October, 1996. I was working at a video rental shop in Manchester, one of those video rental shops that only existed during video rental’s cool years. My boss Steve (named Steve for reasons he likely regretted later given his propensity for getting tattoos up and down his legs) kept catching me staring at Resident Evil’s cover while I was stocking shelves. “Take it home Friday,” he told me over the counter when we closed. “Don’t steal it and don’t tell the manager I’m letting employees take games.”
Friends and preview magazines (GamesTM, Sega Saturn Magazine, Next Generation ) I couldn’t afford had made sure I knew Resident Evil was big. “It’s super scary,” my friend Marcus said to me when previewing it. Yeah right, I thought. I played Doom. Monsters spraying everywhere. Shotguns! I even played a little Alone in the Dark on PC, but those polygonal boogiemen were silly looking. How scary can a PlayStation game be, anyway?
By the time Friday rolled around, I was trying to prepare myself for what would hopefully be scaretastic gameplay. Staying up late so my parents wouldn’t walk in on me and ask if I was “still playing those computer games.” Shutting off all the lights except for this desk lamp behind the TV to decrease glare on the screen. Plugging in headphones so I could hear every inch the characters walked. Grabbed my notebook too because I was used to writing down clues from clues while playing point-and-click adventure games.
Turns out I didn’t need to write anything down.
The live action intro didn’t bode well, though. Silly actors running around the woods in expensive suits like it was Spider-Man 2. Dialogue sounded like someone teaching themselves English by reading a tourist phrase book wrote it. Huge mansion in the background reminiscent of any cheap Egyptian-set English costume drama. So this is campy? If the game is anything like this cheesy intro, I shouldn’t be stressed.
Started playing proper and immediately opted to pick Jill Valentine because she apparently had more space in her inventory. Younger brain cared about these things way too much — this being indicative of some deep-seated issue of mine I shouldn’t probably delve into too deeply.
Turned around to walk and found myself completely lost on how to move Jill. Up always takes you forward no matter where you’re facing with these tank controls — unacceptable! Literally spun around like I was wasted half a dozen times before getting used to it. Would come back to haunt me in horror situations, but we’ll get to that. Anywho.
I basically led Jill around aimlessly through the Spencer Mansion, dumbfounded by how good everything looked. Pre-rendered backgrounds were astonishing. Big entry hall with huge staircase. Black and white zig-zag tile floor you’d find in some ritzy hotel. Cameras that didn’t move made each room feel like it was a shot lifted right out of an Hitchcock film. So quiet, too. Aside from Jill’s footsteps, there was only eerie ambiance giving you the slight sense of dread before something clearly dangerous jumped out.
Afraid, yes. But scared? Not yet.
Then I walked into a room.
Okay, fine. Led Jill Valentine into a room and had the realization of my life: How video games could manipulate your feelings. I am strolling down a corridor, narrow hallway with windows to my left. Moonlight beaming through casting large shadows across the floor. Nothing jumps out at me. Oh wait, no music sting or cartoon noise to signal danger. Only an oppressive silence that made my skin crawl more and more by the second that something just wasn’t right in this room. Camera angle shifts once I step into what I can only describe as a dining room. Nothing still. Feeling pretty cool.
Decide to cheque out a door on the opposite side of the room. The door groans open — HALP GAME IMMEDIATELY TRYING TO SCARE ME — and I’m at the top of another hallway. Darker, skinnier-feeling hallway. The camera stays fixed ahead of me as I walk forward, but the sound design shifts once we get further down the corridor. There is this squishing shuffling noise somewhere ahead of me walking slowly. Too quiet to really make out what it is, but definitely something…walking.
My finger pauses over the X button as I slowly came to realise my mouth had become dried up.
Then I saw him.
Re7 spoiler free description of zombie
There he was, literally one hill away from bumping into me but completely oblivious to my presence. Slowly turned to reveal he was eating — human brains, I might add — another S.T.A.R.S officer. It turns, slowly making its way towards me as the camera pulls back and reveals its mouth momentarily dripping with human brains. Slowly rises from his squat position and starts lurching towards the camera….towards me. Mechanical, Claus-reverse walking motions.
