I can’t even remember how many times I’ve fallen asleep while gaming. Not because I got tired of playing or anything like that, but because, without even realizing it, I knew I was somewhere safe. Somewhere I could call home.
There are a lot of moments where this happens to me. Sometimes it’s inside a save room from Resident Evil 4, sometimes at Firelink Shrine from Dark Souls, sometimes on the main menu of The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion or Persona 4. But whenever I think about peace inside videogames, the first thing that comes to mind is the menu of the PlayStation 2.
It’s incredible how that console manages to feel so simple and so welcoming at the same time. From the moment it boots up with that unforgettable sound, to the settings and memory card submenu with those strangely satisfying selection effects. But the true heart of that menu, at least for me, was always the clock screen.
There’s something almost hypnotic about it. The dark emptiness, the ambient space-like sounds, the little floating spheres slowly moving around while absolutely nothing happens. The feeling of a silent late night. The comfort of staring at an empty screen where your mind could finally rest.
Still, I have to admit that my true champion of accidental naps was always the Snes Station menu. To give you an idea, if I fell asleep ten times on the PS2 menu, then I probably did it thirty times there. And the weirdest part is that it never happened because I was bored. It was the exact opposite. I was just too comfortable.
Maybe that’s what I love most about videogames: that feeling of comfort that starts even before the gameplay itself.
It begins the moment you decide to let go of every worry for a few hours and sink into another world. Picking up the game case, looking at the cover, reading the manuals and little papers inside, taking the disc out carefully and placing it into the console. The small click-clack sounds, the power button being pressed, the fan starting to spin, the disc slowly being read.
Those things may seem small nowadays, but back then they were part of the experience.
Maybe that’s why I still have such a strong connection to the PlayStation 3. Not just because of the games, but because of the entire experience surrounding it. The XMB sounds, the soft system effects, the noise of the disc going in and ejecting from the console. A lot of times I would put the disc in before even turning the system on just so I could hear the music that played when highlighting the game on the menu. The game I did this with the most was Minecraft. The moment that music started playing, I instantly traveled back in time. For a few seconds I stopped being who I am today and became a kid again, sitting in front of the TV without a single concern other than deciding what to build in that world.
And maybe that’s exactly what I miss most about older consoles: they turned the simple act of starting a videogame into a ritual.
The TV lighting up a dark room, the console slowly waking up, the soft sounds filling the silence of the night… and then the startup screen of the PlayStation finally playing.
Very few intros can transport someone somewhere so specific that quickly.
And sometimes I didn’t even need to open a game at all.
Just sitting there and staring at the menu was enough.
Honestly, I was never the type to fall asleep with the controller still in my hands. Most of the time I was simply sitting there, listening to the ambient sounds and looking at the screen until I drifted off without noticing. And somehow I always woke up in the exact same spot. After all, I would never choose a dangerous area to leave my character standing around for hours.
Certain menus, hubs and save rooms were never just waiting screens. They were safe places. Places where your mind could rest after exploring worlds that were chaotic, dangerous or simply too loud.
And sometimes that comfort was so strong that music wasn’t even necessary.
You would turn the console on, sit on the menu for a while and slowly fall into such a deep state of peace that your eyes would start closing on their own. It felt like your brain understood that, for a few minutes at least, there was nothing to worry about anymore.
That reminds me of one night when I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t fall asleep again. Thinking a quick gaming session might help, I turned on my PlayStation 4 since I assumed I’d stay awake for hours anyway. But after hearing the system sounds and sitting on the menu for a few minutes, I accidentally fell asleep for around ten minutes. And somehow, that alone was enough for me to go back to bed and sleep peacefully for the rest of the night.
And maybe the explanation behind all of this is much simpler than it seems.
It’s not exhaustion.
It’s safety.
The first time I truly felt that was while playing Super Mario World, specifically on the world map before selecting a stage. There was something unbelievably peaceful about that screen. A comforting feeling that’s hard to explain. Looking back now, maybe that’s where all of this started.
Ever since I was a kid, I tried to take advantage of every chance I had to play. Certain menus, songs and environments became permanently engraved in my memory. I still clearly remember afternoons spent playing Mortal Kombat: Armageddon with friends while trying to guess which characters would appear on the menu next.
But there was always a huge difference between playing with friends and playing alone.
With friends, I wanted to enjoy every second of the moment. But alone… alone was different. Sometimes the world inside that game was the company I needed at that exact moment.
Not as an escape from reality, but as part of it. Even if those worlds weren’t real, they still became my reality for a few hours. Maybe that’s why I never liked disappointing NPCs or making cruel choices for no reason. I cared about those places. Those songs. Those strangely alive digital people.
And some memories simply stay with you forever.
Even today, I still like visiting Lon Lon Ranch in The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time just to hear Malon singing. Or stopping by the windmill to listen to Song of Storms. In the same way that I enjoy climbing mountains in Grand Theft Auto V just to sit there looking at the scenery while the in-game radio quietly plays in the background. Or sitting on a rooftop in Assassin's Creed simply watching people walk through the city.
Sometimes the best way to play a game was simply to exist inside its world for a few minutes.
And maybe that’s why certain songs affect us in such strange ways.
Piranha Plant's Lullaby, for example, always gave me a feeling I could never explain. Even though I was born after Super Mario 64 came out, that song always felt familiar somehow, almost like I had heard it long before actually playing the game for the first time.
I’m not superstitious or anything like that, but sometimes I like imagining that maybe I loved videogames in another life too. And maybe that feeling was so strong that it somehow crossed time itself and stayed hidden somewhere inside me.
Of course, nowadays a lot of people look for this same comfort through their phones, computers or MP3 players instead. And honestly, I completely understand that.
Who hasn’t fallen asleep listening to Forest Interlude, Zelda's Lullaby or Corridors of Time?
Or those ten-hour PS2 menu videos, rain playlists, ambient videogame soundscapes or city noises from games. I’ve personally spent countless hours listening to the street ambience from Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas almost like it was white noise.
Because in the end, the effect is almost always the same.
Your body relaxes. Your thoughts slow down. Memories quietly begin to return. And for a few minutes, you feel safe again.
Nowadays life is busier. Getting older brings responsibilities, routines, exhaustion and worries that simply didn’t exist back then. I can’t really spend an entire hour sleeping on a game menu anymore like I used to. But every now and then, I still like allowing myself twenty or thirty minutes of pure nothingness. Just me, an old menu screen, a peaceful song and that comforting feeling of being home once again.
And maybe that’s what these sounds truly represent to me.
Not just nostalgia.
But immersion. Presence. Appreciation for the moment being lived.
Because some games we truly finish.
But others quietly continue taking care of us forever.
