My first memory of the Nintendo Switch is about as mundane as it gets. I don’t recall unboxing it, powering it on for the first time, or bringing it to a rooftop party. Instead, I see myself sitting in my ex’s living room on a random weekday. As they cooked, I sat quietly as I climbed atop of my first Divine Beast in The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild.
I don’t remember this because it was a triumphant achievement that showed off what kind of spectacle my new next-gen console could pull off; I remember it because I was very depressed.
While Nintendo was starting a meteoric rise in March 2017, I was hurtling towards the ground faster than Link with a depleted stamina wheel. I had just come off a stressful election year marred by a wave of beloved celebrity deaths. The world felt like it was coming to an end, an alarmist thought that especially felt true as a new administration wreaked havoc on the United States come March. My personal life wasn’t going much better. My ambitions were non-existent and I was locked into a day job career that I never wanted. I was becoming more despondent by the day and I could sense that a breakup was imminent. It would be months until I’d go to therapy for the first time in my life, so all of this pent up anxiety that I tried to keep quiet bled into my Joy-cons as I gripped onto them for dear life.
I find myself reflecting on this small moment now as the Nintendo Switch 2’s June 5 release date looms. For the first time in eight years, I’ll unbox a brand new Nintendo console on that day. Its internal storage will be empty. My Samus avatar won’t greet me when I boot it up because I won’t have logged into my account yet. The tablet will be a blank canvas that I will fill over the next eight years of my life one download at a time. And though it’s an arbitrary moment in time born from cold boardroom meetings and clinical earnings calls, I see the start of a new console era as an opportunity to reinvent myself too.
If I look back through my life, I can map my development by the video game hardware I’ve owned. My Sega Genesis takes me back to the early days of my childhood spent playing Sonic the Hedgehog 2 with my brother before he got wrapped up in his own teenage angst. The GameCube conjures countless memories of the formative high school years that I spent bonding with my close friends over rounds of Super Smash Bros. Melee. I’m back in college when I think about the Wii, navigating physicality for the first time in both my relationships at the time and the video games I was playing. Each console, each handheld tells countless stories about where I have been and how I have evolved alongside the tech that followed me there.
That now weighs on me as I prepare to power down my Switch for what could be the final time in just a few weeks. My instinct has been to process that moment with a retrospective about the system, reflecting on the games that made it one of the best video game consoles of all time. Instead, I’ve found myself more and more focused on mapping my own generation. Who was I during this eight-year Switch era? What will be the snapshot I see when I think back to Super Mario Odyssey or Fire Emblem: Three Houses?
The answer doesn’t feel as simple as it once was when I was younger and console generations were shorter. I began that journey at rock bottom, hopeless and floundering amid societal collapse. The Switch would follow me through multiple breakups, several jobs, three apartments, the death of a close friend, and unprecedented moments in history that chipped away at my mental health. Just as the Switch is inseparable from a pandemic that defined its power, I can’t untangle those eight years from the waves of pain and uncertainty that washed over me between new game releases. If the Nintendo Switch 2 had launched in 2020, I’d be able to tell you with relative certainty that the Switch represented the worst years of my life.
But eight years is a very long time, much longer than these hardware time capsules usually hang around. A period that long is bound to bring arcs, both for the console and its players. Nintendo kept steady while riding a wave of momentum shifts due to a changing landscape around it, but my ride was different. While I started at the bottom, playing Breath of the Wild as an escape from the world around me, I began to rise. I started therapy and got a better job months after the Switch released, just when everything was at its most hopeless. I made a more serious career pivot in 2020, landing a dream job that put me on the path to a career in video game writing I’d always thought was unobtainable. I eventually landed here at Digital Trends and made a name for myself writing work that I’m proud of. I stumbled my way through relationships only to land into something more secure and healthy. I hit a peak alongside the Switch in 2023, the same year it would release the double whammy of The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom and Super Mario Bros. Wonder.
When I look into my Switch’s display now, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the black screen, I see an era of rebuilding. These were eight years that threw the challenges of adulthood at me and dared me to overcome them. It felt impossible in the moment, but I’m still here. Maybe I’m just looking too closely to find patterns, but I see a direct parallel to that story and Nintendo’s own. Like me, Nintendo was listless in its Wii U era. It had no idea where to go after the Wii’s success, just as I didn’t know how to turn the creative fulfillment of my college days into something sustainable in adulthood. It too was at rock bottom when the Switch released, in desperate need of a second act. Nintendo got one, and so did I.
If this is the start of a new era for Nintendo, who’s to say it can’t be another beginning for myself as well?
But our lives don’t stay the same for very long. Ahead of the Switch 2’s launch, I find myself in a similar low to the one I was in back in 2017. History has repeated itself as a mentally taxing election year has yielded the same president that made my life hell for the Switch’s first four years on the market. The career I built for myself is one strong wind away from tilting over as games media endures an intense period of contraction, one that destroyed Polygon, the website that gave me the dream job that catapulted me to success in 2020. Some days, I’m every bit as distant and despondent as I was back then. When I turn on my Switch 2 for the first time in a few weeks, it will feel cyclical in a way that’s bound to leave me overlooking just how much I’ve accomplished between launches.
But I’m trying to approach it with a bit more hope this time. If this is the start of a new era for Nintendo, who’s to say it can’t be another beginning for myself as well? I know that I’m capable of climbing out of despair, even as the biggest forces in the world fight against me. There will be change. I will undoubtedly pack my things into 50+ boxes again in between playing levels of the latest Mario game. I will fall out of touch with some friends and gain some new ones. Perhaps I’ll miss Nintendo’s big Switch 3 reveal in 2033 because I’ll be too busy nursing an injured pigeon during my shift at a bird rehabilitation center. Maybe the Switch 3 won’t happen at all as Nintendo moves on to its next bright idea after a disappointing generation that calls for a creative overhaul.
I can’t possibly know who I will be the moment I power my Switch 2 down for the last time. All I know is that Mario will probably be there at the finish line, looking not one day older than he does now while I greet him with a grayer beard. I’ll try not to be jealous of his eternal youth — some Italians just age better than others. Instead, I’ll embrace those differences, as grumpy as I no doubt will be in my middle age, as every change will be a sign that I’ve made it through another leg of an ongoing relay race. I’ll be ready to pass the controller to whichever version of me is up next when I get there.
