I have never claimed to be a “gamer.” Given that I only ever truly played “Super Mario,” I didn’t feel deserving of the same title that people fluent in “Minecraft,” “The Legend of Zelda” or “Halo” held. I was only familiar with one tiny corner of the gaming world, but I was completely and utterly immersed in it.
Every Saturday morning I’d wake up before sunrise and quietly race to the living room. I wanted guaranteed access to the TV, and I wanted to be alone in the dark and quiet space. In spite of the serenity, I was wired, eagerly waiting for the Wii to load and bring me my favorite sound: the “Mario Kart” theme music. Though I enjoyed every game in the Super Mario universe, “Mario Kart” was my favorite; it was more intense than the Super Mario Nintendo DS game and gave me more control than the Super Mario Galaxy games (the Wii steering wheel had nothing to do with it).
I would play “Mario Kart” until my parents woke up and I was forced to clock out. For hours on end, I would play Grand Prix after Grand Prix — four-game tournaments against the computer — only moving on to the next after scoring first in each round. Maybe this should’ve been a sign of my later struggles with perfectionism, but at the time, it wasn’t really winning that kept me playing, but having so much uninterrupted fun. (OK, maybe winning was a contributing factor to my addiction).
As I grew older and out of my “Lion King 1½” phase, neither movies nor television really held my attention — at least not in the way Mario Kart did. I wasn’t racing to finish my homework in time to watch the newest episode of “Victorious” or “Good Luck Charlie”; no, I was rushing to get in a race or two before bed. I did have something to show for my unwavering devotion to the game — I unlocked every possible character and vehicle, as well as the other miscellaneous rewards. Rosalina, one of the most difficult characters to unlock, was my favorite player. I was both proud of and stubborn about my achievements; I wouldn’t let anyone else play in my saved file in case they messed up my stats. Instead, I’d play in my sibling or dad’s save to unlock their desired characters before moving back into my own.
Though the Grand Prix tournaments were my favorite, I would log several hours doing Time Trials as practice for the computerized competitions — it was all incredibly serious to me. I’d compare the speeds of different vehicles, (I always preferred the bikes to the karts — they’re faster and easier to maneuver), their accelerations and their drift types (inward drifting was the best), to determine which vehicle was the best overall choice and which ones were better for certain terrains, like ice or sand. Mario Kart had my full attention, and it has kept my attention for years.
Playing “Mario Kart” is the only art that brings me back to this nostalgic state of mind. When I rewatch old TV series or even reread books (the art form I am most partial to), I don’t feel anything beyond amusement concerning my past taste. Video games, though, transport me back to those early quiet mornings in my living room, adrenaline pumping, eyes wide open.
Over Thanksgiving Break, I had the luxury of playing my sibling’s Nintendo Switch after begging them to download “Mario Kart.” I itched to play it throughout Thanksgiving dinner; I counted down the minutes of The Game until I could get my greedy paws on its controls. Just as I did when I was young, I played the Grand Prix tournaments one after the other, following my respective first-place trophies. I jumped up and down when the confetti rained over the characters and shoved the screen in my parents’ faces when my highlight reels rolled. I needed them to bask in my glory with me and give me an approving nod, which is exactly what I asked of them back in 2010.
“Mario Kart” brings me both relief and joy when I play it today. I can vividly remember how good it felt to win, to dodge turtle shells and banana peels and be granted with a bullet boost in times of strife. Though I still don’t think I qualify as a gamer, I know I’ll be a “Mario Kart” player for life.
Managing Arts Editor Lillian Peace can be reached at pearcel@umich.edu.