Christmas 1985 was supposed to be the year of the bike I’d been eyeing for months — I’d been dropping hints left and right, circling the red Schwinn in the Sears catalogue, scribbling little reminders everywhere for my parents to buy it. But instead, my parents bought me a Sega Master System because it was on sale at Kay-Bee Toys, and they thought all video games were the same. What a great mistake on their part.
The Master System came with Alex Kidd in Miracle World already installed, which was fine because I liked Alex almost as much as I liked Mario. I’d spend that whole winter break figuring out Alex’s odd punching system, and those rock-paper-scissors boss fights that made no sense at all but fit perfectly into the framework of the game. This was my introduction to platformers, and I fell deeply in love with the idea of jumping on things.
Now that I look back, I think these eight games helped rewire my brain in ways that I still don’t fully appreciate today. I think the pattern recognition, timing, and perseverance needed to master platformers became ingrained in my thinking in ways that I’ll always carry with me. Whenever I teach high school history and I have a student complain that they can’t remember the timeline of the Civil War, I think back to the timing for the moving platforms in Ice Man’s stage, but I never say that to them. I’m a pro.
Super Mario Bros. eventually made its way to the Master System as part of some strange licensing deal that I never understood and still don’t, but when it arrived, everything changed. The first Goomba in World 1-1 taught me more about game design than four years of playing Alex Kidd. The physics of Mario were perfect – his momentum, the variable jump height, the slight slide when he stopped running – all of these elements created a language of platforming that defined the genre.
I remember having my friend Mike over and watching him play through Super Mario Bros. without using warps. This was probably 1987, and beating Super Mario Bros. “the right way” was still seen as an accomplishment. When I finally defeated Bowser in 8-4, my hands were so sweaty the controller kept slipping. Mike was providing a play-by-play commentary of my gameplay like he was calling a sports event: “Fire bars are down, GO GO GO!” When that bridge finally collapsed and the Princess gave her thanks, we both cheered like we had won the World Series.
But it was Super Mario Bros. 3 that made me realise platformers weren’t simply about getting from Point A to Point B — they were about mastery, discovery, and creative problem-solving. I had to buy the Genesis version of this game… just kidding, that never happened. I had to watch Super Mario Bros. 3 at my cousin’s house every weekend because he had the Nintendo, and I was stuck in the Sega camp. The raccoon tail power-up blew my mind. Flying in a 2D platformer? Level design that taught you mechanics gradually without ever feeling like a tutorial? This was the beginning of a new era.
The world map alone revolutionized the experience. I could see where I had progressed, I could pick my own route, I could find hidden secret areas. My cousin and I kept a notebook tracking all the warp whistle locations and the hidden coin ships. That notebook became legendary in our neighborhood – kids would literally ask to borrow it as if it was homework. Before the internet, gamers relied on this type of community knowledge-sharing, and I loved being part of it.
Then Sonic showed up, and suddenly being a Sega fan was cool rather than weird. The first time I played Sonic the Hedgehog at the mall kiosk, I knew Sega had done something special. While Mario was precise and deliberate, Sonic was pure momentum and attitude. The physics were entirely different – based on speed, rewarding flow over planning. This wasn’t simply “Mario but faster”; this was a completely new philosophy of movement.
Sonic 2 perfected everything the original game had begun. Chemical Plant Zone was and remains one of the most intense and exciting platforming experiences ever created – the purple water sections where you frantically searched for air bubbles while the deadly liquid rose up behind you. Pure panic was translated into the gameplay mechanics. I must have played through that level hundreds of times, and it still gives me chills.
The addition of the spin dash in Sonic 2 added a new layer of movement that felt truly revolutionary. Building momentum from a dead stop opened up new and innovative ways to design levels. And Tails! An AI partner that helped, but didn’t die, allowed my younger sister to “play” with me without the frustration of constantly losing lives. This was a major breakthrough for family-friendly gaming.
Reaching the end of Sonic 2 and fighting the final robot with zero rings was the ultimate test of pattern recognition and execution. No power-ups, no safety net, just pure skill. When I finally defeated the robot after probably fifty attempts, I yelled loudly enough that our neighbour Mrs. Peterson knocked on the door to cheque if everything was alright. Try explaining to an older lady that you’re emotionally overwhelmed after defeating a cartoon robot.
It was during this time that I discovered Mega Man 2 at a friend’s house, and it introduced me to a completely new way to design challenges within a platformer. The selection screen for the Robot Masters was genius – allowing you to select any one to fight, and therefore use any one’s power-up, was a true innovation. If you were stuck on one boss, you could always go fight someone else, acquire their power-up, and then come back to defeat the first boss. This was problem-solving disguised as entertainment.
Compared to Mario or Sonic, the controls in Mega Man 2 were very restrictive – fixed jump heights, constant speed, etc. However, the strictness was perfectly suited to the precision-based design. Success in Mega Man 2 was not based on physics or momentum, but on timing and placement. Those disappearing blocks in Dr. Wily’s castle taught me more about persistence and recognising patterns than any inspirational poster has ever told me.
Quick Man’s stage, with those instant-death laser beams, was basically a class in memorization and timing. You couldn’t possibly react quickly enough – you had to memorize where every beam would appear and when. Each time I defeated that level felt like graduating from some sort of advanced gaming school. There was no luck involved in earning that success – it was earned solely through repetition and improving.
