Our story
Some kids grew up with bedtime stories. I grew up with loading screens.
My name is Aarron, and my earliest memories of technology aren't sleek or glamorous. They're the smell of warm plastic, the static hum of a CRT monitor, and the peculiar kind of patience you develop waiting for a Commodore 64 to load a game from a cassette tape — knowing it might take four minutes, and knowing it was absolutely worth it.
That little beige machine didn't just entertain me. It taught me that technology was something you could live inside — that a screen wasn't just a screen, it was a doorway.
Then came the Atari. Then a controller in my hands for the first time on a Super Nintendo — the weight of it, the satisfying click of those buttons, the moment Super Mario World's map screen appeared and felt like the whole world had opened up. Not long after, a Mega Drive entered the picture and Sonic taught me that speed could feel like freedom.
I wasn't just playing games. I was being shaped by them.
The machines changed. The consoles evolved. The graphics got sharper, the worlds got bigger, the stories got deeper. And through every generation — through every upgrade, every new release, every moment of sitting in front of a screen at 1am completely forgetting what time it was — that feeling from the Commodore never left. That feeling of a doorway.
Today, I sit at a setup that the kid with the cassette tape could never have imagined. A proper PC build. A PS5 that loads in seconds — seconds, Aarron, seconds — where once I sat counting ceiling tiles waiting for a game to be ready. The technology is unrecognisable. The feeling is identical.
That's what this is all about. Not the specs. Not the frames per second. The feeling. The same one that's been with me since I was a kid staring at a blinking cursor on a Commodore 64, wondering what this machine could do.
I've never stopped wondering. I never will.
