For a kid struggling to self-actualize and find their place in the world in the 1990s, the early Pokémon generations were intoxicating. Alongside their standout gameplay, these games had a striking atmosphere that silently captured my feelings of alienation while simultaneously giving me hope for the future.
To young me, Pokémon Gold felt like a real adventure. The Game Boy Color’s tiny screen and the top-down camera made the world feel massive. It was as if I was venturing across an actual country, a far cry from the small town I felt confined to.
However, the console’s limitations meant that locations in this country were small and sparsely populated, making for a liminal atmosphere. Most towns had only a handful of buildings, and while cities had more structures, most lacked doors, making everywhere feel unwelcoming, like the population was hiding in some off-screen suburb, opting to avoid passing trainers at all costs. Because of this, inhabiting these digital spaces felt alienating and uncomfortable, evoking the same confused emotions I felt when going through my day-to-day life.
But this unease factor had an upside. It made me feel more connected to my team of Pokémon. This team was a constant reminder that even if I felt like an outcast, even if the next leg of my journey felt enormous and scary, some people would always have my back, no matter what. It was a hopeful message, one I deeply needed at the time.
I’ve played many Pokémon games over the years. Both the series and I have grown since. Yet, my time with the likes of Gold remains a motivating experience. A constant reminder that, even if I’m not where I want to be now if I keep my friends close and keep walking, I’ll find it eventually.
Into The Spine