I remember opening my Christmas presents in 1998. I was 21 years old, driving home from Arizona State University for winter break and wondering what games I’d be getting. Little did I know that my parents had bought me a PlayStation and Spyro the Dragon. “You’ve been talking about that purple dragon game,” my mom informed me. I don’t think I had outright said I wanted it to anyone, but I suppose my sighing in fondness while paging through GamePro magazines at our kitchen table gave me away.
Fast forward (or should I say — rewind?) to Christmas Day 1998. For reference — I was a Sega fanboy growing up (and really until this day). I had a fully rigged out Saturn in my dorm room at ASU and couldn’t understand how Sony completely obliterated Sega with a surprise price cut one month before our flagship consoles were set to release. Regardless, I wasn’t going to turn down free gaming system.
I spent Christmas Day assembling my new PlayStation in our basement while everyone else was passed out from eating too much turkey and whipped up my copy of Spyro for the first time.
Gameplay and music hit me instantly. The startup jingle was unlike anything I had heard on my Sega Saturn. It wasn’t better, but it sounded different. When the dragons introduced themselves on TV and explained how they needed to defeat the dastardly Gnasty Gnorc, I’ll be honest with you: my initial reaction was, “Man, this is gonna suck compared to all these consoles I already have.”
Boy was I wrong.
The moment I got control of Spyro to explore the first world, I was sold. This little guy flew differently than any other game I had ever played in 3D. Keep in mind I was pretty versed in 3D gaming at this point– I played NiGHTS into Dream in 1996. Played Star Wars Arcade, Burning Rangers, Batman Forever, Samurai Shodown, and just about every first-party PlayStation exclusive I could borrow from friends houses growing up. Spyro felt like he had heft to him. He leaned into turns. His tail cocked back. Those little short legs scrabbled greedily for anything he could glide on. Characters flew like robots in games in 1998. Spyro acted like a literal dragon.
My friend Mike came over the next day and begged me to play with him – he was one of the select few who sided with Sony and bought a PlayStation over my beloved Saturn, so we constantly had friendly debates over whose system was better, but he was loaded with games I had never checked out. “Yo, try the charging technique” Mike says. Suddenly, I’m zooming around these wonderful worlds at high speeds, charging forward and catapulting off of ramps. The glide mechanic was genius. Every time you led yourself off a platform you knew you didn’t have enough magic to reach the next checkpoint, but if you time it just right and hold your glide button – Spyro would stretch his wings out and soar past what you thought was possible.
Mike and I spent the next few days experimenting with Spyro’s movements. “Who cares if we complete the levels? Let’s see how far we can charge-jump-glide!” We’d laugh as we failed to reach platforms we were sure we could land on. Meanwhile, Mike had beaten the game weeks prior, but was more than happy to replay with me and constantly exclaim “Whoa! I’ve never tried jumping from here before!” If your game has players who beat it coming back to mess around in your worlds just to see how they can move around – you’ve done something right.
Rescuing each dragon added another layer I didn’t know I needed. Each dragon was trapped in crystals and had their own unique personality upon your rescuing them. Some would provide helpful tips. Others would simply offer thanks and fly away. There were even a couple that seemed outright confused as to what was happening to them as you broke their prisons. I found myself grading each one in my head. “Useful dragon.” “Pointless dragon.” “Dragon who clearly was not paying attention during the monster attack and is obviously to blame.” Completely absurd, I know. But as it turns out, I was developing quirky friendships with pocket-sized dragons.
Each world was magnificent to explore. Coming from Sega games that were capped by texture limitations and not wanting to overload your system’s processing power, Spyro’s worlds were indulgent. Each area felt different from the last. Whether it was the medieval theme of Artisans, or floating platforms and mystical creatures of Magic Crafters, or even the swampy grotesque nature of Beast Makers. Everything you looked at was breathtakingly colorful and detailed. Even the draw distance impressed me. The Saturn definitely taught me to not look too far away from where my character was currently positioned because the system couldn’t render things far away from you and would simply fill the space with fog. But with Spyro, I could see miles ahead and plan my trajectory on how to reach these floating platforms.