I literally dropped the controller.
No exaggeration. Both hands clamped around it like a life raft and suddenly — POOF — released for fear of getting burnt and it clattered onto my bedroom floor. Stared at the television for what felt like hours, but was probably only a minute or so as my heart pumped throughout my body and cold sweat beaded my forehead.
It was gaming’s first legitimately terrifying zombie scare. Whil yeah, by today’s standards it may be quaint. But at that moment in 1996, everything that walking undead dude did from his slow walk to the sound effects to the way the camera positioned you just screamed horror filmmaking. It wasn’t “scary for a video game” — it was legitimately scary, just like the best horror films I had watched were able to make me feel. And I was controlling it, which made it so much worse.
Almost slow motions walked away from him, textbook plot for horror games and movies teaching me not to run. Because once you start running, you’re probably doing something wrong. As I took my sweet time making my way to the next room, I knew I was playing something bigger than my 16-year-old self could have ever anticipated.
The Spencer Mansion alone is deserving of accolades as one of gaming’s most memorable settings. Within minutes of stepping into every room I was completely confused on where to go next, and each room played a part in tricking you into wandering aimlessly. Connected rooms that flowed perfectly from left to right and secrets hidden around every corner unlocking as you made your way through crazy puzzles. Rooms you could see but couldn’t access for long stretches of time teaching me how to properly chart my path. I ended up sketching the map out in my notebook, creating my own physical journal that would continue to get covered in puzzle hints, key item locations, and ROOMS WITH ZOMBIES WARNING signs.
A “world” in contemporary gaming has much larger budgets and can create massive levels for you to explore. Spencer Mansion felt BIG on a PlayStation, and still holds up today as one of the best formatted horror environments around. Instead of smoothing out the difficulty with better medicine supplies and magic spaces in your ammo pouch, Resident Evil almost dared you to explore. I still use lessons learned studying every nook and cranny of that mansion when designing horror levels today.
The saving mechanic made it even worse. Typewriters with ink ribbons you needed to insert before saving? Why would you do that? Why limit WHEN I can save?! And that’s the beauty of Resident Evil. Every ink ribbon became this coveted item that you couldn’t use too freely or you’d be risking everything you’ve accomplished. Ended up backtracking a lot to save rooms after scary encounters just to “play it safe,” only to second guess if it was safe to move forward or not. Amazing stress gameplay insert that dictated how you played.
Couldn’t play the whole thing in one sitting — ended around 3 AM that first night — but spent the entirety of exploring Mr. X’s dank, mouldy office space running on adrenaline induced panic. Every door crept opened with heartbeat accelerating excitement — love that loading screen that you could swear was them sucking all the air out of the room with suspense. Fixed camera angles allowed you to hear enemies sometimes before you could see them! Zombies shambling around corners. Clickity-clack of Hunters’ claws on marble floors. Resident Evil consumed all of your senses.
Night two, a friend of mine named Dave begged me to play it together. There’s something so satisfying about watching someone else get scared by something that you know is coming that Dave knew and I loved. He didn’t disappoint. Screamed when the zombie turned to him. So loudly that Mom walked upstairs two flights and asked if everything was okay. “It’s just a game, Mom.” Mom. You know Mom.
Spent the rest of the weekend trade shifting Dave and I. Solving puzzles together and watching each other die. Learning each other’s strategies and ruining puzzles for one another. Those statues in the main hall didn’t know what hit them. Armory filled with deadly lasers was our favorite. PIANO TUNNEL NO ONE COULD REMAKE. Dave was excellent at rationing his ammo, developing a run-by-all-that-move tactic that never even crossed my trigger-happy mind. Learned to survive together.
Dave and I couldn’t stop laughing at how absolutely stupid the puzzles were though. Keys shaped liked playing cards. Puzzle with the shields and armor killing you if you put them on incorrectly. Gem stones for certain statues. WHOLE AREA THAT WAS FULL OF GIANT PLANT. No stone of designing made one lick of sense as to why you had to do it let alone why it fit into the mansion’s architectural design. WHY IS THIS ROOM HERE?! But once you embraced its stupidity, it made you feel like you were actually dreaming — and when you start dreaming in horror games, you know things are dodgy.
