The Classics: cultural artifacts for the new millennium

You wake up. The room is spinning very gently round your head. Or at least it would be if you could see it which you can't.

Each version of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has its own unique charm. The five novels let you revel in Douglas Adams' gloriously strange writing, while the radio show lets you hear what a Vogon actually sounds like. Even the disappointing 2005 Hollywood film has its moments, most notably the clever scenes involving the guide itself. But none of them will put you through the roller coaster of emotions that the text-adventure game does. At times you'll be laughing out loud, at others you'll be cursing at your computer, trying to figure out just what the game wants you to do. It's a lot like taking a sip of a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.

Solaris begins with a simple, evocative setup. Three scientists studying an alien planet begin receiving unwelcome "visitors" — apparently human figures from the long-dead past, returned to haunt the living. They appear (and reappear) while the scientists sleep, as though dragged into the waking light from the deepest recesses of their subconscious guilt, dread, and regret. Sent to investigate, psychologist Kris Kelvin awakens next to his wife, who’d killed herself 10 years earlier. Is she "real"? How did she arrive at the space station? And how is she connected to the ocean planet, Solaris?

For Stanislaw Lem, author of the original 1961 novel, this setting provided an opportunity to critique one of science fiction’s most treasured tropes: the "first contact" with alien life. Writing in Poland under Communism, Lem considered American sci-fi shallow and pretentious; consisting mostly of Space Westerns aimed at adolescents, it failed to address deep philosophical or scientific ideas. (With Philip K. Dick a notable exception — Lem dubbed him "a visionary among the charlatans.")

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

1994 was an awesome year to be a nerd. A decade had passed since Revenge of the Nerds, and popular conceptions of awkward enthusiasts had evolved to the point where Weezer’s “Buddy Holly” video could put four cardigan-wearing squares at the top of the charts. After that, there was always another word attached to nerd: “cool,” a conflation which sent both terms into a perennially cloudy spiral of meaning. Bassist Matt Sharp took a detour from Weezer in 1995 with a side project called The Rentals. Their debut album was a humbly crafted chunk of anachronistic purity called The Return of the Rentals — while it wasn’t as hugely successful as Weezer’s debut, it set the tone for two decades of destroying what we thought nerd-cool could and couldn’t mean. It was the end of “alternative” music and the beginning of our discovery that most music actually should be something different than anything else that came before it.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge's staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

There has always been something special about the way Batman speaks. Perhaps it’s because, unlike many comic-book heroes, Batman has no superhuman abilities. His power lies, in part, in the aura he creates through his costume and voice. That's why my favorite adaptation of the Batman legend is one that leaves behind all the iconic visuals and translates the universe of Gotham into pure sound.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.
Last year, Detroit decided that it needed RoboCop. A Kickstarter campaign raised around $65,000 to design and cast a bronze statue to be placed in an as-yet-undetermined location in the recently bankrupted city. Back in the near future of 1987, a corporate conglomerate named Omni Consumer Products had the same idea, but its RoboCop wasn’t a symbol of hope. It was a cynical solution to an ultraviolent future — and the protagonist of the action movie to end all action movies.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

Style Wars, a PBS production, was filmed between 1981 and ‘83, largely in the Bronx and Queens. Still cited as a classic piece of hip-hop history, it's an unnervingly calm movie capturing a particularly delirious moment — a moment replicated so often in throwback movies and rap songs that to see it in the comparatively 1:1 ratio of a documentary film can be jarring.

It wasn’t so long ago that electronic music production was the work of pioneers. Giorgio Moroder and Don Lewis synthesized monstrous Moog mainframes in the disco era; Roger Linn kick-started hip-hop in 1988 with the Akai MPC60. But making music on a computer was a dream just beginning to come true in the ‘90s — boxes were getting faster and cheaper, but music software remained torturously buggy. Roland, a Japanese company with a long history of democratizing production by mass-producing and lowering the cost of new tech, saw an opportunity. The electronic music world lacked a product that efficiently combined sampling, performance, effects, and recording into one box — and so, in 1998, that world received the SP-808 Sampling Groovebox.

Resurrecting the fabled 808 nomenclature 17 years after the iconic TR-808 drum machine was a sign that Roland was deeply serious about this box on a cultural level. Korg’s Triton workstation was a studio standard at the time, but its 61-key form factor and $3,500 price tag kept it out of reach for a new generation of producers more obsessed with collage than composition. Over time producers began to use the SP-808 as a “character box” — that meant that even when it did things it wasn’t advertised to, like subtly compressing samples, people liked how it sounded. Soon the biggest names in the business were name-checking it in interviews: Daft Punk and The Prodigy were relying on it onstage and in the studio, and Throbbing Gristle’s Chris Carter was impressed enough to write a review of it back in ‘98.

Every ride home from the video game store was a strange exercise in lust and this one was no different. I sat in the passenger seat and immersed myself in the sacred act of unwrapping and popping open the big black container shell, fondling the rounded cartridge in my hands as if the magic on the logic board inside could somehow be transdermally absorbed, internalizing the coarse alliteration of the box copy: Super Speed! Super Graphics! Super Attitude! It’s Super SONIC.

