If there's one NES game that feels genuinely alien, it's Metroid. Released in 1986 by Nintendo, this dark, atmospheric action-adventure didn't just give us a new hero—it created an entire genre. Playing as Samus Aran (though you'd never know it on that first playthrough), you're dropped into a vast, hostile planet with nothing but a blaster and a growing sense of dread.
Metroid is nonlinear, open-ended exploration at its finest. You start on Planet Zebes with a feeble arm cannon and a dream: defeat the Mother Brain and stop the Space Pirates from using Metroids as weapons. The planet is a sprawling maze of tunnels, rooms, and hazards—Brinstar, Norfair, Tourian, Kraid's Lair, Ridley's Hideout. There are no guides, no NPCs giving directions, just you and a map that gradually fills in as you explore.
The gameplay revolves around acquiring power-ups that let you access new areas. The Morph Ball lets you curl into a ball and roll through tight spaces (and plant bombs). The Screw Attack turns you into a spinning death ball. The High Jump Boots, the Varia Suit, the Ice Beam—each item not only makes you stronger but fundamentally changes what parts of the map are reachable. This is the core of the "Metroidvania" loop: you return to earlier areas with new abilities to uncover secrets you couldn't reach before.
Combat is simple but satisfying. You aim your arm cannon, shoot, and dodge. Enemies range from the wobbly Ripper to the terrifying Metroids themselves—those jellyfish-like creatures that drain your energy rapidly and can only be killed with the Ice Beam. The bosses are memorable: Kraid's huge body and spiked claws, Ridley's swoops and fireballs, the final Mother Brain battle that's as much about pattern recognition as firepower.
The atmosphere is arguably Metroid's greatest strength. The music by Hirokazu "Hip" Tanaka is eerie, ambient, and minimalist—the title theme feels like you're stepping into an ancient, abandoned world. Many screens are completely silent, broken only by your footsteps and the hum of your suit. The color palette is mostly blues, purples, and greens, with that distinctive black-on-blue Statue Room that still gives me chills. There's a loneliness to Metroid that few games replicate. You're truly alone on this hostile planet.
And then there's the twist. When you finally defeat Mother Brain and escape before the planet explodes, you think you're done. But the canon ending reveals Samus is a woman—a revelation that shocked players in 1986 and made Samus one of gaming's first prominent female protagonists. It's not just a gimmick; it adds layers to the solitary experience. This mysterious, armored figure you've controlled the whole time has a story, even if it's mostly told through environment and subtle cues.
Metroid wasn't a massive seller at first, but its influence is undeniable. Along with Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, it birthed the Metroidvania genre. The emphasis on exploration, ability-gated progression, and atmosphere over hand-holding has inspired countless games—from Hollow Knight to Ori to modern indie titles. The original Metroid is pure, unadulterated discovery. Every new power-up feels like a key turning in a lock. Every hidden passage you find rewards your curiosity.
Is it perfect? It's definitely rough around the edges. The password system is clunky. Some of the item locations are absurdly hidden (looking at you, endless hidden passages in Brinstar). And without a map, you'll get lost more times than you'd like. But that's part of the charm—the frustration is part of the satisfaction when you finally figure out where that one missing missile tank is.
If you've never played Metroid, it's worth experiencing just to understand where so much of modern game design comes from. It's slow, methodical, and frequently unnerving. It doesn't hold your hand. And when you finally see Samus's face at the end, that moment still lands. This is classic design at its most influential: a game that asked "what if the player had to figure it out?" and changed the medium forever.
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