There are plenty of games that leave a mark on you. Some because they are brilliant, some because they arrive at the perfect time in your life, and some because they do something so unexpected that your brain never quite forgets it. This is about the last kind.
Way back when, only a month or so after Conker’s Bad Fur Day released, I managed to get my hands on a complete in box copy. This was a big deal. Not only because it was a Rare game at the height of their powers, but because Conker had a reputation. This was the rude one. The sweary one. The game everyone whispered about at school.
I played it with a friend, sprawled out on the floor, laughing constantly. The film references flew thick and fast, the jokes were ridiculous, and the whole thing felt like it was getting away with something it absolutely should not have been allowed to do. It was crude, clever, and completely unlike anything else on the Nintendo 64 at the time.
And then came the spooky chapter.
Up to that point, Conker had trained you to expect jokes. Even when it flirted with darker themes, it always undercut them with humour. So when the tone shifted, I did not take it seriously at first. I remember meeting Gregg the Grim Reaper for what must have been the third time, and he casually tells me I need to kill around a dozen zombies.
Fine. Whatever. Zombies are just enemies, right?
I jumped in, guns blazing, taking out zombified squirrel heads as they lurched towards me. My health was dropping fast, but I was having fun. The problem was the atmosphere. The music changed. The sound design changed. The constant breathing, groaning, and scraping noises started to get under my skin in a way I was not prepared for. Still, I pushed on, convinced I was handling it.
And then it happened.
Out of nowhere, at lightning speed, from the bottom right of the screen, a zombie lunged and grabbed Conker. There was no warning. No build-up. Just sudden movement, disgusting breathing noises, and the screen filling with something I absolutely did not want near me.
It scared the shit out of me. Properly. Both of us jumped. Laughter stopped instantly, replaced by that horrible feeling where your heart is racing and your body is reacting before your brain has caught up. For a split second, that game was not funny anymore.
That moment changed everything.
From that point onwards, I never faced those zombies on foot again. Ever. Instead, I found a safer strategy. I would perch Conker on top of a gravestone and take slow, easy shots from above, completely removing any chance of being surprised. It was not brave. It was not stylish. But it worked, and more importantly, it made me feel safe.
What I did not realise at the time was that this tiny moment had rewired how I play games.
Years later, playing Dead Space, I noticed something about myself. I move slowly. My gun is always up. Every corner is treated with suspicion. Every body on the floor gets shot again, just in case. Not because the game tells you to, but because some part of my brain learned, years ago, that danger can come from nowhere.
It is funny how specific these things are. I have played scarier games since. Games with better graphics, more intense sound design, and far more explicit horror. None of them hit me quite the same way as that single zombie grab in Conker’s Bad Fur Day. Maybe it was the contrast. Maybe it was because I did not expect it. Or maybe it was because I was younger and less prepared for games to cross that line.
Whatever the reason, that moment stuck.
Even now, I am cagey in games. I overprepare. I check corners. I assume the worst. All because, years ago, a rude little squirrel game decided to stop being funny for half a second and remind me that I was never really in control.
And honestly? I kind of love it for that.
Because sometimes, the moments that scar you are the ones you remember forever.