@NintendoAmerica
N
nintendo
'Nintendo is a lone wolf company. Recently, I've been deeply feeling that it is walking a solitary path.' -Hiroshi Yamauchi, 3rd President of Nintendo.
On the forthcoming launch of the Switch 2, I find myself with exactly one game I'm interested in—Mario Kart World. The rest? I already own them on Steam Deck or they're coming to the current Switch anyway (Metroid, I'm looking at you). Even my kids aren't excited, and that's telling. That tells me Nintendo's magic trick isn't working anymore. It's not exotic. It's not cool. It's corporate. They've failed to sell this thing to their actual audience.
The pricing? Too high. The offerings? Thin. The momentum? Manufactured. I'm calling it now: once the honeymoon period is over, this console is going to land with a thud. They'll scramble to patch it with nostalgia and marketing glitter, but the damage is already done.
Worse still, their whole posture is off. Physical key cards that kill collectibility? Legal threats and system bricking? Even though I don't pirate, the tone is hostile. The "Nintendo Ninjas" have become proud samurai warlords marching across the countryside, strict orders in hand, reminding the peasants who's in charge. It's authoritarian cosplay dressed up as IP protection—and it's ugly.
All of this overshadows the actual fun of gaming. It's not selling joy anymore. It's selling control.
As a lifelong Nintendo fan, this hurts. I mean, Super Nintendo World is opening just four hours from me at Epic Universe—and yet no one in my family wants to go. Not even the kids. And me? Even though I'm the only one remotely interested, I'm in no rush. Why?
Maybe it's because it's already been mapped out a thousand times over on YouTube. Or maybe video games were never meant to be physically walked through, but privately experienced. Internally. Spiritually. Whatever it is, something's… off. Not just one thing. A multitude of things. It's like they've manufactured their own anti-hype and don't even realize it.
But they will.
Oh, they will.
I grew up dreaming of working for Nintendo of America. My backup? Sega of America. Both had toll-free numbers I'd burn through daily just to talk to someone—anyone—about games. Not for tips; I had Nintendo Power for that. I called for connection. It was human. It was real. It was magic.
That magic is gone. Not just for me. For a whole generation of kids who dreamed universes with a Nintendo logo stamped on the stars.
I was an only child with working alcoholic parents. Video games weren't just escapism. They were rescue missions. Nintendo didn't just entertain me—it saved me. It gave me peace. It gave me something no one else could: hope. And like a fool, I tried to return the favor by saving my parents from their own wreckage.
At 11, I was offered a true escape, and I said no. I stayed. I chose to fight. And Nintendo, with its stories of courage, wisdom, and power—like the Triforce itself—handed me a little wooden sword and a blue ring. And with those tools, I won. I ended the cycle. No alcohol. No drugs. No generational curse. Only imagination—wired through microchips, beamed through CRT screens.
Nintendo taught me to go inward. And it was by going inward that I found a way out.
Adults never understood. "Why spend all that time in front of a Nintendo?" they'd ask. But my generation had something different. The record player, the books, the radio—they all met and merged in that little plastic box and taught us how to dream, how to think, and how to fight.
And now, watching Nintendo drift into arrogance, I want to save them from themselves. I see the iceberg. Hell, they've already hit it. The water's rushing in deck by deck, and they're still up top sipping champagne and talking about cloud saves and Amiibos.
They've lost the dream. They've lost the spark that saved a kid like me all those years ago.
In Star Wars terms, I feel like Saw Gerrera.
This is the message: Save the dream. Save the Rebellion.
Am I the enemy now? Yeah. Maybe.
But I'll vote with my wallet. I'll post. I'll preach. I'll warn anyone who will listen that something is not right with the Big N.
To those buying this thing—this plastic shrine to anti-fun—I say this: This technological terror they've constructed is insignificant next to the power of the Force.
Buy it if you want. March to their beat. Put on the chains.
But mark my words—you'll regret it.
Not in years.
In weeks.
