Big Picture Mode

Industry issues given the widescreen treatment

Nathan Brown builds a fort of game cases to escape a baby

Another child is on the way. Don’t worry: we’ve still a few months to go before I write up the no-brainer New Game+ column, and another few months after that before I sink into a profound despair for a couple of years. But Mrs Nathan, ever the eager planner, is already deep into the nesting process – and the looming prospect of more hellspawn made flesh means we need to clear some space. Okay, I need to clear some space.

I am a terrible hoarder. The DVDs went to charity years ago; they were easy enough to get rid of, to be honest. I’ve had a couple of good prunes of the record collection, though I’ll be lugging most of that into the nursing home because some of them are just too important. The CDs went into wallets a while back, the cases boxed up in the loft. Now there is only really one thing left. Videogames, your time has come.

First I had to set a few ground rules. While cases would be going to the tip, all discs would go into wallets and we’d probably just have to find somewhere for the cartridges. The consoles were safe. But I’d have a good cull of the controllers and cables at some point. (I recently took umbrage at a friend who’d binned his random cable collection, thinking a man can never be without something of which he finds himself in need. Then I was asked to find something specific and, two hours later, I realised: it is definitely possible to have too many cables.)

So the plan ran thus: alphabetising, by format, my collection of disc-based games from the PS1 era onwards, putting discs into wallets, inlay artwork to one side in case I fancy doing something dumb with them later in life, instruction manuals in the recycling and the cases in boxes, ready for a trip to the tip. What I got from it was a thoroughly pleasant, if gently back-breaking, Sunday afternoon trip down memory lane – and more than a few surprises on the way.

I found that, like with my record collection, I could remember where, when and often even why I bought a certain game. An Edge review, a forum recommendation, a bad day at work, a stop in HMV on the way home from the pub; we hold games dear to our hearts in the same way we do songs, because they are indelibly linked with our own histories. Whoever said smell was the most nostalgic thing never bought Tony

Hawk’s Pro Skater from the Cheapside branch of VShop one Friday lunchtime then spent the whole weekend playing it, red-eyed, with their best friend.

Yet what really struck me about this little exercise was the way it helped me chart the course of the slow death of physical media. The inserts you used to get back then! The best was in Gran Turismo, a glossy doublesider that first trumpeted the features of the analogue Dual Shock (two words!) and on the other side extolled the virtues of the PlayStation memory card (“Big enough to hold 600 cars. Small enough to fit in your pocket”). A variation appeared in firstparty PS2 games, though the use of minor characters from Jak And Daxter didn’t quite exert the same pull.

The real stars, however, were the manuals. Most went straight on the recycling pile without a second thought, but there was magic here, a reminder of a time when people actually thought about these things. The We

Love Katamari manual is laid out like a kid’s picture book, explaining the Quick Turn manoeuvre with a picture of a yellow monster and the words, “Oh no! It’s The Bogeyman!!! Run away!!!”

Rockstar’s manual-makers were the kings, though. They began with GTAIII’s ‘Welcome to Liberty City’ booklet, and after that just took the idea and ran with it. Vice City’s tourist pamphlet, San Andreas’ local-business guide, Episodes From Liberty City’s anniversary edition of an underground magazine; Canis

Canem Edit’s was a welcome brochure for new students. Then there was GTAV’s. Eight pages. A diagram of the controller layout, the EULA, a link to the online manual, and then nothing but sadness.

That little journey sums up the day. The closer I got to the current generation, the less wistful I was. I’ve probably played more games in the past five years than I did in the 30 previous ones, so perhaps it’s natural that I don’t feel quite the same emotional attachment to them. Maybe games just aren’t as good these days. Or perhaps parenthood has left me an emotionally barren husk of a man who’s no longer able to feel anything. God, I can’t believe I’m having another one.

I had a thoroughly pleasant, if gently back-breaking, Sunday afternoon trip down memory lane