One Friday evening in 2002, a copy of Star Fox Adventures fell out of my bag in a London pub. The game was fine. My dignity, not so much.
Now firmly in middle age, I have few concerns about what people think of me or my interests. I like what I like, and that’s that. As it should be.
When I was younger, I was considerably more self-conscious. I could find plenty of reasons to be embarrassed about my perfectly normal, if stereotypically nerdy, interests.
In my early teens, my enthusiasm for Doctor Who was often a source of embarrassment. In the late 1980s, the show was in the doldrums as a mainstream proposition. The fact that it had become fantastic television again during Sylvester McCoy’s tenure was largely irrelevant. The kids at my school (with the honourable exception of my dear friend Adam) would still ridicule me with the usual anorak jibes, while happily gushing over Hulk Hogan and Randy Savage.
Video games were the one interest I did share with my schoolmates. We’d swap ZX Spectrum cassettes and make copies of the latest releases. Then came the arcades, and the glorious summers at home playing Wonder Boy III and Starflight.
Later in life, I found a group of Doctor Who fans who showed me that being enthusiastic about the things you love was no bad thing. It was liberating to realise that I didn’t have to treat my interests as some big secret. I embraced the social connection, devoured novels that explored obscure corners of the Whoniverse, and revelled in learning the smallest details about the making of the show.
And then, funnily enough, as I moved into adulthood and working life, it was video games that became the passion that must not be named.
Despite games evolving during the PlayStation and Nintendo 64 era into something resembling a more mature art form (in structure, if not necessarily narrative), they were still widely regarded as a kids’ pastime. It felt like the industry and audience were growing up, but public perception hadn’t quite caught up.
Which brings us to 2002 and the release of Star Fox Adventures.
As a committed fan of The Legend of Zelda series, I was absolutely hyped for the game. NGC Magazine’s drooling preview coverage had me hooked, bolstered by the prevailing belief that Rare was second only to Nintendo when it came to making great video games. And as Rare’s last game for a Nintendo home console, it felt like a significant release.
Around this time, I’d moved to a new job in Hammersmith, west London. My new colleagues were a sociable bunch, and Friday evenings were often spent necking beers at a nearby pub called Edwards (now restored to its former name, The Swan).
On Friday 22 November 2002, about 15 of us were ensconced upstairs, enjoying the usual end-of-week revelry. For reasons I no longer recall, the contents of my work bag spilled onto the table, including the shrink-wrapped copy of Star Fox Adventures, a day-one purchase from the Hammersmith branch of GAME.
One of my colleagues, Diane, picked it up and asked what it was.
“Um, a video game,” I muttered.
Then Rich grabbed it, laughing hysterically at the beautiful cover art featuring our furry heroes. Next, it was in Lorraine’s hands.
“Is this for you?”
And then Ian. And Sarah. And Tony.
Each one scoffing at the fact that I was into such obviously juvenile pursuits.
The GameCube game was passed around and around. Each time, another jeer or laugh followed, and I sank a little further into my chair.
My best mate Andy was the only one who didn’t take the piss. Perhaps he remembered the time he’d drunkenly sent a boxed collection of 20 James Bond VHS tapes clattering across the floor of The Slug and Lettuce, prompting a similar reaction.
Maybe I wouldn’t have suffered such a fate if it had been Gran Turismo 3 or something similarly serious. But, at that moment, I felt as though I’d been branded the guy in the office who played video games. And games with cuddly, furry lead characters, at that.
I enjoyed Star Fox Adventures well enough, though I’m not sure I would have chosen it as the game to announce my hobby to all my colleagues. But that’s not what sticks with me most. I wasn’t embarrassed by the game itself, but by what I imagined it said about me in the eyes of everyone else.
Of course, nobody mentioned it again. Not once.
That’s a strange thing about being a fan. We spend time and energy celebrating the things we enjoy, but we’re sometimes reluctant to expose that enthusiasm to people who might not understand it. Back then, I tended to downplay my passions. Maybe it was a hangover from childhood, when fitting in felt more important than almost anything else.
Today, video games have become an accepted part of mainstream culture. Things once considered nerdy pursuits now enjoy widespread, and very public, appreciation. I wonder how much has really changed when it comes to judging other people’s interests, but at least I’ve learned not to let it bother me.
As for Star Fox Adventures, I played it recently on Nintendo Switch 2, and it still looks wonderful. It’s a flawed game, but still impressive in many respects. Even so, I can’t see the name, let alone boot it up, without an instant flashback to that night in the pub, with everyone pointing at Fox and Krystal and laughing hysterically at my expense.
Cheers.
