Repackaged memories
You're scrolling through an online second-hand gaming store, casually looking for a copy of Pokémon Crystal. The cover art, Suicune, shimmering in memory, draws you in. You think about how much fun it would be to relive those childhood adventures. Then, you see the price: $400. For just the cartridge. The box? Another $200. The manual? Don’t even bother asking.
Awestruck, you lean back, wondering how a game that once cost $40 became a treasure locked behind layers of economic privilege. What happened to gaming as a communal joy, accessible and shared? This is not just your experience; it’s a symptom of a much larger phenomenon, the commodification of nostalgia. Nostalgia, a feeling so often tied to comfort and longing, becomes a product sold back to you, sterilized, and marked up for those with the privilege to indulge.
The Beginning of the End
The retro gaming market has blown the last few years. Millennials and Gen Z, yearning for the simpler days of their childhood, have started seeking for consoles like the SNES, PlayStation 2, and Game Boy Advance. These consoles represent symbols of a time when life felt less complicated. They aren’t just games anymore, they’re relics, time capsules of simpler days when the only concern was beating that boss or collecting that rare item.
But this surge of interest has created a speculative bubble. Platforms like eBay and specialized resellers treat these items as investments. There was a sealed copy of Super Mario 64 that sold for $1.5 million. Yeah, a million damn dollars for a game you used to rent at Blockbuster for like $5 a week. As this market inflates, it feeds on exclusivity. Those who can’t keep up are left behind, with only emulators and distant memories to hold on to.
And companies are in on it too. Nintendo releases retro consoles in limited runs, creating a frenzy among buyers. It’s deliberate. Artificial scarcity generates higher demand and deeper profits. They’ve perfected the art of leveraging nostalgia while controlling its availability. The message is very is clear, if you want a piece of your childhood back, you’ll have to pay and pay dearly.
Who Gets Left Behind?
As prices soar, low-income gamers are being locked out of a culture they helped sustain. Historically, older consoles and games were the fallback for those who couldn’t afford the latest hardware. You waited a generation, maybe two, and those hand-me-downs became your treasure trove. But now, even those older consoles are out of reach. Games that once lived in bargain bins now sit in glass cases, treated like fine art rather than playable memories.
And let’s not forget the irony: the same people priced out of the retro market are the ones who kept it alive in the first place. They’re the ones who shared cartridges with friends, swapped discs at school, and kept community LAN parties alive. Now, they watch as wealthier collectors and speculators strip these items of their communal value, turning them into commodities to hoard or resell.
This phenomenon has the same similarities to gentrification. Just as neighborhoods become inaccessible to the communities that built them, gaming culture is being sanitized and monetized for a select few. Nostalgia, once a shared and organic experience, has been fenced off, leaving others to peer in from the outside.
Commodification of Nostalgia
Of course, this isn’t just a gaming problem. It's this entire social structure of capitalism doing what it always does. It's a feeling, but it’s also a vulnerability that corporations can exploit. They repackage it, put a price tag on it, and give it back to you, more expensive and less fun than ever.
This isn’t accidental. Corporations deliberately design for nostalgia. They create infrastructure that mimics retro aesthetics, not to honor the past but to monetize it. Take subscription platforms like Nintendo Switch Online, PlayStation Plus Classics and Xbox Game Pass. They promise access to classic games but only on their terms: curated, controlled, and constantly dangled like a carrot. You don’t own those games; you rent them, tethered to a platform that could disappear tomorrow.
And what do you really get? A facsimile of the past, wrapped in a modern bow. It’s nostalgia engineered to make you feel safe, to distract you from the fact that the world is harder and harsher now. But that safety comes at a cost, and it’s always higher than it seems.
The People Left Behind
Despite these barriers, not everyone is content to play along. Low-income and less privileged gamers have found ways to reclaim nostalgia on their own terms. Communities dedicated to emulation and ROM sharing keep retro gaming alive for those who can’t afford $300 cartridges. These groups operate in a legal gray area, sure, but they embody the original spirit of gaming: accessibility, creativity, and sharing.
Emulators breathe life into consoles that corporations have long abandoned. Raspberry Pi setups turn old TVs into retro gaming hubs. Fan-made translations bring obscure games to new audiences. These aren’t just workarounds; they’re keeping the culture alive. They say, “You can’t gatekeep our memories.”
And let’s not forget the artistry here. Modders and fan communities don’t just preserve old games; they improve them. They fix bugs, enhance graphics, and even create entirely new experiences. It’s grassroots innovation, born from necessity but brimming with passion. In a world where corporations see nostalgia as a commodity, these communities see it as a gift.
What We Lose
When nostalgia becomes an expense, we lose access and we lose connection. Gaming has always been about shared experiences, like sitting around a TV with your friends, passing the controller after every death, arguing over which Mario Kart track is the hardest. These moments don’t have a price tag, but they’re being kicked out all the same.
And what about the next generation? Parents who grew up with the Gamecube or PSP want to share those memories with their kids. But how do you do that when the cost of entry is so high and how do you pass down a love of gaming when its history is locked behind glass?
This is the true cost of commodified nostalgia. It erases the communal and the accessible, replacing them with exclusivity and scarcity. It tells us that our memories are only as valuable as the money we’re willing to spend on them.
What Now?
Reclaiming nostalgia isn’t just about saving money, it’s about saving culture. It’s about ensuring that the joy of gaming remains a shared experience, not a privilege for the few. Supporting preservation initiatives, like the Video Game History Foundation and the Internet Archive, open-source emulation projects, and communities is a start. These efforts don’t just safeguard games; they preserve the stories, contexts, and connections tied to them. These organizations remind us that the past isn’t a product to be owned but a legacy to be shared and understood.
Nostalgia isn’t something you buy. It’s something you share and it’s up to us to make sure it stays that way.