I recall my Christmas of 1998 — I was 21, coming home from Arizona State University for winter break, and I had no idea what gifts I’d receive. As it turned out, my parents surprised me with a PlayStation and a copy of Spyro the Dragon. “You’ve been talking about that purple dragon game,” my mom said. While I hadn’t intentionally mentioned it to anyone, I guess I was making my intentions clear enough while browsing GamePro at the kitchen table.
As it stands — I was a Sega fanboy at the time (and still am). My Saturn was set up in my dorm room, and I was still bitter about how Sony’s surprise price drop on the PlayStation essentially killed Sega’s chances. Still, I wasn’t going to say no to free hardware, right? So, I set up the PlayStation in our basement, while everyone else was enjoying their post-holiday food comas, and fired up Spyro for the first time.
This is when things changed. That startup sound was different. Not better than the little jingle on my Saturn, but different. Then the introduction rolled around with dragons being interviewed on television about a terrible bad guy named Gnasty Gnorc. Honestly, my first reaction was, “this is going to be kiddie garbage compared to the rest of what I’m used to.” Boy, was I wrong.
The minute I began controlling Spyro in that first world, everything changed. This little purple dragon moved unlike anything I had ever seen in 3D gaming. And I had played a lot of 3D games by then – NiGHTS, Burning Rangers, and some of the first PlayStation exclusives that I had borrowed from friends’ homes. But Spyro had weight, you know? He would lean into turns. His tail would whip around. His little short legs would scrabble for traction. Most 3D characters in 1998 moved like robots. Spyro moved like an animal.
My friend Mike came over the next day – he was one of the very few people I knew who had purchased a PlayStation instead of a Saturn, so we had these odd counterarguments where I would defend Sega while simultaneously being curious about his games. “Try the charging,” he says, and suddenly I’m racing around these vibrant worlds, gaining speed, and launching myself off ramps. The gliding mechanic was pure magic. You would assume that you would fail to reach a platform, but if you time your jump correctly and hold that glide button, Spyro will extend himself and fly farther than it seems physically possible.
We messed around with the movement for hours. Who cares about the goals? We were testing out how far we could charge-jump-glide, trying to reach platforms that seemed impossible, and just generally messing around. Mike had beat the game already, but he was right there with me going, “Whoa, I never tried jumping from there before.” This is when you know a game has gotten its fundamental mechanics right – when a player who has beat the game still wants to just play around in the world.
Rescuing the dragon crystals was surprisingly satisfying. Each crystalized dragon had their own personality after you freed them – some would give you helpful tips, others would simply thank you and disappear, and a few seemed genuinely bewildered as to what had occurred. I started rating them mentally. “Useful dragon,” “Pointless dragon,” “Dragon who probably should have watched what was happening during the villain attack.” Ridiculous? Absolutely. However, I had found myself investing in these small interactions more than I expected.
And those worlds, man. Coming from Saturn games that were typically constrained by texture memory and processing power, Spyro’s worlds felt ridiculously lush and diverse. Each hub world felt like it had its own personality – the medieval fantasy of Artisans, the mystical floating platforms of Magic Crafters, the strange, swampy weirdness of Beast Makers. The draw distance was also extremely impressive for the time frame. On the Saturn, you grew accustomed to using fog to conceal distant objects due to the lack of ability to render them properly. On Spyro, I could see distant platforms and plan routes to reach them.
However, the true secret to the success of the game was Stewart Copeland’s music. I knew who Copeland was — The Police drummer, seriously talented musician. However, this soundtrack was something entirely different. Each world had unique themes that were not merely background music – they were an integral part of each world’s identity. That fast-paced, medieval-themed song for Artisans made you want to go racing around. The dreamy, nearly psychedelic elements in Dream Weavers. The underwater areas featured music with a muffled, echoey quality that was an authentic technological achievement.
I’ll admit to humming these tunes while walking across campus. I received some weird looks from people who did not recognise video game music, but I didn’t care. This was genuinely good music that happened to be in a video game, not just random beeps and boops to fill silence.
Collecting gems tapped into some kind of primal impulse in my brain. That small musical ping when you pick one up, the way they would be sucked into Spyro with a sparkles effect, watching that gem counter rise toward 100% completion – it was perfect for creating obsession. I would sweep through an entire area, convinced I had thoroughly searched the area, and upon checking my completion percentage, I would find I was missing gems. “Where are they?!”, “How do I miss gems?!”, etc., became my standard catchphrase, and ultimately I would discover some hidden cave or platform that would require a particularly difficult sequence of glides to reach.
Your little dragonfly buddy Sparx was a genius example of game design dressed as a cute sidekick. A health metre, a gem collector, and yet, somehow, a character that you would grow attached to despite never speaking a word or accomplishing anything other than changing colours. When I lost Sparx due to enemy fire, the game felt more treacherous. Not merely because I was only one hit away from death, but because my partner had disappeared and the world felt less hospitable.
Combat was simplistic – charge or breathe fire. However, different enemies required different strategies. Armored enemies could be defeated with fire since charging would simply bounce off of them. Enemies that moved quickly were easier to defeat with a charge attack. Some enemies needed to be attacked from a particular angle. The sound design added to the authenticity as well. That whooshing sound when I charged, the “fwoosh” of flames when I breathed fire, the squeak of the enemies when I defeated them. Twenty-five years later and I can still hear these sounds clearly in my mind.
