I hear talk of people who refuse to replay old games, on the grounds that old games are never as fun as they recall. These villains, if they exist at all, are not actually people, but impostor robots--let's call them "Cylons"--attempting to subvert everything that is right and good about human society (which, admittedly, ain't much). When they say that old games are never as fun as they recall, what they mean is that old games are not as much fun as the games of today. I think they're wrong, and I'm willing to stake their claim to humanity on the strength of my conviction.

What, are you not convinced by my outlandish rhetoric? Oh, fine. Let's have a look at an old game. I choose the arcade classic Golden Axe.

Golden Axe, developed by SEGA and released on various platforms in 1989, is a startling corroboration of the theory that when people get together in large groups--as when they assemble at craft fairs, engage in political rallies, or even form into teams in order to develop video games--they lose their sanity. If the overall rationality of our species were ever to go on trial, we'd better hope the prosecution doesn't present Golden Axe as evidence, lest whatever being that is fit to preside over such a tribunal consign us to an eternity spent playing Tetris as remedial therapy.

Golden Axe is a side-scrolling, faux-Medieval fighting game in which you may perform three noteworthy functions: attack, jump, and cast magic. Jump-attacks, running attacks, and backward spin-attacks are all possible, depending largely upon your ability to use the D-pad in conjunction with the other buttons. Attacking repeatedly will initiate a combo from which enemies will have a hard time breaking free, but the enemies possess this same offensive ability, and some of them are quite challenging. In terms of its mechanics of play, the game does not aspire to anything beyond wanton combat and the severing of foes from their lives.

In every other respect than this, Golden Axe represents a falling-out from competent minds. You may play as one of three colorful characters. Ax Battler is a beefy Conan-type, who, I should note, wields a sword, not an axe. Gilius Thunderhead is a bearded dwarf in a green tunic, and, naturally, it is he who brandishes the twibill. Tyris Flare is the nearly naked female who specializes in magic. As with so many female characters in old, sprite-based fighting games, if you pause the game at just the right moment, you'll catch an inconclusive glimpse of her naughty bits. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

In order to cast spells, such as the swirling fiery demons of death, the dancing blue lights of death, or the miniature nuclear explosions of death, you must first collect magic potions from tiny, thieving gnomes by smashing them with your weapon until they drop their stash. The potions are not called "potions" at all; they are simply called "pot." This abbreviation is no silly coincidence; or at least, it is not only that. It explains how the game's developers (or translators) arrived at such a mind-boggling plot, and it also suggests the best means by which to enjoy the between-missions narrative nonsense.

It seems a bad man named Death Adder has stolen away the king and queen and usurped the throne--all standard stuff. What I fail to understand is why the heroes must fight in a village on the back of a giant turtle. Or why, after the turtle is cleansed, combat then resumes on the back of a giant eagle (which poor bird is inexplicably named "Fiend's Path"). What stake could Death Adder's minions possibly have in these gargantuan beasts, to infest them so? Most confusing is that the game never explains why these things happen; it only expects you to accept that they do. This shroud of perplexity persists all the way to the fight against the final boss, Death Adder, who, once you've dealt enough damage to him, falls to the ground as his axe spins in the air and embeds itself in his own chest.

Believe it or not, things only get really crazy once you kill Death Adder and the final credits roll. This is easily the most eccentric credit sequence I've ever seen in a game. It begins by listing every single character, good and bad alike, along with their pertinent stats, including height and weight. Why should we care that Lt. Bitter weighs 271 pounds, or that the waddling beast Chicken-Leg measures 8'10" from tail to--uhh, is that a beak of some kind?--right, tail to beak? For that matter, take a look at that name: Chicken-Leg, for chrissakes! Other interesting names include General Heartland, Sgt. Malt and Sgt. Hop (get it?), and Longmoan. (Yes, Longmoan.)

Once the dramatis personae has run its course, the game cuts to a new scene of the dwarf Gilius playing baseball with one of the bad guys, named Heninger, while Ax Battler and Tyris Flare recline grumpily in the background, looking for all the world as though they've just experienced a lovers' quarrel. The interesting thing about Gilius' baseball is that it's formed of jumbled letters, all tangled together like an alphabetical Gordian knot. He pitches it to Heninger repeatedly, and when Heninger strikes the ball it shatters, the pieces coalescing in the sky to form words. I'm pretty sure that these words correspond to the names of the game's developers, but it's honestly hard to say. They include, among others, Moto Cbx1000 and Waka (software designers), Kyonsy Kyonsy and Roco (visual effects), S2 and Vinyl Boy (assistant programmers), and Bros 400 (director). As these names flash on the screen, incredibly tacky game-show music plays in the background, which contrasts sharply with the epic score of the rest of the game.

There is something altogether endearing about these ridiculous names and surreal situations, extraneous stats and translator's gaffes. Golden Axe's core gameplay model is certainly sound enough, but it is only through its whimsical quirkiness that it outstrips the other games of its type, such as Final Fight and Streets of Rage. I am saddened to think that, since Japanese games nowadays tend to be more uniform and polished than the games of old, children who begin gaming today may never experience the crudity of a game like Golden Axe.

Yes, Golden Axe is crude, repetitive, simple, and perhaps even intentionally nonsensical. It is all these things, and yet, it and the many older games that display similar attributes are an essential part of my gamer's life. These old games are like nothing available on today's market, and this fact should by itself justify any interest in them. But they serve not only as historical reminders of the way games used to be; they are also fun, challenging, and addictive in their own right; hilarious to play while chemically stimulated; and, at times, they can be downright sublime, owing to their rather explicit refusal to take themselves seriously, to tell a coherent story, or even to make sense. To play Golden Axe is to submit to Golden Axe, i.e., to accept the gaming experience as it is offered.

If anything, Golden Axe has only grown more fun with time, since each passing year casts it ever more so in contradistinction with the popular games du jour, so that it is even more delightful today than in the past. Anyone who disagrees is a Cylon.