increased speed and the new moves, along with the secret character you could unlock with a peculiar button combination at the character selection screen.
The competitive aspect of Street Fighter II was what differentiated it from all other games. Prior to Street Fighter II, most arcade games involved defeating the computer and achieving a high score. Street Fighter II was about defeating other players, and that revolutionized the genre. It wasn’t enough to be capable of beating the computer – you needed to understand the spatial relationships, timing, and psychological aspects of the game. You had to be aware of what your opponent was thinking, and be one step ahead of them.
Jake’s mom believed we were in some sort of cult due to all the strange incantations we chanted while practicing. “Hadouken! Sonic Boom! Tiger Uppercut!” We repeated these phrases while practicing the joystick motions, attempting to develop the muscle memory required for executing the moves. To outsiders, it likely appeared quite bizarre – a group of young children gathered around a television, making martial arts noises, and moving their hands in specific patterns.
The sound effects became part of our everyday vocabulary. We would yell “Hadouken!” when throwing basketballs, “Sonic Boom!” when throwing frisbees, and “Tiger Uppercut!” for virtually any jumping motion. I received some odd stares from my basketball coach when I began incorporating Street Fighter sound effects into my free throw practice; however, my shooting percentage actually increased, so he did not complain excessively.
One of the most remarkable elements of Street Fighter II was how deep the game was. The combo system was not a design element originally – it was a programming glitch that Capcom decided to retain since it created interest for the players. At the time, we had no idea that this was the case. All we knew was that sometimes, if you timed your attacks precisely, your opponent would not be able to block between hits. It was as if we were finding hidden treasures every time we discovered a new combo.
I still remember the first time someone taught me that you could link Ryu’s crouching medium kick into a Hadouken. My mind was totally blown. I spent the next three hours mastering that simple two-hit combo until I could execute it reliably. It may seem absurd now, but landing that combo was a monumental accomplishment for me.
Capcom continued to release updated versions of the game for years. Champion Edition allowed you to play as the boss characters, which felt like gaining access to forbidden knowledge. Turbo increased the speed of the gameplay and introduced new moves. Super Street Fighter II included four new characters and further refined the overall system. With each new version, it felt like Christmas morning – new discoveries and mastery awaited.
In my opinion, Street Fighter II set the standard for all future fighting games. The six-button layout, the special move inputs, the concept of balance among characters, and the emphasis on timing frames – all of these originated from Street Fighter II. Every fighting game that followed was judged based on whether it matched the level of quality established by Street Fighter II. Mortal Kombat had its fatalities and photorealistic characters, but the controls were tighter. Killer Instinct had its combo system and incredible soundtrack, but the characters were not as balanced. Virtua Fighter had its polygonal graphics and realistic martial arts, but it lacked Street Fighter’s personality.
To this day, I still have my original SNES cartridge sitting in my game room, complete with a faded price tag from Electronics Boutique that I never removed. Occasionally, friends who also grew up in the 90s will come over and we’ll fire up the old SNES and play a few rounds. My muscle memory still exists after thirty-plus years. Quarter-circle forward for Hadouken, quarter-circle back for Tatsumaki, forward-down-down-forward for Shoryuken – it is like riding a bike.
About a week ago, I took my nephew to a retro arcade bar catering to adults who want to relive their youth. They had an original Street Fighter II: Champion Edition cabinet tucked away in the corner, complete with the classic six-button layout and the familiar Sanwa joystick click. I gave him a token, picked Ryu, and showed him the basics.
He picked up the basics quicker than I did at his age. Had the Dragon Punch motion down in under ten minutes, was throwing clean Hadoukens within twenty. “This is actually pretty cool for such an old game,” he said, which I’ll take as a compliment from a generation that grew up with modern fighting games featuring 50+ playable characters and real-time display of frame data.
Thirty years later, and Street Fighter II still attracts crowds. Still creates that same sense of wonder and competition that I experienced as a thirteen-year-old kid with a pocket full of quarters and a summer afternoon waiting for me. That is the measure of something extraordinary – when it can create a common bond across generations and remain fresh and enjoyable decades after its release.
Joe’s a history teacher who treats the console wars like actual history. A lifelong Sega devotee from Phoenix, he writes with passion, humor, and lingering heartbreak over the Dreamcast. Expect strong opinions, bad puns, and plenty of “blast processing.”
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