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The Titans of the Newsstand

Every 90s gamer had a side. You were either Team Nintendo, Team “I play everything,” or Team “I want my magazine to yell at me about how awesome games are.” The newsstand was a battlefield for your attention, and three giants ruled it.

Nintendo Power

If you bled Nintendo red—if Mario was your hero, Zelda your quest, and Samus your badass role model—Nintendo Power was your bible. It started small: a free newsletter for the “Nintendo Fun Club.” But it grew into something bigger. Something that felt like a secret handshake.

It wasn’t just reviews. It was art. Remember those hand-drawn Zelda maps? They’d unfold into full-size posters—you’d tape them to your bedroom wall, trace the dungeons with your finger, and plan your next play session. For Mega Man, they’d break down every boss’s pattern: “Jump when he shoots fire, then hit his head—trust us.”

But here’s the thing: it had personality. The “Howard & Nester” comic strip? Howard was the chill Nintendo guy, Nester was the mischievous kid who’d mess up (and then learn). It felt like getting tips from a cool older brother, not a corporate manual. And “Player’s Pulse”? That was our Reddit before Reddit. You’d send in a letter (“I beat Super Mario World in 2 hours!”) or a high score, and if they printed it? You were famous. At least in your middle school cafeteria.

Flipping through Nintendo Power wasn’t just reading. It was joining a club. One where everyone spoke the same language: “Have you seen the new Pokémon preview?” “Did you get that Metroid strategy guide?”

Electronic Gaming Monthly (EGM)

If Nintendo Power was the polished, official voice? EGM was the street-smart insider. The one who knew all the gossip. It covered everything: Nintendo, Sega, Neo Geo, that weird TurboGrafx-16 your cousin had. No favoritism. Just straight talk.

Its claim to fame? The “Review Crew.” Four editors, each giving a score (1 to 10) and their two cents. This was genius. You didn’t just get one opinion—you got four. And you learned their quirks: Sushi-X loved fighting games, so if he gave Street Fighter II a 9, you knew it was a banger. Another editor might hate RPGs, so if they liked Chrono Trigger, you knew it was really good. It felt like sitting on a couch with friends, arguing about whether a game was worth your allowance.

EGM also had the best rumors. The “Quartermann” column? It was like gaming tabloids, but we believed every word. “Rumor: Sega’s making a new Sonic game with 3D levels!” “Rumor: Nintendo and Sony are working on a console together!” We’d whisper these to each other at recess, like we were sharing top-secret info.

And let’s not forget the April Fools’ pranks. The most famous one? The “Sheng Long” hoax. EGM claimed you could unlock a secret character in Street Fighter II by doing this impossible sequence: beat the game without losing a round, then hold down all the buttons while the credits roll. Me and my buddy Jake spent an entire weekend trying it. We yelled at each other when we messed up. We ate cold pizza. We never unlocked him. Turns out, he didn’t exist. But that’s how powerful EGM was—we’d spend hours chasing a lie, just because they said it was real.

GamePro

EGM was serious. GamePro was the friend who showed up to your house, bouncing off the walls, yelling “YOU HAVE TO PLAY THIS GAME RIGHT NOW.” It leaned into fun—unapologetically.

The writers didn’t use real names. They were characters: “The GamePro,” “Sluggo,” “Hawk.” You weren’t reading a review—you were getting advice from a gaming legend. And their “ProTips”? Gold. Little snippets scattered throughout the pages: “In Mario Kart, drift around corners for a speed boost!” “In Donkey Kong Country, jump on Diddy first to reach higher platforms!” I’d circle every single one with a neon highlighter, then tape the magazine to my TV stand for easy reference.

But the best part? The smiley-face rating system. No boring numbers. Just cartoon faces: a grimace (bad), a neutral smirk (meh), a wide-eyed grin (AWESOME). You could flip to a review, glance at those faces, and know if a game was worth your savings. Graphics had a grin? Sound had a grin? You were sold.

GamePro was loud. It was colorful. It was for the kid who didn’t care about “deep analysis”—they just cared about having fun. And man, did it deliver.

The Composition of a Perfect Issue

Opening a new gaming magazine wasn’t just flipping pages. It was a ritual. You knew the order by heart. Every section felt like a new surprise.

First up: News and Intel. This was the tease. The “sneak peek” at the future. Pages filled with grainy “spy shots”—photos taken from TV screens at Japanese trade shows, blurry enough that you had to squint. “Is that a new Pokémon?” “Does that look like Sonic in 3D?” It didn’t matter if the pics were bad. They were gold. This is where rumors started. I once spent a week staring at a blurry shot of what EGM called the “Nintendo PlayStation” (spoiler: it never came out) and trying to convince my dad we needed to pre-order it. Spoiler 2: We didn’t.

Next: Previews. This was where the hype grew. A few pages dedicated to one upcoming game—bigger screenshots, actual details. “Super Mario 64 lets you jump into paintings!” “Final Fantasy VII has 3D graphics!” I’d read these until the pages were worn. I’d circle sentences like “revolutionary gameplay” and show my friends. This is where Christmas lists were born. I begged my parents for an N64 for six months straight because of a Mario 64 preview. They finally caved. Worth it.