Resident Evil’s voice acting and overall dialogue delivery was horrendous. And that was the point. “You were almost a Jill Sandwich!” has become arguably the most infamous line in gaming history. But Jill’s delivery was so passionate and downright goofy that you couldn’t help but laugh. Whoever the voice actor was for Wesker sound EXACTLY like he was playing a different game than everyone else. Deep, monotone voice that made every line he said as impactful as a Tweet telling you to “have a nice day!” SHOULD HAVE RUINED THE GAME. But it only added to this aura of discomfort you got playing.
Added stress came from inventory management. Limited amount of slots in your personal item grid. Do I take the shotgun? Or the extra herbs? Do I risk taking this puzzle piece if it means I’ll have less bullets? Resident Evil mastered horror through mechanism. Shocking you wasn’t just about what was put on screen, but the decisions you made that might lead to your downfall. Nowadays we’re spoiled by games that give us ludicrous amounts of ammo and resources. Resident Evil kept you on your toes by constantly stressing you out.
Another thing I learned by playing as Jill: Playing as Chris was entirely different experience. Chris starts with fewer slots in his inventory than Jill, couldn’t use the grenade launcher (my personal savior), but had twice the health my Jill did. Unique dialogue for both characters, slightly tweaked puzzles, and even unique areas provided TWO stories to experience in Resident Evil. YEARS before “hours of replayability” became a selling point on game covers, Resident Evil gave you a reason to replay right away.
Fast forward and you’ve got yourself the Tyrant. Once you think you’ve seen everything zombies can throw at you, including the faster moving Angry Reds, the mold-covered psychopath wearing Hunter claws came along and reset the terror. Saved during my first run through because I literally had to pause and collect myself.
Was thoroughly enjoying piecing together every journal I found once I stumbled across the underground lab and scope of what the hell Umbrella was really doing down there. Foolish nostalgia at the mansion made a turn for the sinister as I learned we were dealing with monsters in lab coats and not your average ghosts and phantoms. It sounded silly as I read throughout each journal, but kind of everything clicked.
We kicked Dave’s ass finishing that game. Sent poor stupid Dave home because we died on the same stupid maze puzzle THREE TIMES. Forgot to conserve our ammo during one too many harrowing zombie confrontations. Did NOT take the grenade launcher and so spent forever taking out too many individual zombies. Made it, though. When credits started rolling I collapsed onto my bed with my controller still in hand, drained by what I had just survived.
“It was….really scary game,” Dave uttered, repeating words Marcus told me months earlier. Only this time, I knew he was telling the truth. Resident Evil wasn’t scary “because you’re expecting it.” It scared me on a fundamental level. Fear of being trapped. Fear of running out of supplies. Fear of humanoid creatures that just WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAINS. Fear of big corporations playing God. Terrified me by giving me control of every aspect of horror and doling out stress at every corner. Resident Evil was horrifying.
I still jump every time someone mentions Spencer Mansion. Still know that map like I walked through it myself. Still hesitate before opening doors in horror games, wondering how long that door animation will take and what’s waiting to kill me on the other side. Some games will fade over the years as technology and graphics improve. Resident Evil will forever be burned into my memory as the game that cemented what scares should feel like.
Isn’t that what we all crave from good horror? Not jump scares. Not blood splatter coming out of every mechanical humanoid you encounter. When you play a game and reach that one moment that makes you forget about everything else? Where you forget you’re even PLAYING a game. Sweet relief of true, unmanufactured terror taking over your body. For a few seconds there, I wasn’t holding a controller. I wasn’t staring at a TV screen filled with polygons and textures. I was just there, standing in that hallway, waiting for a damn zombie to slowly turn around and spot me.
David runs a pub in Bristol and has transformed his back room into a functional shrine to arcade cabinets and early home systems. By night he writes about arcade culture, MAME emulation ethics, and why certain games simply feel different on original hardware versus emulation. He brings a perspective that matters: he owns these machines, maintains them, and plays them regularly, rather than just holding memories of them. His technical knowledge of arcade hardware is matched only by his ability to explain why authenticity genuinely matters to the experience.
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