I distinctly remember one Saturday evening in the dorm – my roommate had gone home for the weekend, and I had carried my PlayStation down to the common room TV. I decided I was going to finish the game tonight, no matter what, to achieve 100% completion on every world. Next thing I know, it’s 3 AM and I have no idea how much time passed. This is a sign of a truly great game – when you spend hours in a game and you’re not aware of the passage of time.
The boss battles were not especially innovative — largely, simply chasing after larger enemies and firing at them — but they did not need to be. Spyro was not attempting to be Dark Souls. It was about discovery, collection, and the pure enjoyment of navigating through these beautiful worlds. The final confrontation with Gnasty Gnorc was more memorable for the chase sequence than the battle itself, but it effectively wrapped up the story.
When Ripto’s Rage came out in 1999, I bought it the day it released, despite being primarily a Sega fan boy at the time. The sequel built upon everything that worked in the original — swimming, climbing, additional challenges. In addition to simply rescuing dragons, you were assisting NPCs with various problems, giving them more context as to why you were collecting items in the first place. Great game, but I missed the elegant simplicity of the original game’s “rescue dragons, collect gems, move on” style of gameplay.
Year of the Dragon concluded the trilogy in 2000, providing additional playable characters in addition to Spyro. Sheila the Kangaroo, Sgt. Byrd, Bentley the Yeti — they were fun to control, but a part of me felt like the series was drifting further and further away from what made it special. Sometimes you just want to be a small purple dragon gliding through the air and breathing fire, you know? All of the mini-games and additional playable characters felt like unnecessary additions to the game, even though they were executed well.
What differentiated Spyro from other PlayStation mascots such as Crash Bandicoot? Primarily freedom. Crash levels were expertly designed pathways — impressive pathways, but pathways nonetheless. Spyro’s worlds were open playgrounds where you could see a distant platform and decide how you wanted to reach it, or just run around and crash into sheep because it was funny. Crash was a maze; Spyro was a theme park.
Insomniac Games achieved several legitimate technological feats on the 1998 PlayStation hardware. Draw distances were respectable when most games used fog to obscure their limitations. Colour palettes were bright and varied when virtually every other game was brown and dull. Loading screens were quick and did not disrupt the flow of the game. Camera systems were reliable, which was rare. These are all things that seem like trivialities today, but back then they were significant achievements.
I have replayed the original trilogy more times than I care to admit, with my most recent iteration being through the Reignited Trilogy, which rebuilt everything with modern graphics. Toys for Bob did a fine job recreating the essence of the originals, but also provided a plethora of details that the original PlayStation hardware could not support. Providing players with the option to switch between remastered and original music was a classy touch — a nod to how essential Stewart Copeland’s soundtrack was to the overall experience.
Playing the trilogy again now, I am struck by how much they differ from modern games. There are no microtransactions, no DLC, no leaderboards, and no social features. Just you, a small purple dragon, and worlds filled with treasures to collect. The games were exactly as long as they needed to be — no artificial extensions via fetch quests or grinding.
I believe Spyro succeeded because he was an unassuming hero. No tragic backstory, no destined-to-save-the-world heroics, no world-threatening stakes. He was doing the right thing because someone had to, and he happened to be the dragon that wasn’t crystalized. His relatively small size compared to the enemies and worlds created an underdog dynamic — this tiny dragon taking on much larger threats through determination and swagger, not brute strength.
Spyro represents a specific era in gaming — late 90s, when 3D platformers were beginning to gain traction, and before the industry became fixated on cinematic experiences and online-based gameplay. It is easy to be skeptical regarding mascot games as marketing tools, but Spyro transcended this through quality and charm.
My original PlayStation eventually stopped working, but I still keep my Spyro CDs in a special case with other games that represented significant eras in my gaming career. Occasionally, I will take them out and just stare at the cover art, remembering that Christmas break, the late nights in the dorm common room, and the satisfaction of finally completing 100% of every world.
About two years ago, my nephew was visiting, and I set him up with the Reignited Trilogy. Watching him experience Spyro for the first time — that same wide-eyed sense of wonder when he landed a perfect glide, the same, “Did you see that jump?!”, enthusiasm — it felt like I was witnessing gaming history repeat itself. The technology had come a long way since 1998, but that base experience — the simple pleasure of being a small purple dragon in a large, colorful world — remains unchanged.
Over the last two decades, gaming has progressed significantly — from photo-realistic graphics to complex stories, and from local co-op multiplayer to online multiplayer capabilities. At times, however, I simply want to be able to charge around as Spyro, collecting gems and listening to Stewart Copeland’s perfect music. In an industry that is increasingly focused on bigger and more complex experiences, I find it refreshing that a game as elegantly simple as Spyro still resonates with me.
That little purple dragon was not merely a mascot or a vehicle for delivering gameplay — for many of us, he was a trusted companion throughout college stress, relationship drama, and general early adulthood angst. Consoles may become obsolete, graphics may date, but Spyro continues to remain relevant because the foundation was so strong. At times, the best heroes are the ones that simply want to assist and perhaps collect a few shiny gems along the way.
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