The PlayStation Classic was more than just a failed product. It was a reckoning.

The mini consoles arrived like ghosts from an old war. They were not new, only echoes of something that once was. Plastic shrines to past battles, relived in the pale blue glow of an HDMI signal.

The NES and SNES Mini were easy victories. A nostalgic indulgence. The same old games, just smaller, lighter, effortless. Like chewing on childhood. Players embraced them without question. They were never really about the games. They were about remembering.

The Genesis Mini was a pleasant surprise. It hit harder. Not just the old standbys but the forgotten killers: Gunstar Heroes, Shinobi. Speed, precision, violence. Sonic CD, its opening sequence a fist through the glass of memory. People thought they knew what Genesis was. The mini proved them wrong. It had always been faster, sharper, more dangerous than they remembered. The best console Sega ever made, trapped in time, now free. A triumph.

And then there's the PlayStation Classic. The disaster. Some blamed the engineering. Some blamed the emulation. Some blamed the PAL versions, sludgy and wrong. But the real reason was unspeakable. Saying it aloud might get you decked by one of PlayStation’s 100-million-strong army. But they know. Yes, yes, we know. N64 lost the gen. We've accepted it, believe me.

They know their games were bad. Not just old. Not just clunky. Bad. The spell of the marketing blitz had broken. The world they built in their minds collapsed like a bad polygon mesh. 989 Studios. The name alone should make you sick. Twisted Metal, sluggish and empty. Cool Boarders, an offense to gravity. The entire sports lineup, a crime against motion. And then there was Tomb Raider. The one they defend the hardest, the one they whisper about in their darkest moments. The one they cannot replay. The movement like steering a corpse. The combat a parody of itself. A game held together by memories, not mechanics.

The PlayStation Classic revealed the truth. And the truth is ugly. No one wants to look at it. But once you do, you can’t unsee it.
And now, in the cold light of hindsight, the PlayStation doesn’t just falter—it collapses. The N64, once mocked, now towers. A monolith of solid, playable, still-fun experiences. Mario 64, Ocarina, F-Zero X—games that feel good in the hands, not just in the mind. Meanwhile, the PlayStation shrinks. Its empire was an illusion, a mirage crafted by relentless marketing. The games never carried it. The format did. In the '90s, let’s face it, CDs were cool. That’s what the PlayStation coasted on. Format Engineering. Not games. Never the games. Not in the West, anyway. I like JRPGs. You like JRPGs. JRPGs are not how the West was Won. Look at the western library and see if you can hide your disgust.

The PlayStation Classic was more than just a failed product. It was a reckoning. A final unmasking. A confession. The games weren’t magic. They weren’t timeless. They were commercials made manifest, designed to push discs, to make you think you were experiencing something new when really, you were just listening to the hum of a loading screen.

And now, the illusion is gone.