After visiting the Vancouver Retro Gaming Expo, I keep asking myself the same question:
What’s the purpose of it all?
Sure, part of it’s just fun. But mostly, it comes down to whether I can actually share something I love—or not. Let me explain.
I’m just as into music. I listen to vinyl every day with my daughter. Easy to share: put on a record, and people get it.
Same with photography. Snap a picture, share it. Instant enjoyment.
Video games? Not so much. The barrier to entry is just so damn high.
First, you need the hardware—not just any hardware, but often something specific.
Then you need the software. Sometimes you can stream it, but streaming usually sucks. I’ve tried—multiple times. Even with 2Gbps at home, the latency ruins it. So you’re left with physical media or downloading everything locally.
And even if you’ve got all that, there’s still a dilemma. On consoles, the game might be optimized, but unless it’s exclusive, it’s rarely the “definitive” experience. On PC, you can get the definitive version, but you’re always tweaking, chasing that ideal.
And what even is “definitive”? Is it keyboard and mouse on a monitor? Gamepad on a TV? Handheld in bed? Everyone’s experience is different, and unless you find someone with the exact same setup, yours is unique. As a PC gamer, finding that overlap is rare.
I’d love for gaming to be more social, but because of who I am, I mostly play solo campaigns—except with family, who’ve been good sports about it.
I’ve tried dragging friends into gaming. I’ve even gifted games and hardware. Never works. I get it.
Online, I talk about games I love, review hidden gems, try to explain why certain things matter to me. But my taste has veered so far from the mainstream—not because I’m a contrarian. I’ve never played StarCraft, WoW, or Dota. Not because I think they suck. I’ll probably love them when I do get around to it. Like how I finally tried Oblivion this year and loved it, despite hating the older Elder Scrolls games.
But I have a whole library of games I wish got more attention—not because I want them canonized, but just because I want to talk about what makes me happy.
And honestly, the sad thing is, if something never enters the “canon,” it’ll probably die in obscurity.
Which brings me to something sort of related: the older I get, the more things I love disappear. The diner I used to visit? Gone. My elementary school? Demolished.
As a kid, I loved those candy cigarettes that puffed out powdered “smoke.” They don’t exist anymore—nobody wants to encourage kids to smoke, and that’s fine, but I remember them. They were a core part of my childhood.
All these things—I can’t share them anymore.
But I can still talk about old video games. I can’t play arcade games in a convenience store with Slurpee cups and magazines everywhere. I don’t own a 386 with a ball mouse. But I can still play those games, talk about them, and build new memories—ones I’ll remember with my grandkids someday.
Eventually, all of it will go away. That’s life. It’s impermanent.
But there’s still purpose in all of it. We’re social by nature. And there’s something magical about transmitting meaning from one person to another.
Even if it’s just about a damn video game.