Like a jet engine warming up the choral two-toned SEGA brought my mind into gear but I still wasn’t prepared for what lay beyond the iconic finger-wagging title screen. Green Hill Zone, a platform landscape that should be designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was a new sort of virtual reality. It was all shimmering polygonal grass and innocently rotating rings and checkered brown underlayment twisting into impossibly navigable launchpads that showed off the primary achievement of Sonic Team: the raw thrill of unchecked speed.

Persona 3 is a video game where Japanese teenagers shoot themselves in the head with magical guns in order to summon powerful monsters into battle. And that's not even the most notable thing about it. Persona 3 is sort of like what would happen if you mashed up a typical dungeon-crawling RPG with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You're still battling monsters and saving the world like in other games in the genre, but you also need to balance that with hanging out with friends, remembering to study, and just basically being a kid. But what makes the game so remarkable is the way these two seemingly disparate elements interact with each other in a way that feels natural and fun. When there's an exam coming up, saving the world can wait a night.

The concept of kids summoning demons is consistent across the Persona universe, but the third entry in the series introduced the idea of actually simulating a teenager’s life, making the game instantly more accessible and providing a nice break from all of the monster-battling. (It also features a completely standalone story, so you don’t have to worry about playing the early games.) Similarly, Persona 3 marks a dramatic step up in terms of the series’ writing and localization: it’s still very Japanese, but the characters are relatable and they’re faced with plenty of real-world scenarios. This also lets the game get away with some of its stranger elements, like the "dark hour," or the demon-summoning guns, or the little ghost boy that visits your room every so often.

"I am the voice inside your head," Trent Reznor crooned after a violent sample from the movie THX 1138, "and I control you." Indelible words imprinted on a 12-year-old brain, and that was only the first 30 seconds of the album that changed my perception of the world forever.

The Downward Spiral — or "Halo 8," as it’s known to NIN serialogists — is an unapologetically conceptual album. Listening to it from beginning to end squeezed my hormonal brain right through the spiral, which was presumably a projection of Reznor’s vice-ridden lifestyle, distilled and packaged for general consumption under bleak abstractions by the artist Russell Mills. It alluded to an uncomfortable world none of my friends or family understood. Tracks unfold into a cinematic tour of that rusted-out landscape with a brilliantly psychopathic narrator who’s constantly at war with the forces inside his soul. After the ultra-violent "Mr. Self Destruct" comes the introspective sleaze of "Piggy," where we’re introduced to the motives of these internal / external porcine demons. "God is dead," our tour guide screams between the industrial march-beats of jackboots on the ground, "and no one cares! If there is a hell, I’ll see you there" — before you have time to wonder if you should snap his neck and run back to safety, "March of the Pigs" assaults the senses and forcibly crowns itself emperor of both ends of the emotional spectrum.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

There aren't many good movies about surveillance. It's not photogenic, for one thing — just a bunch of guys with nice headphones in a smelly van. Most of the action happens inside the machines, and even then it’s just mixing, tweaking, and the drudgery of managing a video feed. It takes a great story to make it interesting, and a near-miracle to convince a studio to bankroll it.

For a game with an almost cartoonish art style, Commandos 2: Men of Courage happens to be one of the most visceral and realistic recreations of the Second World War. Unlike the legions of gung-ho WW2 shoot-em-ups that have you blasting through waves of identikit baddies, the Commandos series rewards stealth, cunning, and guile. Instead of a one-man army, you get a crack squad of artfully differentiated commandos whose strengths and weaknesses contribute real depth to the gameplay. The explosives expert is slow and deliberate, the reformed thief is sprightly and agile, and the big muscly dude can take a lot of damage. Those traits are both visually apparent and functionally important, and they make each protagonist feel organic and real.

Pyro Studios already had a very good game on its hands with the original Commandos and the excellent Beyond the Call of Duty expansion, but 2001’s Men of Courage marked the pinnacle of the company’s output. It perfected the balance of fiendish gameplay and rewarding puzzles, sharpened up the visual presentation, and wove a beautifully detailed narrative through a series of variegated missions that never felt repetitive or stale. That’s unless you count the very many times you will die before completing even the tutorial mission. Whichever game you pick up in the Commandos trilogy — the arc of awesomeness of which is similar to the Godfather trifecta’s — your wits, foresight, and attention to detail will be challenged enormously.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

British band Lush’s first full-length album, Spooky (4AD, January, 1992) is a relic of a past which no longer exists, but which incessantly reminds you that it once did. You hear its reverberations in predecessors like Black Tambourine and in successors like Wild Nothing. What ties them all together is a dialogue, a certain way of looking at the world, which has everything to do with the tone, the sound, the feel, and often nothing to do with actual meaning. The meaning is conveyed in the delivery.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

The year was 1986. A much-younger version of myself went over to my friend Frank's house to play games on his dad's Apple IIe. My gaming experience had been fairly limited up to that point — highlighted by Karateka, Oregon Trail, and some frustrated fumblings around the Zork trilogy (my love for all things Infocom wouldn't blossom for another year). I was about to be introduced to a new game, however; one that would burn its way fiercely into my brain.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

It's rare that I go back and replay games. It's more a matter of time than anything else: there are just so many games out there, I'd rather be checking out something new than give something a second go. Everyday Shooter is the exception to that. It's like comfort food. It's a game that I can pick up, play for a few minutes or a few hours, and feel like I've gotten something out of the experience.

