There is a specific frequency of sound that hits you the moment you step through the glass doors of a 1980s arcade. It is a chaotic symphony of synthesized explosions, digitized voice samples (" Finish Him! "), the rhythmic thwack-thwack of a trackball, and the sticky carpet squelch of spilled soda. For those of us who grew up clutching rolls of quarters, that sound is the sound of home.
In a real arcade, the clock is your enemy. Every tick is a quarter lost. Your goal is to extend your playtime (the "continue countdown") or to master the machine so efficiently that one credit lasts an hour. arcadrome
That infinite grid of code and collision detection? That recursive loop of input and reaction? There is a specific frequency of sound that
There is a specific frequency of sound that hits you the moment you step through the glass doors of a 1980s arcade. It is a chaotic symphony of synthesized explosions, digitized voice samples (" Finish Him! "), the rhythmic thwack-thwack of a trackball, and the sticky carpet squelch of spilled soda. For those of us who grew up clutching rolls of quarters, that sound is the sound of home.
In a real arcade, the clock is your enemy. Every tick is a quarter lost. Your goal is to extend your playtime (the "continue countdown") or to master the machine so efficiently that one credit lasts an hour.
That infinite grid of code and collision detection? That recursive loop of input and reaction?