But none of that would matter without Stewart Copeland’s unforgettable soundtrack. Sure, I knew who he was. Legendary drummer for The Police. Terribly talented songwriter and musician. But this soundtrack spoke for itself. Each area had their own musical theme that was played whenever you explored them. They were not background music that you could ignore. Each song made a world feel more immersive. Battle Rock had you wanting to speed through levels. The surreal instruments in Dream Weavers. Even traveling underwater had a unique muffled sound to the music that technically felt like an achievement.
I’ll never forget humming these tunes while walking to classes. I got some pretty strange looks from students who didn’t know who Green Day was, but playing videogames. I didn’t care. These were fantastic songs that were written for a videogame, not annoying noise to mask silence.
Gem collecting was such a cathartic experience. Every time you picked one up, they would inhale you with a sparkles effect and your gem counter would increase. It was specially designed to get you obsessed with reaching 100% completion. I would jet through entire worlds thinking I had searched every nook and cranny for gems, only to look down at my percentage and see I was missing quite a few. “Where did they go?! How did I miss gems? !”, became my daily mantra. Eventually I would find that hidden cave or platform that would require some insane serie of glides to reach, but god was it worth it.
Your dragonfly companion Sparx was a wonderful illustration of game design disguised as a cute companion animal. He served as your health metre, as well as a gem collector. But damn did I grow attached to that little bug. There was never any dialogue from Sparx, nor did he do anything for you gameplay wise aside from change colours when taking damage. Yet, when Sparx flew away because I died from touching an enemy, it made the worlds feel more dangerous. Not because I was closer to death, but because my lil buddy was gone.
Combat was straight forward — either charge or breathe fire. However each enemy had different attacks that would require specific techniques to defeat them. Metal enemies could only be destroyed by fire, as charging would bounce right off them. Fast enemies were susceptible to charges. Some enemies could only be hit from certain angles. Audio also helped sell it as well. That satisfying whoosh when charging, the “fwoosh” of my fiery inferno, and the tiny squeak when an enemy was defeated. Two decades later and I can STILL hear those sounds in my head.
I remember one night, waking up in my dorm room — it was Saturday and my roommate went home for the weekend so I took my new PS down to our common room TV. I had decided that night I was going to beat the game. Period. Carb loaded on Pizza Rolls and Powerade and set out to conquer each level with 100% completion. Hours must have passed because I looked at the clock and it was 3AM. When you lose track of time because you’re playing something enjoyable, you know you’ve done something right.
Boss battles honestly weren’t anything groundbreaking — mainly flying around as a giant enemy and shooting at it – but who cared? Spyro didn’t need to cater to anyone but us, the players. It was about exploration and discovery. Each boss felt rewarding because you were always on the pursuit of one. The final battle with Gnasty Gnorc himself wasn’t his most memorable feat — in fact, the bus ride pursuing him across the world was more iconic than defeating him – but served its purpose.
I ended up buying Ripto’s Rage when it released a year later — shockingly still a Sega fanboy at the time. But Spyro 2 expanded on everything its predecessor did right. Swimming? Cheque. Climbing? Cheque. Additional side-stuff to do? DOUBLE Cheque. Along with rescuing dragons, you were helping out NPCs with tasks they needed completed. This provided further incentive as to why you were duking it out with these enemies, aside from “because the game tells you to.”
Great game, but I missed the simplistic style of “Rescue dragons, collect gems, grab tthe magic flying monkey talisman item, and get to the next world” gameplay.
