It’s Summer 2005. I’m on my way to my grandparent’s place in Buffalo, New York. I’m crammed in the car with the rest of my family as we barrel through our 5 hour long drive. At this point I’m either yapping away about random nonsense or playing Yoshi’s Island on my silver GBA SP. But quickly something else catches my attention: trumpets. I look over to my brother and see him playing this game. I watch him run through Hoenn and experience a grand adventure as those iconic 32-bit horns sang endlessly. It was intoxicating.
At that moment and many times afterward I’d beg for him to let me try it, but he was territorial with Emerald. “No. This is my game. You’re not allowed.” This was common with many of the games we had growing up—Wind Waker, Sonic Adventure 2, etc.—but with those he’d eventually grow out of love and I’d take over the reigns after a short time. Pokémon was always different, however. Even though I’d eventually get my own game with Pearl a few years later, I had always felt more like an onlooker with the series more than anything else. I’d keep up with what they were doing from time to time, replay my own games, maybe dabble in the the newer titles; but subconsciously I always saw it as my brother’s game. It was special to him, and still is to this day.
It’s funny, though; no matter how much I’d distance myself from the series I still wanted more out of it. I wanted the connection that my brother (and so many others) had with this titan of gaming. In that sense you could say I was jealous of how engrossed he was, and even bitter that he restricted my access from such a young age. Sure I could’ve asked my mom for my own copy, or even played it behind my brother’s back; but again to some extent I felt like it didn’t belong to me. I was a passenger to the Pokémon, not a driver. And even now, after spending nearly 50 hours having my own adventure in Hoenn (and almost definitely spending more hours catching the remaining legendaries); I still feel like an outsider of sorts.
However, I’d absolutely be lying if I said that finally defeating the Elite Four after all these years of hearing their theme out of the corner of my ear many times as a small child wasn’t cathartic as hell. There’s something about the traditional Pokémon structure that just makes it all worthwhile in the end. Through all the bullshit, through all the grinding, through all the gnawing little grievances that would make me put down the game and nearly swear it off after playing for hours on end, there’s rarely a better feeling than seeing your team—that you personally raised from the early areas—inducted into the Hall of Fame. Again, it’s just intoxicating.
At that moment and many times afterward I’d beg for him to let me try it, but he was territorial with Emerald. “No. This is my game. You’re not allowed.” This was common with many of the games we had growing up—Wind Waker, Sonic Adventure 2, etc.—but with those he’d eventually grow out of love and I’d take over the reigns after a short time. Pokémon was always different, however. Even though I’d eventually get my own game with Pearl a few years later, I had always felt more like an onlooker with the series more than anything else. I’d keep up with what they were doing from time to time, replay my own games, maybe dabble in the the newer titles; but subconsciously I always saw it as my brother’s game. It was special to him, and still is to this day.
It’s funny, though; no matter how much I’d distance myself from the series I still wanted more out of it. I wanted the connection that my brother (and so many others) had with this titan of gaming. In that sense you could say I was jealous of how engrossed he was, and even bitter that he restricted my access from such a young age. Sure I could’ve asked my mom for my own copy, or even played it behind my brother’s back; but again to some extent I felt like it didn’t belong to me. I was a passenger to the Pokémon, not a driver. And even now, after spending nearly 50 hours having my own adventure in Hoenn (and almost definitely spending more hours catching the remaining legendaries); I still feel like an outsider of sorts.
However, I’d absolutely be lying if I said that finally defeating the Elite Four after all these years of hearing their theme out of the corner of my ear many times as a small child wasn’t cathartic as hell. There’s something about the traditional Pokémon structure that just makes it all worthwhile in the end. Through all the bullshit, through all the grinding, through all the gnawing little grievances that would make me put down the game and nearly swear it off after playing for hours on end, there’s rarely a better feeling than seeing your team—that you personally raised from the early areas—inducted into the Hall of Fame. Again, it’s just intoxicating.