Eject Disc

What we are leaving behind.

Credit: Manuel Bonadeo on Unplash

When your apartment is being threatened by flood waters rising at an alarming rate, the importance of your material possessions quickly becomes secondary.

This was the situation my now-wife, then-girlfriend, and I found ourselves in during the Brisbane floods in February 2022. After three days of relentless rain, the creek behind our block of apartments burst its banks, meaning the ankle-high puddles that had been submerging our front lawn were now transforming into something far more dangerous. And fast.

So fast, in fact, that the window for us to safely evacuate on our own closed before we even knew just how bad things had gotten. The water was now too deep and too powerful, and we needed help to get out. I called the State Emergency Services, and they said they would send a rescue team within the hour. That gave us hope we would escape this flood and reach safer ground, but there was now the question of what to do with all our things.

As I said, in moments like this, your main priority immediately locks into getting yourself and your loved ones out of harm’s way. Everything inside our apartment could be replaced if the flood waters did reach inside. Everything, but us. So, while we waited for rescue to arrive, we set about moving smaller possessions to the top of shelves and kitchen benches with a kind of militaristic detachment. If I could spare my stuff from a soaking, then great. But ultimately, my number one concern was making sure we didn’t end up doing a reverse Finding Nemo. There was simply no space or time to be emotional about leaving behind these objects to their fate.

With two exceptions. The first were my books. The second were my video games.

As I went about relocating my games to higher ground, I couldn’t help but feel like I was saying goodbye to something meaningful. Many of these games—as was the case with my books—were a bridge to my childhood and a physical vessel for memories spanning most of my life. Yes, they were replaceable. But the meaning behind them was something I could never truly leave behind.

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Last week, it was reported that Sony will be ending production of PS5 discs from 2028 onwards. This news came after what has been a gradual decline of physical games over several years. The warning signs have been there for a long time now. And yet, this development still came as a shock to many—myself included.

There are plenty of very real concerns around the gradual eradication of physical games—whether they be on disc, cartridge, or some other form of removable media. This general air of anxiety has been heightened over the past week, with many voicing their worries over a digital-only future and the impact this will have on games preservation and access. If you want to read some of these thoughts and perspectives, I’d recommend checking out the latest Reconnect Recap and scrolling down to the list of articles Alex has curated on the topic.

Like with many things in life, I’m trying my best to look at this news with as much nuance as possible. Because in no way am I anti-digital games. The rise of online stores for video games has allowed the development space to dramatically democratise, opening the door for independent studios to thrive with games that would, likely, otherwise never see the light of day. A slowing down of disc and cartridge manufacturing also means there will be less of either of those things adding to the global waste crisis (although I’m sure we’ll find something else to fill that gap).

And to be perfectly honest, my purchasing habits have strayed further and further away from buying physical games in recent years due to some of the inherent conveniences of the digital format. So, yes. I am part of the problem.

But it’s hard not to get romantic about physical games, isn’t it? I can feel myself being pulled towards typing out flowery prose about the purity of strolling through the hallowed aisle of a games store, the smell of fresh plastic in the air, surrounded by all the magnificent covers promising worlds beyond our own, selecting the title you’ve been yearning over for months, poring over the manual on the ride home, anticipation building and building, powering on your console and sliding the disc in—smooth and welcoming, like it was always meant to be—before experiencing something that would’ve felt like magic for people living a century ago.

See! Couldn’t help myself. But it’s a cliché because there is a truth behind it. Physical games give us greater ownership over the piece of art that extends beyond the basic legal definition. It becomes something we can display, something that can represent a part of who we are, and, most importantly, something we can use to connect to others.

When I look at my physical game collection, I see more than just plastic rectangles and logos. I see some of the most important relationships in my life reflected in the story of each box. I see my parents buying me my first video games—both the ones I had asked for, and the ones they surprised me with on birthdays and Christmases. I see games bought alongside friends, games friends have gifted me, and the gaps in my collection left by the games I gifted them.

I see Mario Kart 8 for the Wii U, which I hurriedly bought one morning when a couple of mates from high school made the impromptu decision to drop by and do some gaming. I see Tekken 6 for the PSP, which, not too dissimilar to my story about Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, was a game I didn’t even know had been ported to the handheld until miraculously seeing it on an EB Games shelf one day. And I see not one, but two copies of Animal Crossing: New Horizons, the first game my wife and I bonded over on our Switches.

The move to a digital-only future has felt like an inevitability for some time now. Gaming will continue, in one form or another, regardless of whether those games are played on a disc or through a download file. And as I outlined before, digital gaming does have some very real benefits that will hopefully only become more pronounced from this point onwards.

But we are also leaving something behind here. And I’m worried we will never be able to return.

Because while our apartment was mercifully spared from the flood waters that day, it did make something clear about my relationship to my physical games: just because it’s not life or death doesn’t mean it isn’t worth saving.

What are your thoughts about the industry’s accelerated move away from physical games? Do you have any memories attached to your physical games collection? Let me know in the comments!

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Hey, everyone!

After taking a short break from weekly Substack posting, I am now feeling refreshed, recharged, and ready to get back to a regular routine with The Video Game Storyteller. This means you can expect a new free article to drop in your email and/or Substack feed each week, just as it was before. Paid subscribers will continue to receive their bonus fortnightly article as well.

And if you haven’t done so already, be sure to read my guest article for Infinite Lives which dropped last week, looking at the Queensland Games Festival and its significance to the local development community:

The grassroots games festival putting Queensland on the global stage

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The Video Game Storyteller is a Substack written and formatted by Harry Fritsch on the lands of the Jagera and Turrbal people, the Traditional Custodians of Meanjin (Brisbane).

All images were either captured directly by the author or sourced from publicly available promotional screenshots.

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