RANDOM GAME # 4
I’m getting too old for this shit.
Years of physically demanding work, rotating shifts, and chronic sleep deprivation have taken their toll. Somewhere in my forties, my body stopped keeping pace with my mind. My instincts are still there—but my reflexes aren’t. As a gamer, that makes classic arcade difficulty a problem. I see the bullet coming. I just don’t move in time.
Which is why I’m grateful that Konami’s Contra Anniversary Collection includes a save-anywhere feature. Some call it cheating. For me, it’s an accessibility option. I’ve tried playing Contra “properly,” and I don’t think I can beat it. Even after sporadic practice, I never made it halfway.
Using saves, I finally reached the ending. Relief followed—briefly. Then doubt.
This isn’t a traditional review. It’s more a rumination on difficult games, using Contra as the example everyone already knows.
Contra is a masterclass in design. The controls are razor-sharp, the scrolling smooth, the levels inventive. The game constantly reinvents itself—jungle, base interior, waterfall—sometimes mid-level, without ever breaking its core mechanics. The bosses are tough but fair. The music is unforgettable. I’ve been humming the jungle theme all week, for obvious reasons.
The problem isn’t difficulty. It’s punishment.
You die in one hit. You lose all weapon upgrades. You start with three lives and limited continues. Fail enough, and you’re back at the beginning. Every mistake sends you straight to the jungle again.
The screen is never safe. Enemies come from every direction. Cannons track you relentlessly. Rockets fragment. Traps appear without mercy. Even gravity is hostile. Miss a jump and fall off-screen—even where a ledge should exist—and you’re dead.
Your mind never rests. You must watch every corner of the screen at all times. The game demands perfection, continuously.
Weapon pickups are your only lifeline. The spread shot is divine; the others situational. Temporary invincibility offers brief mercy. You can shoot in eight directions—though oddly, not straight down without jumping—while some enemies seem capable of far more.
The save feature removes the biggest obstacle: restarting from scratch. But it also removes the tension. Without risk, Contra becomes a short, competent run-and-gun—impressive to observe, but emotionally flat. And tension is the entire point.
The joy of games like this lies in catharsis: learning patterns, mastering jumps, overcoming impossible odds. I learned to appreciate that through Demon’s Souls. The release when you finally succeed is indescribable.
Saving strips Contra of that release.
In theory, I should be able to memorize everything. Enemy placements, weapon drops, boss patterns—they’re simple. But with hundreds of untouched games waiting, I have to ask myself: is the time investment worth it? Weeks of practice for a few seconds of bliss and the right to brag?
I’m not convinced.
I’ve come to accept my role with retro games as an archaeologist, not a conqueror. I’ve seen all of Contra. I admire its design deeply. But the admiration is intellectual, and Contra isn’t meant to be played that way. It’s meant to grab you by the throat.
So here’s my conflicted conclusion: giving me the option to beat Contra does not make it a better game. It turns a potentially transcendent experience into a sterile examination. Informative, impressive—and emotionally hollow.
Hard games should be allowed to remain hard. And sometimes, failing to beat them is simply the price we pay for arriving too late.
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