Then—the heart of the magazine: Reviews. The moment of truth. Games that’d been teased for months? Now they were put to the test. Editors gave scores. And those scores? They felt like law. If EGM gave a game “Game of the Month,” you knew you had to buy it. If Nintendo Power said a Zelda spin-off was “a must-play,” you saved every penny. I’d read reviews twice—once to get the gist, once to soak in every detail. “The soundtrack is epic!” “The controls are clunky.” These words shaped what I played. They introduced me to RPGs (thanks, EGM’s Chrono Trigger review) and made me skip games I thought I’d love (sorry, Bubsy 3D).

After reviews: Strategy Guides. These were lifesavers. No online walkthroughs back then—if you got stuck on a dungeon or a boss, you either asked a friend (who probably didn’t know either) or turned to the magazine. I once spent three days stuck on Ganon in Ocarina of Time until I found the Nintendo Power guide. It had a full-page map of his castle, plus tips: “Dodge his fireballs, then hit his tail with the Master Sword.” I beat him that night. I still have that guide, dog-eared and stained with soda.

Finally—at the very back, the holy grail: Tricks of the Trade. The cheat code section. This was why some of us bought the magazine. Pages full of secrets: invincibility codes, level skips, hidden characters. Finding a code for a game you were stuck on? Felt like getting a superpower. I memorized the Konami code (Up, Up, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start) when I was 10. I wrote it on a sticky note and taped it to my NES controller. It got me through Contra, Gradius, even Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II.

I once submitted a cheat code to GamePro—something I found in Super Mario Bros. 3 that let you skip a world. They never printed it. But I still checked every issue for months, just in case. That’s how much these codes meant. They didn’t just help you beat the game—they let you own it.

The Power of the Printed Cheat Code

Cheat codes in the 90s? They weren’t just a “nice-to-have.” They were part of the game. They were whispers on the playground (“Hey, I got a code for infinite lives in Mega Man!”). They were the reward for flipping to the back of the magazine first.

These codes were lifelines. Remember Contra? That game was hard. Like, throw-your-controller-at-the-wall hard. But a code for 30 lives? Suddenly, you weren’t just surviving—you were winning. You could see the ending. You could brag to your friends.

But cheats weren’t just easy mode. They were keys to hidden worlds. Debug mode, for example? In Sonic the Hedgehog, you could turn it on and fly around levels, find secret areas the developers hid, even listen to the entire soundtrack in a sound test. It felt like you were breaking the rules—and getting away with it. I once spent an hour in debug mode in Sonic 2, placing rings everywhere and making Tails fly into the sky. It was silly. It was useless. It was the most fun I’d had in weeks.

The magazines were the gatekeepers of this knowledge. If a magazine printed a code, we believed it. No fact-checking. No “is this real?” We just tried it. And when it worked? We felt like insiders. Like we knew something no one else did.

Even the lies were powerful. Remember the Sheng Long hoax? Yeah, it was a prank. But me and Jake still talk about that weekend we spent trying to unlock him. We laugh about how stupid we were. But deep down? We loved it. Because EGM made us feel like part of a secret. Like we were in on the joke—even when we weren’t.

The Lasting Influence of a Pre-Internet Voice

You might think these magazines are just relics. Old paper, yellowed pages, filled with info you can find online in 2 seconds. But they’re more than that. They didn’t just report on gaming—they built it.

Back then, gaming wasn’t “mainstream.” It was for kids in basements, for teens who skipped homework to play Final Fantasy. These magazines gave it legitimacy. They said, “This isn’t just a toy. This is art. This is culture.” They made gaming feel like something worth caring about.

They also built community. Before Discord, before Twitch, before you could find a gaming group online—these magazines connected us. The letters section? I once sent a letter to Nintendo Power about how much I loved Link’s Awakening. They didn’t print it, but I still felt like I’d talked to someone who got it. The fan art? Seeing a kid from California draw Mario and Zelda—you realized you weren’t alone. We all loved the same things. We all struggled with the same bosses. We all felt that rush when we found a cheat code.

And let’s talk about modern gaming media. You know those YouTubers who yell about games, who give tips, who feel like your friend? They’re the new GamePro writers. Those review channels that break down every game, with multiple opinions? That’s the “Review Crew,” reborn. Even the hype cycles—previews, teasers, “leaks”—they all started with these magazines.

I still have my old Nintendo Power collection. It’s in a box in my attic, pages stuck together, covers creased. Every now and then, I pull one out. I flip to the Zelda map. I read the Howard & Nester comic. I smile. Because it’s not just a magazine. It’s a piece of my childhood. A reminder of a time when gaming felt like a secret. A time when the mail was the most exciting part of the day.

Every gamer had their favorite. I was Team Nintendo Power, but I’d sneak EGM at the library (don’t tell my mom). What about you? Which magazine did you flip through until the pages fell out? Which cheat code did you memorize? Post your pick in the comments—I’d love to hear it.