10 cool gaming features that never caught on

Players love to complain. It is one of our most sacred traditions. We complain about framerates, battlewalks, crafting systems, and menus that require six clicks just to change subtitles. But every now and then industry removes a feature we hadn't thought of before, and we become historians mourning the fall of a great civilization.

Some of these features have disappeared as technology has evolved. Others disappeared because publishers deemed them inconvenient. Some have simply sacrificed to modern gaming trends such as monetizing live services, and either executives have decided that every user interface should look like a minimalist banking app. Either way, I miss you. Sometimes enough to rant about them to unsuspecting friends who never asked. Including you, dear reader.

Cheat codes

There was once a magical era when games deliberately allowed you to screw up the intended experience: big head mode, infinite ammo, flying cars, invincibility, spawning tanks in the middle of suburban traffic. Cheat codes were petty rebellions. The developers knew we'd be messing around, so they built the toys specifically for it.

Now modern games act like I'm trying to commit tax fraud even if I mention console commands. Everything must maintain “progress” or “integrity of success”. God forbid I want my horse to fly into orbit for comedy purposes. The moment you activate anything fun, the game reacts like a disappointed parent. Maybe I want a whim. I miss when games felt comfortably silly instead of treating every save file like an esports contract.

Unlockable characters instead of paid DLC

Do you remember earning things? Do not buy; to earn. You once beat a game on hard mode and unlocked some absurd bonus character that no one told you about beforehand. Half the fun was hearing pitch rumors that sounded completely false. “No dude, if you beat the story mode without taking damage, you'll unlock the cyborg ninja. The best part was that it was real.

Additionally, each character now comes in a graphic map with a price tag attached to it as a grocery item. It's no longer a mystery. Just a season pass and three editions of the game, all of which cost more than my electric bill.

Couch Co-Op

Modern gaming has somehow convinced us that sitting alone in separate houses wearing headphones is the ultimate social experience.

Listen, online multiplayer is convenient. I get it, but nothing, nothing, replicates the fun of couch co-op.

Sharing one screen with someone you love is one of the greatest tests of human endurance. It reveals truths; dark truths. You'll find out who's cheating, who's looting, who's 'accidentally' going off the cliff for the fifth time. Online multiplayer can't replicate the experience of physically shoving your friend because they used their last health pack. I'm here mourning the loss of small, cramped UI boxes and friendships destroyed because of Mario Kart blue shells.

Instructions for use

Younger players will never understand the power of reading a game manual on the drive home. That book was sacred. You'd go through character bios, history pages, button layouts, concept art, all while your brain turned to pure excitement. Sometimes the manual explained the mechanics better than the actual game. Sometimes it contained weird little developer jokes hidden in the margins.

Now games launch straight into a 40GB day-one patch and terms and conditions longer than a university thesis. The magic is gone. Technically everything is “more convenient” now, but opening a physical case and finding absolutely nothing but disappointment inside is spiritually wrong. At this point, game boxes are basically expensive plastic envelopes.

Games that let you fail without holding your hand

Newer games have a horror of making you feel stupid for more than eight seconds. The moment I enter the puzzle room, a female companion immediately starts giving me hints as if she is contractually obligated to watch over me. “Maybe there's a switch nearby. THANK YOU, Detective. I had no idea the glowing yellow lever mattered.

Older games leave you wandering around confused for three days straight, and while sometimes it was objectively terrible design, they also created moments where solving something actually felt like a genius. Now every ledge is painted yellow and every lens mark shines as if blessed by the heavens. I miss when games sometimes respect me enough to let me suffer.

Secret unlockable

Data miners killed the mystery. I said it. As soon as the game is announced, someone has already disassembled the files and uploaded a thumbnail to YouTube with red arrows pointing to unreleased skins. Nothing will remain secret anymore.

Older games hid weird nonsense everywhere: secret weapons, alternate endings, hidden bosses. Entire levels that no one knew existed for months. Finding them is like uncovering forbidden knowledge. Now every secret turns into “TOP 10 THINGS YOU MISSED” content right when you launch the game (Look, I know I'm a gaming journalist and I'm guilty as charged). I miss organically discovering and hearing rumors online and not immediately knowing if they are fake.

Midnight starts

Midnight starts were inconvenient. Standing outside a GameStop at 11:45 PM surrounded by exhausted strangers was objectively absurd, but it was also somehow magical. It was all about the same thing. Complete strangers suddenly became best friends because you were all excited about a video game together. Someone always brought a snack. There has always been someone arguing about the console wars. Someone always smelled slightly disturbing.

Then midnight came, the door opened, and it felt like an event. Now games unlock digitally while I'm already in my pajamas eating grated cheese over the sink. Convenience won, but community lost.

Unique menus and UI themes

Why does every modern game menu look like it was designed for a corporate presentation? Hi, where is the personality? Older games had style: loud fonts, weird sound effects, animated backgrounds, funky themes you could unlock after beating the game. Some of the menus seemed more memorable than the gameplay itself.

Now every interface looks clean as sterile as luxury apartments look clean. I miss launching a game and being immediately assaulted by an abstract visual identity. Give me one more ridiculous menu music and UI choice made by someone who has consumed one too many energy drinks. Modern menus are efficient, sure, but they have the emotional warmth of airport signage.

LAN parties

You've seen a lot of my fists shaking at the sky at this point, but kids today will never know the primal terror of dragging someone's giant CRT monitor into their basement at a Halo LAN party. Those things weighed about the same as a dying star. We did it anyway because the reward was incredible. Whole rooms full of cables, pizza boxes, energy drinks, lack of sleep, someone's little brother crying because he was killed. Plus, never mind someone else yelling about screen viewing.

Online play is obviously smoother now, but it also feels strangely isolated at times. Also, in modern games, there's nothing quite like hearing the entire room suddenly scream after someone hits an impossible sniper shot. Discordant calls and integrated chat functions just don't go together.

Game release complete

I know, low hanging fruit, but hear me out. We have all collectively accepted something deeply cursed. Games used to launch occasionally broken, sure, but now every major release seems to come together thanks to optimism and a crash patch scheduled for next Tuesday. Some games release battle passes before major performance fixes. Others have roadmaps explaining when features will eventually exist, which is less like buying a game and more like investing in a startup.

I miss putting the disc in the console and having the confidence that what I bought was actually the finished product. Now every startup feels like entering early access against my will.

The worst part is that we all still participate. Every single one of us. Including me. I'm going to complain online about unfinished launches for three weeks straight and then immediately pre-order something because there was a guy in the trailer whispering cryptic nonsense about movie explosions. The cycle continues. This might be the game feature we never missed.