Have you heard the one about the omnipotent six-year-old? Even if you've never seen the episode, by now you probably know the gist — maybe from The Simpsons’ Treehouse of Horror takeoff, or a late-night description from an older brother. There was also the movie version, or the ‘80s sequel. Like the best Twilight Zone episodes, 1961's "It's a Good Life" has traveled far.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

It’s the future, but nobody actually knows what year it is. Humans are mass-cloned and sold as fast food (or occasionally as fresh-faced politicians), extraterrestrial life has become a fashion statement, and universal matter replicators not only exist, they can get hooked on their own manufactured drugs. Income inequality and health problems are covered over by slick public relations and short attention spans. Climate change has led to the rise of city-destroying superstorms. And telling the truth at the right time can change the world. Welcome to the silly, serious, cynical, and idealistic world of Transmetropolitan.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

Despite the recent push for more nuanced and realistic narratives, some of my favorite story-driven games earned their place with grand gestures, and the recently re-released System Shock 2 is right at the top. Though the game follows 1994 Warren Spector title System Shock, it stands solidly on its own. It’s a first-person shooter set on a massive spaceship, trillions of miles from Earth, about godlike beings — but it’s also an evocative, rewarding, and personal piece of survival horror that feels more like myth than fiction.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

A bald, leather-clad horror novelist who’s also a deadly assassin, now grown weary of killing. A redheaded witch sent back from the future with nanomachines in her blood. A transvestite Brazilian shaman known for facing down Aztec gods. A former NYPD officer still grieving for her kidnapped brother. And a foul-mouthed Liverpudlian truant who just might be the next Buddha. Five freedom fighters trying to prevent an apocalypse scheduled for December 22, 2012.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

A few months ago, when I finally got around to downloading a Colecovision emulator -- Mugrat -- the first thing I did was play BurgerTime. Surprise, surprise, this game still seems impossible to me, and after a few minutes of play, I was already looking around at the Colecovisions other offerings. And that’s when I discovered Carnival. With almost no prior knowledge of the game, I began playing, and I haven’t stopped. I still return to BurgerTime, and I have a few other favorites, and I’m not sure if Carnival is a "classic" to anyone but me, but here’s my case.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

Like the rest of the Star Wars franchise, the bevy of novels set in a galaxy far, far away vary quite a bit when it comes to both quality and tone. There's everything from exciting thrillers that take you through the underbelly of planet-sized megacities to horror stories filled with zombified stormtroopers. But for me the best stories are the ones that help fill in some of the gaps left by the films, particularly the original trilogy. That's one of the reasons why I consider Shadows of the Empire the best of the bunch. The other reason is Prince Xizor — easily the best Star Wars character to never appear on the big screen.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

Let’s get this out of the way right now: 90 percent of Norman Spinrad’s satirical The Iron Dream is a science fiction novel written by an alternate universe Hitler. It was published in the 1970s with blurbs from luminaries like Harlan Ellison and Michael Moorcock, who said it was "bound to earn Hitler the credit he so richly deserves." Its plot is a thinly-veiled allegory for the Nazi rise to power, spun in favor of the Third Reich and then punctured by a fictitious NYU professor, who ends the meta-book with an essay on Hitler’s move from pulp illustrator to workmanlike author. It’s as subtle as a sledgehammer. You should still probably go read it right now.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

In the late '90s, one of my favorite movies was about a hyper-real city that wasn't a real city at all, but instead a false reality created by powerful Capital-O Others who needed humanity to survive and kept them trapped. The hero in this story slowly became aware of this false world and his own false memories. As he's tracked by foreboding and mysterious agents he transforms into a semi-messianic figure who broke free and learned to take control of the world around him.

The Classics are must-see, must-read, must-play works revered by The Verge staff. They offer glimpses of the future, glimpses of humanity, and a glimpse of our very souls. You should check them out.

Near-future science fiction can age poorly, and the stuff that seemed coolest in its time often fares the worst. But though his books are always firmly rooted in their era, William Gibson somehow consistently manages to escape this. Maybe it’s that he seemed to be winking when he put his characters in black leather and mirrorshades: yes, I know they’re trying too hard. Maybe it’s because his worlds were self-contained enough that they now feel like alternate histories where people still use cassettes rather than a failed attempt at predicting the future. Whatever the reason, you owe it to yourself to at least take a look at Burning Chrome, an early short story collection that shows him at his strongest.