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In the golden days of home gaming it was far easier to pirate games. Unlike now, where you practically have to set up your own CD or cartridge manufacturing plant, it was a simple matter of grabbing an audio cassette tape, slapping it in a double tape deck, and pressing play and record. Of course, I was never party to any large-scale operations, and I certainly never received or handed over any cash in return for pirated games, but I do confess to borrowing the odd home-made compilation from school buddies. Don't look at me like that. We all did it. You see, as a teenager unable to seek work as a result of my crippling laziness, money was in short supply. This was often the only way to play the hottest games. It would happen like this: my friends and I would each pledge to copy as many games as we could fit onto a single C90. This would be, on average, at least 10. Then, without telling the others what was on the tape, we'd swap them around, take them home, and run through the tape in sequence. The thrill came from never knowing EXACTLY what was on the tape. What'll be next? Eureka! or Jet-Pac? A classic like Alien 8, or unplayable rubbish like Ah Diddums. Oh, the ecstasy of the unknown! I must admit that I did not indulge in the immoral practice for too long.
After a time, like some bizarre humanoid magpie, I began to clamour for the
official packaging. The hand-scrawled biro notes on the C90 boxes lacked the
authenticity of the luxury video cassette-sized boxes for Ultimate's
Underwurld, or Starglider. And so, I became an outcast. Unwilling to exchange pirated games, or receive
them, I began to hoard official, shop-bought products. My time as a bad
person was over, but I was left with my guilt. I cannot say how many of
Britain's game developers lost their jobs through my short spell of illicit
behaviour, but I sleep soundly in my bed knowing that one day I'll receive my
punishment in Hell. Check out our features archive   |
