A memorable villain in a game can be a powerful force. Players can learn to hate them, fear them, or even pity them.  Everyone who has played Final Fantasy VI remembers Kefka, and any StarCraft player in the world probably has a firm opinion on the Queen of Blades. The big villains – the bosses – have a lot going for them when it comes to memorability: the story usually revolves around them, they usually get the most epic battles, and quite often they get the best graphical treatment, too.

But what about the little guys?  What about the endless underlings the player crushes on their journey to the Big Bad?  What makes those guys memorable?

Consider, for a moment, the humble Goomba.  Almost anyone who has had contact with video games over the past 25 years can probably identify one in an instant, most likely right down to even knowing their name.  Even those that might not know the name still know they are “the little mushroom men from Mario” (as my father has called them). Koopa Troopas fall into that same category.  Heck, most of the enemies from the Mario series fall into that category.  But why?

For the Mario cast, much of it comes down to longevity and repetition.  Goombas and Koopas and the like have been harassing gamers for over two decades, remaining relatively constant throughout.  Though there have been subtle changes to their looks over the years, they remain easily identifiable, even after the jump from 2d to 3d.  Add to that plenty of out-of-game marketing of the characters, from cartoon appearances to plush toys, and you’ve got the makings of some pretty iconic underlings. So while the Mario minions have a lot going in their favor, what about all the other game baddies that stick in our minds, regardless of repetition or merchandising?  What turns a low-level baddie into something that stays with us, sucking up precious memory space?

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To celebrate today’s 25th birthday of the Nintendo Entertainment system, we at Spectacle Rock would like to share some of our earliest memories of the system that, without argument, had a huge effect on all of our lives.

Jeff Feeser:

1985.  I was six years old.  The year was a formative year for me, not so much in terms of physical growth, although that was surely happening; and not in terms of mental growth, although that was surely happening as well.  1985 was the first year in that it was one of the first years I can really remember starting to pay attention to pop culture.  My parents had finally decided I was old enough to start watching movies, and my father, bless his heart, decided that he would show me Star Wars on VHS, and when it came out later that year, allow me to see Back to the Future.  I had already been watching He-Man for years, and the Intellivision was a mainstay in our living room.  However, the games for that venerable system had started to become long in the tooth, and even at the age of 6 I was starting to feel like some of the games that were new on the shelf were just rehashes of games I had already played.  My videogame curmudgeon-dom had already begun, and I hadn’t even hit puberty yet.  At that young age, it didn’t even occur to me that new systems were on the horizon.

That was when my cousin brought over his new “Nintendo Entertainment System”.

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This past weekend, my wife and I packed up all of our belongings into a series of increasingly heavy boxes, paid some dudes to carry it all down the four flights of stairs from our current apartment and load it into a truck, and unload it all into our new home.  As I sat on the floor of our new living room, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, trying to figure out where to a particular lamp was, I looked around at the strange new walls that surrounded me and realized, “This is my home now.”

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I remember the day Master of Orion III came out. After heading off to the mall during lunch, I returned to work, bag in hand, and ripped open the package in the car. Tucking the game itself safely under the seat, I stealthily smuggled the manual into my office where I proceeded to read it, a few pages at a time, as soon as the opportunity arose.

While I would eventually learn that the game itself left a lot to be desired, the manual was, on its own, a delight:  Long passages about the history of the Master of Orion universe, plenty of shots of all of the game’s interfaces, and discussions of strategy as you made your way through the game. I read the manual twice that afternoon, and as soon as I got home, it found a place on my bookshelf, among a collection of others.

For a lot of people, the moment they get a new game in their possession, they race home, tear off the shrink wrap, and pop it into their systems to get playing.  For me, however, there is always that one critical step in between: reading the manual.

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The hillside is rough; bare rock protrudes through the ground between patches of scrubby grass.  Despite this, the trees grow thick here, their roots sunk deep into tilted earth, holding on with all their might.  From below, it looked like finding a safe path upward was impossible, but a thorough search revealed a narrow but well-worn animal trail winding a convoluted path towards the top.  The climb is slow, but the top grows ever closer.

With a final burst of energy, you reach the crown and are taken aback by what lay before you – a lake, as blue as the sky above, stretches from just below you towards the forest on the distant hills.  In the center of the lake stands a lone island, ringed with trees, and in the center of that island stands a shrine of whitest stone, its columns radiant in the noonday sun.  From the road below, you would have had no idea such a place existed, but now it beckons to you from across the calm water.

Looks like it’s time for a swim.

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