Ah, the Nintendo. A glorious box of memories. We all have our favorites, right? But let's talk about something a little niche. Something that might make you tilt your head and think, "Wait a minute..."
I'm talking about that little button. The one right next to the Select button. You know the one. It's so unassuming. So… quiet.
On the classic NES controller, we had the D-Pad for movement. We had A and B for all our jumping and shooting needs. And then, we had Start and Select. They felt important. Like the captains of the button ship.
But what about the other one? The often-forgotten comrade? The silent observer? It had a job, surely! It wasn't just there for decoration. Or was it?
Let's call it… the Mystery Button. Or maybe the Placeholder Button. Because for the longest time, I felt like it was just… there. Waiting for its moment to shine. A moment that, in many games, never truly arrived.
Think about Super Mario Bros.. You're stomping Goombas, grabbing mushrooms. A to jump, B to run. Start to pause and check your score. Select to switch characters, maybe? (Wait, did that happen? My memory is hazy).
And that fourth button? What was its noble purpose in the Mushroom Kingdom? Was it to… admire the scenery? To contemplate the existential dread of a plumber constantly battling a giant turtle?
It’s an unpopular opinion, I know. Many of you are probably yelling at your screens right now. "But it did something!" you cry. And maybe, just maybe, you're right. But the feeling remains.
There’s a certain magic to the simplicity of older games. No complicated menus. No online leaderboards to stress about. Just pure, unadulterated gameplay. And within that simplicity, some buttons felt more crucial than others.
The D-Pad was the heart. The A and B buttons were the muscle. Start was the pause for breath. And Select… well, Select felt like the strategist. The one who changed things up.
But the other one? It felt like the intern. The one who was still learning the ropes. Or perhaps, the one who was just happy to be included in the team photo.
I remember playing The Legend of Zelda. You had your sword. You had your bombs. You had your magical boomerang. Start to check your inventory. Select to equip items, I think? My fingers would dance across the controller, a frantic ballet of button presses.
And then, there it was. That little button. Just… sitting there. Looking innocent. Did it control the wind? Did it summon a helpful fairy? In my young mind, the possibilities were endless, yet the reality seemed… underwhelming.
It's a peculiar kind of nostalgia, isn't it? Not just for the games themselves, but for the very feel of the controller. The satisfying click of each button. The way it fit into your hands. The shared experience of huddled friends, all focused on that glowing screen.
And in that shared experience, we all developed our own little quirks and theories about these buttons. Did anyone else have a specific button they always pressed first, just out of habit? Was it the Select button for you? Or maybe… the Mystery Button?
Perhaps it's a testament to the genius of the NES that even a button with a seemingly minor role could still spark such discussion and, dare I say, affection. It was part of the family, even if it wasn't the star of the show.
We’ve all been there. Staring at the screen, trying to figure out how to progress. Frantically mashing every button combination. And in those moments, you learn what each button actually does. But for that one button… its true purpose sometimes remained a delightful enigma.
It's like that one friend in a group who's always there, but you can't quite pinpoint their specific talent. They’re just… a good presence. A supportive presence. That was the Mystery Button.
Think about it. How many times did you actually need that fourth button to succeed? In most of the iconic NES games, it felt like A, B, Start, and Select did all the heavy lifting. The real workhorses.
And that's what makes it so charming. It wasn't a bad button. It was just… a different kind of button. One that played a supporting role. The unsung hero, perhaps? Or maybe just the friendly neighbor.
Maybe its true purpose was to teach us patience. To teach us that not everything needs to be immediately utilized. Sometimes, things are just there. And that’s okay.
It's funny how our brains fill in the gaps, isn't it? We knew it was there. We saw it. We even, on occasion, pressed it. But its function often dissolved into the blur of intense gameplay.
So, the next time you find yourself reminiscing about the golden age of Nintendo, give a little nod to that button. The one nestled beside Select. The one that might not have had the most glorious of jobs, but was nonetheless an integral part of the NES experience.
It’s a button that holds a special, if slightly vague, place in our gaming hearts. A reminder of simpler times. And a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most memorable things are the ones we can't quite explain.
It’s the button that made us think, “What is this thing?” And the answer, for so many of us, was simply: Nintendo. That’s what it was. A tiny, clickable piece of that incredible magic.
And that, my friends, is a pretty good job if you ask me. A truly, wonderfully, Nintendo kind of job.
