Petros Amoiridis

It was a fine Greek spring break morning in 1988. I was 14 years old. I had woken up, had my breakfast, and stepped out onto our front balcony to look outside.

The balcony was full of leafy green plants my mother loved to fill it with. She was great at keeping them alive. In contrast, nothing survives in my house—except my kids, my wife, and our dog. Thankfully.

From the balcony, I heard the neighborhood pigeons cooing. They reminded me that the days were getting hotter. Summer was close. I could smell it in the air.

I went back to my room and turned on my Amiga 500. I loaded a Mahoney & Kaktus music disk and returned to the balcony. I sat down and relaxed, listening to the tunes coming from my computer. The plants formed a natural wall around the edges of the balcony. I could see all the neighborhood activity, but no one could see me.

I had listened to two or three music tracks, when the phone started ringing. Our house back then was long and narrow. On one side, we had my room and my parent’s bedroom—which was also serving as the living room. The other side had the kitchen, my dad’s office, and the restroom. A long corridor was connecting the two sides. The phone was in my dad’s office.

Back in the ’80s, phones were attached to a landline. They were in the kitchen or central spot in the house. People calling knew they might have to wait a while before someone picked up—they understood that you might be coming all the way from the balcony through a long corridor.

I finally picked up and asked who was calling. It was a classmate who lived right across the street. We had never hung out at my place or his. He asked if I wanted to come over. He’d bought an Atari and wanted to show it to me. I said sure, then went to my room to get ready.

I turned off my Amiga 500 and covered it with a small tablecloth—the one I used to protect my beloved computer from dust. My mom had given it to me.

My Amiga 500 wasn’t on a nice proper desk. The monitor was on a small bamboo table. In front of that table, I had two boxes stacked on each other, covered with another tablecloth. Those were the boxes my Amiga came in. That’s where I had my Amiga on. The boxes were not very stable, so I had to be careful.

I got my spring clothes on and headed to my friend’s house. As I climbed the stairs, I wondered what this Atari computer would be like. It wasn’t an Atari ST—the famous rival of the Amiga back in the day—but rather a plain old Atari that used cartridges.

Entering the building, I noticed its distinctive aroma. Every building has its own signature smell. Nothing unpleasant, just unique. If you entered blindfolded, you could guess exactly which building you were in just from its scent.

I reached the top floor and rang the doorbell. My friend greeted me and immediately handed me a thick magazine with ATARI on the cover in large font. He had found a game listing we could type in to play. We agreed to take turns—one of us reading the code aloud, the other typing.

Back then, this was common. Magazines included code listings (usually in BASIC) you could manually type into your computer and run. Mostly games, but also simple applications. If your computer supported it, you could save your hard-earned game to a cassette or diskette. My friend’s Atari had no such luxury.

We spent the next hour typing in the listing, having no idea what game it was, whether we’d like it, or any way to save it afterward. But we didn’t care. Kids back then were used to this. Patience was abundant; instant gratification was not a thing.

My friend’s Atari also suffered from a lack of a proper desk. Households lucky enough to own a computer rarely had a dedicated spot for it. Computers lived on sofa tables, atop their cardboard boxes, under TV sets, shoe racks by the window—you name it. His was conveniently stashed beneath the TV set.

Finally, we reached the end of the listing and exchanged an excited glance. There was just one last word to type:

RUN

We hit RETURN.

Immediately, an error flashed up. We had a typo on line 930. Quickly flipping through the magazine, we found line 930 and both laughed—of course! It’s FOR, not GOR.

Running the game was always thrilling. We never knew what to expect. Sure, we knew it wouldn’t be spectacular; you can only pack so much into a magazine listing. Yet, some games surprised us with simple yet addictive gameplay.

This particular game turned out just okay—a basic scrolling shooter. A spaceship flew from left to right, shooting randomly appearing enemies from the right side. It was repetitive, with no music, just a simple beep sound for shooting, hitting enemies, and losing all lives.

After taking turns playing, boredom started creeping in. Naturally, we did what any curious, bored kids would do: we hacked the listing:

410 LIVES = 100

Changing the number of lives from 3 to 100 made us feel like real hackers. We half-expected secret service agents to burst through the door and offer us jobs at NASA.

We tweaked a few more things, then reluctantly called it a day. Turning off the Atari would erase our game forever. My friend decided to leave it on a little longer, to squeeze out some more fun.

I walked home, back to my Amiga 500, which felt light-years ahead. Commodore could have been what Apple is today, with the right leadership. But it wasn’t meant to be.

I had my beloved little diskettes to save my listings in. What a luxury.

Fast forward to 2025

I wake up, grab my coffee, open the lid of my MacBook, go to my AI prompt and type:

Please make me a 2D shooter game. The player controls a spaceship flying from left to right, shooting enemies that randomly appear from the right. The player starts with 3 lives. Every enemy hit costs one life. Game over after losing all lives. Use the DragonRuby game toolkit.

Seconds later, I’m already playing the game.

Yet something feels missing. It’s instant and effortless—but it brings no joy. Where’s the anticipation, the creativity, the feeling of achievement? Our games back then were simple, even primitive, but the process was magical. It made the result meaningful. We had to join forces with our friends. We had to walk to their houses.

I close my MacBook, sit back, and listen. Outside my window, I hear pigeons cooing again. Summer is close. I smell it in the air. For a brief moment, I’m 14 again, and everything feels possible.

Nothing has changed, but everything has changed.

Here’s what I am doing

At Amignosis, I pour my heart and skill into crafting slowly brewed software, one thoughtful line at a time. I am craftsman in a world of complexity and low-quality solutions. I am a shoemaker. I take the time to create simple, timeless software built to last. Check what I am doing now and talk to me.