Dragon’s Year was released the following year in 2000 and concluded the original trilogy. Along with Spyro, you unlocked additional playable characters as you rescued their fellow dragons. From Sheila the Kangaroo, to Sgt. Byrd, to my personal favorite — Bentley the Yeti. Each character was fun to play as, but I always felt as if the series strayed farther away from what made it great with each additional hero. Sometimes you just want to be a small purple dragon flying through the air collecting gems and breathing balls of fire. I understand Insomniac wanted to switch things up and give players more options, but all of these side games and additional characters felt like they took away from the original formula. Don’t get me wrong — they were fun as hell to play. I’m just biased towards my little dragon.
What set Spyro apart from other PlayStation mascots like Crash Bandicoot? Options. Crash levels were creatively designed rail carts — gorgeously designed corridors you travelled through, but cabinets nonetheless. Spyro gave you open worlds to traverse however you pleased. See a platform miles away? You decided how you wanted to get there. Or just run around slamming into sheep because it was hilarious. Crash was linear; Spyro was open-ended.
Insomniac Games literally squeezed every last bit of juice out of the 1998 PlayStation. Draw distances were impressive when other games would simply fill in space with fog. Colour palettes were vibrant when other platforms were brown and bland. Loading screens didn’t take you out of your experience. The camera was forgiving and rarely got in your way. None of these things are groundbreaking now, but back then, Insomniac Studios were dipping from a technological honey pot.
I’ve replayed all 3 of those games more times than I can count, even going as far as playing through the entire trilogy again through the Reignited Trilogy remasters. Having all these games rebuilt with modern day graphics was cool, but holy cow did Toys for Bob remember the ins and outs of what made these games so great. But they also filled in so many details that the original hardware just couldn’t support. Letting players toggle between old and new music was such a great addition to the game. It was Insomniac and Toys for Bob saying “we know you came for Spyro, but don’t forget about Stewart Copeland.”
Playing through these games again made me realise how different they all are from modern titles. Microtransactions? Didn’t exist. DLC? Where did you think those gems came from?! Leaderboards? Did anyone care how many gems you collected compared to your friends?! Social Features? Please. You explored these worlds at your own will. Beat the game in 10 hours? Cool. Spend 100 hours looking for every last gem? Be my guest. They were only as long as they needed to be. No junk side quests to pad out gameplay. No need to grind for health upgrades or gems.
I think Spyro was a huge success because he was an unlikely hero. He didn’t have the world plagued by sharks. He didn’t suddenly find out he was the chosen one. He was just doing the right thing because someone had to. And guess what? He was good at it. His smaller stature than your typical video game hero also gave him an underdog vibe. This tiny dragon taking on guys taller than he could reach by outsmarting them and buliding off his charm, not strength.
Spyro felt like a videogame at a time where gaming was transitioning. We were getting introduced to 3D platformers, but hadn’t yet became obsessed with AAA movie experiences and games that hooked you to the internet. People love to bash mascot games as puppets for corporate money-making, but Spyro had just enough charisma and quality to break that stigma.
My old PlayStation died years ago, but I still have all three of my original Spyro games on CDs in a special case with other games that shaped my gaming history. Every so often I’ll pull them out and stare at the box art, reminiscing about that Christmas break, spending sleepless nights beating each level of Dragon’s Lair in the dorm common room. About a year or two ago, my nephew was staying over and I popped his copy of Reignited Trilogy in for him. It was incredible seeing someone discover Spyro for the first time. That wide-eyed amazement when he nailed his first glide. “DID YOU SEE THAT JUMP? !”, we would exclaim together. Gaming has truly come a long way since 1998, but the foundational magic of piloting a cute lil dragon through vibrant environments hasn’t changed.
Video games have drastically evolved over the years — graphics are practically photo-realistic, stories have become more sophisticated, and we went from offline coop experiences to wanting everything online. But every once in a while, I just want to jump around as Spyro, collecting gems and listening to Copeland’s immaculate soundtrack. In a world filled with gaming franchises that focus on bigger and bigger explosions and obscurities – Spyro will forever be the simplistic gem we can all enjoy.
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