When Donkey Kong Country came to the Super Nintendo, I was still stuck in Sega-land but managed to play it at a friend’s house. The pre-rendered graphics of the game looked like they were from the future – I remember leaning in close to the television trying to figure out how they had gotten that realistic fur texture on DK. But the graphics were not just for show – they greatly improved the overall design of 2D platforming.
Mine Cart Carnage was the level that separated the casual gamer from the serious gamer. The relentless pace of the carts combined with the precise jumping to avoid the broken rails and gaps in the tracks was thrilling and terrifying at the same time. My friend Chris and I developed a system where the non-player character would act as a spotter, warning the player about incoming dangers. “JUMP! GAP GAP GAP!” became our panic language.
The barrel cannon mechanic in DKC added a new timing factor that was unlike anything else. You had to time your launches from the cannons perfectly to reach the next cannon or platform. Missing the timing by a few frames and you would fall to your death. There was something beautiful in this combination of skill and rhythm that no other platformer had attempted.
Super Mario 64 was the game that led me to believe I needed to own a Nintendo console along with my Sega consoles. The first time I controlled Mario in 3D – running in circles around Princess Peach’s castle simply because I could – was a revelation. The camera system in Mario 64 was not perfect (lakitu was a pain), but it solved many problems that none of us knew existed.
The movement options in Mario 64 greatly expanded the platforming vocabulary. Triple jump, long jump, back flip, wall jump – each option had its own uses and mastering all of them was required for 100% completion. I spent hours in the castle courtyard practicing these moves and finding the limits of what was possible. When I discovered I could chain a long jump into a dive and ground-pound to cover massive distances, it felt like I was exploiting the game in the best way possible.
Collecting all 120 stars in Mario 64 became my obsession for most of 1997. I made a physical checklist and crossed off each star as I collected it. My mom began asking if “my little plumber friend” had rescued the Princess yet, in that special tone that parents use when their children are spending too much time playing video games. The Rainbow Ride 100-coin star was my holy grail, and it took me thirty attempts before I finally claimed it.
Banjo-Kazooie was the culmination of everything 3D platforming had learned by the late 90s. It took Mario 64’s collect-a-thon and turned it into a more structured and content rich experience. The bear and bird duo provided movement options that built upon the foundation of Mario 64 – the high jump, the glide, the various attacks, all felt like logical extensions of previously established mechanics.
Click Clock Wood was arguably one of the most ambitious level designs in gaming history. One area, experienced through four different seasons, each with their own unique challenges and collectibles. Click Clock Wood rewarded awareness of the environment and attention to detail in ways that amazed me. I made a notebook documenting the seasonal changes in the area, creating reference guides to ensure I didn’t miss anything.
In retrospect, I’m struck by how each of these eight games contributed something fundamental to the platforming language. Mario provided the basic structure of movement. Sonic added the concept of speed and momentum. Mega Man introduced the ability to solve problems through tools. DKC added environmental variety and visual innovation. Mario 64 translated everything to three-dimensional space. Crash maintained the challenge of 3D space. Rayman focused on art and creativity. Banjo-Kazooie put all of these lessons together.
This was not just an evolutionary process technologically – it was an evolving idea of what games could be. Early platformers were mostly challenge-based, requiring quick reflexes and good timing. As the genre developed, exploration, collecting items, and storytelling became just as important. The transition from linear levels to open worlds mirrored my own personal growth from a child to a young adult, and my increasing desire for autonomy and self-directed experience.
These games taught me persistence in ways that likely molded my personality for life. The specific timing for those auto-scrolling airships in Mario 3, anticipating cannonball trajectories, and jumping slightly before I thought I should – modern games often smooth out these rough edges, but I think there was value in that stubborn precision. They didn’t adapt to you; you adapted to them.
Each of these platformers established a vocabulary that influenced nearly every game that followed. Dual-analog controls in modern games owe a debt to camera solutions developed by 3D platformers. Open-world design owes a debt to the exploration possibilities established by Mario 64 and Banjo-Kazooie. Even the concept of “flow state” in game design was being developed through the momentum-based movement of Sonic and the precision jumping of Mario.
From that Christmas morning in 1985 with my Master System to the turn of the century, these games taught me about timing, perseverance, exploration, and the sheer joy of movement. They certainly entertained me, but they also educated me – teaching me about physics, problem-solving, and curiosity in ways that would benefit me far beyond the boundaries of those pixelated worlds. The pattern recognition I used to try and memorize Mega Man boss battles? Has proven to be incredibly helpful when teaching history.
The perseverance I used to collect 120 stars in Mario 64? Is quite applicable to grading papers and dealing with administrators.
I do not regret one second I spent mastering these games. They shaped not only my gaming preferences, but my actual cognitive development – teaching me skills and attitudes that will remain a permanent aspect of myself. Modern games are incredible, but there was something special about the time period when platformers were developing the foundational language of interactive entertainment. We were all learning together – developers, players, the medium itself – and these eight games represent the turning points when it all began to click.
Elena is a librarian in Dublin with an encyclopedic knowledge of obscure European computer games that most English-language gaming sites completely ignore. She champions forgotten systems—the Commodore 16, the Spectrum 128K, the Atari ST’s untapped potential—with infectious enthusiasm and genuine expertise. Her writing documents regional exclusives and hidden gems that barely made it to print before the companies folded, preserving gaming history that would otherwise disappear entirely. She approaches retro gaming as cultural preservation, not mere nostalgia.
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