Where Reaction Ends, Control Begins

I grew up in the age of Atari, transitioning to the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES). You remember those square cartridges, right? And the console with that faux-wood paneling? I know, I’m old. These were also the days when quarter-eating machines ruled restaurant nooks and gas-station crannies. I remember this corner grocery stop near my hometown square. That’s not quite a perfect description—mostly, it was an early convenience store of sorts sans the gas. Memory is fallible, but I recall a row of stand-up coolers hawking Coke and Pepsi. The owners, according to the stories I tell in my own head (it’s a crowded place these days), eventually built a beer cave because it’s hard to make a living on soft drinks and candy bars. Later, they added a line of quarter eaters along the wall. A pinball machine too; I’d like to say it was the epic Indiana Jones classic, but it wasn’t. ¹

This was small-town living, long before mobile phones and the internet. So I’d save my quarters, bike to the shop, and burn through what silver didn’t slip through my pockets on the ride over. This was glorious, mindless fun.

I find explaining the appeal of those old, decorated electronic cabinets to kids raised on sleek handhelds difficult. Modern Linux and Windows machines (Asus, Steam, and Lenovo) boast impressive horsepower: my Nintendo Switch, despite being eight years old, runs hundreds of classic arcade games. Now imagine porting these into an 80s-era cabinet; if I lined those boxes along the roadside, they’d stretch into the horizon.

We take the computing power on mobile devices for granted—an iPhone’s power dwarfs these antique chipsets.

When I trudged miles uphill through snow to the bus stop, to play the graphically best games, the arcade ruled. Home consoles couldn’t compete. Yeah, I loved Atari’s Kaboom, and, much later, Mario on the NES. But compared to an arcade cabinet with Street Fighter? It wasn’t even close. These were the supercomputers of my age.

Today, millions play Epic Games’ Fortnite. I admit, I don’t really get it. I tried years ago, and a host of teenagers killed me in 60 seconds, laughing the entire time on open chat. More attempts, same result. Part of me wanted to reach through the internet and punch them—give them credit, they talked smack like Larry Legend. Yet, I felt sorry for these poor souls because they’ll never understand the magic of becoming Street Fighter champion.

Two players going head to head.

A crowd around you. The oohs and ahhs emerge when pulling off Zangief’s spinning pile-driver. I can still hear the ghosts, those whispers.

And there is a row of quarters. To challenge the winner, you had to put your money down. Standing in line—the world’s greatest invention.

That was gaming culture. Sure, go ahead, pull off a blistering combo on a controller. Wear that goofy headset. There’s skill there. But to do it with a joystick and six thick buttons with a half dozen shouting and cheering people around you, that’s a different game. And at twenty-five cents a round, that could get expensive for a cash-strapped kid. The couch crevices eventually did out of money.

I miss those days.

The time adventure games ruled too. I recall those Tandy Floppy Disks, memory tells me I upgraded to a 3.5 drive. Sierra created many of my favorite games, King’s Quest and Police Quest. LucasArts also ruled the point-and-click era with Indiana Jones and Secret of Monkey Island.

Between past cabinet glory and Tandy computer memories, I wanted to revisit these classics again.

The Power of Aging Game Libraries

This can be challenging because these relics are somewhat like the aging code of Fortune 500 companies and Government agencies. Sometimes, test environments don’t exist. Yet, stuff keeps on humming.

I caught a story on The Verge about the Steam Deck and thought I’d give it a spin. More on this later, but I love that it (1) runs on Linux and (2) anything I buy lasts forever due to how the company handles emulation through what’s called Proton—a Windows compatibility layer. And (3) if something isn’t running I find a way through tinkering and digging around.

Yes, many say Google search is broken—some of this comes down to the reliability and contract with the open web. The tech companies are breaking it to train our new AI overlords. What I find amazing is that no matter what I’m looking for, the engine directs me to a Reddit page. So, why not just ask Reddit directly?

The Steam Deck can emulate many classics. Where I struggled was with the sound. Games of the day relied on hardware’s MIDI drivers, which isn’t a thing these days. I give the Reddit community credit; they recommended some tweaks (leveraging ScrummVM), and I was off and running. Sound sorted, I finished an adventure game and turned to perhaps the toughest shooter of all-time.

Blistering Hard

Contra wasn’t just a video game; it was an experience that tested the limits of focus and precision. Two commandos, armed with nothing but guns shooting white dots and player determination, stormed alien-infested jungles and fortresses, dodging a ceaseless barrage of firepower. The stakes are high here, the margin for error razor-thin. Every screen is a kaleidoscope of mayhem—enemies swarming, towering bosses too.

It’s craziness. This game is hard. Booting it up again made me remember how fast your buzz top fighter can perish against the alien horde.

And yet, for many players, the developer built an escape hatch: the legendary Konami Code. Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, select and start. A simple sequence, whispered among friends on the school bus. Or found in Nintendo Power.

Yes, it still works.

Thirty lives instead of three—it changes the game. With the cheat code, Contra becomes a testing playground. One can practice and experiment without constant failure, offering a glimpse of what mastery may feel like. And it lets anyone beat the game through brute force alone.

But it’s cheating, not unlike paying people to level up characters in Diablo.

Played the right way, Contra is about rhythm and timing. Great players don’t need the cheat. They understood that the bullets aren’t something to dodge—they can be guided. To play at the highest level means not reacting to the chaos but learning to control it, bending the game to your own will. Each jump, each shot, each perfectly timed roll has a purpose. Yes, it took time for my muscle memory to kick in, but I remembered how the game’s logic predicts where you’re headed. Once that’s hammered out, the alien horde can be stomped out like the reptiles in that original V-Series (that’s an old reference). Yet, I brute force the penultimate level—assuming I have enough lives to finish. Some don’t.

There is a lesson here.

Seeing the Chessboard

The ability to go beyond reaction isn’t just a gamer’s skill; it’s a mindset. Surgeons anticipate complications, adjusting mid-procedure. Trial lawyer doesn’t just counter arguments; they weave stories sharp enough for juries to grasp and memorable enough to stick. Novelists do more than outline stories, they construct entire worlds where readers can lose themselves, paragraph by paragraph. The salesperson doesn’t just take the order; they manage an overarching account plan, even if they make it up as they go sometimes.

Professionals don’t rely on shortcuts or cheat codes. They find the patterns. They don’t just survive the white-bullet video game storm—they direct it. Whether it’s sketching out a product, wrestling with that blank page, closing a deal, or pulling a project back from the brink of failure, the principle holds. Mastery isn’t about reacting to chaos. It’s about stepping into it, finding a rhythm, and bending it to your will. And yeah, there’s joy there—real, hard-earned joy, even if I have to remind myself sometimes.

Footnotes