When I was 11, I walked into an electronics store and, as usual, checked out the demo station. Back then, stores always had a few PlayStation 2s set up, ready for you to sample the latest games. After watching another kid play this one particular game for no more than a few seconds, I got that tingly feeling of knowing you’re about to discover something special.
Once it was my turn, I stepped up and dove into a world I would never forget. You played as a teenager named Sora. Your companions were none other than two Disney legends: Goofy and Donald Duck. Together, the three of you had to fight off monsters made of pure shadow in a strange-looking town, and your weapon was a blade in the shape of a key.
It didn’t take much swinging and slicing, enemies going up in smoke, and little green and yellow reward-orbs falling to the ground for me to realize: This was the greatest game of all time, and I just had to play it. It was one of those rare, piercing moments you never forget — not because of what’s happening on the outside, but because inside, deep down, you just know something important is going on.
22 years later, Kingdom Hearts indeed holds a special place in the video game hall of fame. The original game sparked a series which now spans some 13 titles and has sold over 36 million units to date. But what I remember most about the four years I spent completely obsessed with that first game is not the fact that, apparently, I had a nose for what makes a good video game. I remember the many other piercing moments that happened along the way.
I remember completing a whole bunch of extra difficult challenges to unlock the game’s secret ending, which was a preview of the next installment. I remember chasing that movie down online, which was hard to find at the time (no Youtube yet), and watching it over and over again. I remember speculating with other people in the forums who its new mysterious characters were.
I remember playing table tennis in our basement with a friend whom I rarely had the privilege of beating. But one time, I imagined I was Riku, another main character from the game, and I played as if I had wings. I remember feeling like I triggered bullet time. I was completely in flow, and I saw myself in slow-motion reacting to his shots, perfectly returning this hit or that, neatly landing the next, and winning the game.
I remember downloading the game’s soundtrack and making my own CD cover for it. I listened to the title track over and over and over again. Sometimes, I spent 30 minutes just watching the game’s introductory music video a few times while listening to the instrumental version of the track.
I remember the Final Mix version of the game that was released only in Japan but had additional content, new enemies, and more information about the story and future games — including a new secret boss battle and a longer version of the secret ending. My PC ran overnight for weeks to download the files. Since there was no way to buy and play it in Germany, I had to burn the game on a DVD disc myself and get a special tool for the PS2 to even be able to play a Japanese game. I wrote down the Japanese characters in the menus and button descriptions with English translations, and over time, I learned to recognize what some of them meant despite not understanding a single word.
I don’t know why so many distinct memories of my time with this game are still available to me where others aren’t, but perhaps that is yet for me to discover. All I know is that one piercing moment made all the difference, and then many other meaningful, equally piercing moments followed.
We can’t always make sense of them, but the one thing we can trust in is that these special junctures in our life offer some kind of significance. What are your piercing moments — and what might they be trying to tell you?