The OG PlayStation

It’s Christmas Day 1998 in a split-level home on Long Island, New York. The fake Christmas tree wrapped in tinsel and meticulously decorated by only your mother (who doesn’t trust the hands of fumbling, fidgety children to hang glass ornaments) is in the den, surrounded by gifts. Your eyes scan the piles for a specific shape. Your younger sister has already shaken the shit out of every present before opening it, including some of yours, the most recent of which you suspect may be the thing you’re looking for. It’s a thing that should certainly not be shaken with such disregard.

You glance at your father, who’s recording the opening of every single gift. You want to get this one on camera. “Are you ready?” you ask, your tiny voice punching through the sound of rustling paper thanks to the exaggerated vowels and hard consonants that comes standard with your regional accent. You rip the Santa-covered paper away from the box, barely exposing a corner of it before yelling “PLAYSTATION!” Your parents feign surprise and interest. “DualShock, Dad, it’s the betta one!” For the rest of the morning, you return to that box, crawling on your hands and knees through discarded wrapping paper just to ogle it.

No more renting consoles from Blockbuster for just a few days. No more pushing over an empty shopping cart and climbing in it at the electronics store so you could reach the mounted PlayStation controllers, surreptitiously glancing over your shoulder to see if your dad was coming to snatch you away. No more begging your cousin for a turn when at his house for family holidays. This is your PlayStation. Only yours. Think of all the things you can do with it. Maybe you’ll even make a career out of this someday.

Alyssa Mercante, Senior Editor