In today’s world of gaming, it’s hard to imagine a time when you couldn’t update a game after it was released. Hit a bug in a modern title? No problem, just download the patch. Most of us barely blink when a game crashes or lags because we’ve come to expect updates and fixes down the line.
But for those of us who made games in the early days, the cartridge and early CD-ROM era, there was no such safety net. If a bug made it into the game? That bug lived in the game. Forever. There was no internet to deliver a patch. No “Oops, we’ll fix it in a future update.” You had one shot to get it right, and the stakes were high.
I spent years working in the game industry, producing titles for Atari, Accolade, and Mattel. I was there during the transition from cartridges to CDs, and I’ve lived through every flavor of development panic you can imagine. And in those days, shipping a clean, bug-free game wasn’t just a goal, it was a matter of survival for your reputation.
Let’s rewind the tape.
The Finality of Cartridges: No Going Back
To understand the pressure, you have to understand how cartridges worked. Unlike today’s games that live in digital storefronts or on hard drives, games back in the ‘80s and early ‘90s were programmed onto physical silicon chips, sealed inside plastic cartridges. Once a game was “burned” onto those chips, it couldn’t be changed. It was quite literally etched into stone, technologically speaking.
So when you hit “send” on your final game code, that was it. The game was done. Whatever bugs or glitches were still in the system became part of the game’s DNA. If a crash bug slipped in during final QA (quality assurance) and no one caught it? Every copy sold would have that bug. Forever.
This meant the entire development process was built around the idea that once it ships, it’s permanent. Imagine making a film, but the final cut is printed onto the film reels and distributed to theaters with no way to recall or replace them if something goes wrong. That’s how cartridge development felt.
Gold Master Anxiety
The most stressful moment in any game release cycle was “going gold.” This meant the final version of the game was locked, approved, and being sent off to manufacturing. We literally referred to it as the “gold master,” and it was exactly that, a master copy used to mass-produce thousands (sometimes millions) of retail copies.
The few days before that gold master was finalized were chaos. We’d be testing the game around the clock, running through every known bug, every possible combination of player behavior, trying to ensure we hadn’t missed anything. Once the build was sent to manufacturing, there was no turning back. No “oops, let me fix that real quick.” It was out of our hands.
I can still picture the moment I watched a delivery truck pull away with our gold master build on board. There’s a strange mix of pride and dread that comes with it, knowing you’ve finished something monumental, but also knowing if you missed anything… everyone’s going to find out.
No Patching Meant No Forgiveness
Today, we expect games to be a little broken at launch. We live in a world of early access titles, day-one patches, and constant updates. In some cases, developers even ship knowingly unfinished content, banking on future downloads to complete the experience.
But back then? You didn’t have that luxury. You didn’t get to say “we’ll fix it in a patch.” There was no infrastructure to deliver patches to users. Most consoles didn’t even have storage capability, let alone internet connectivity.
Your game had to be perfect. Or at least, close enough to perfect that no one would notice the rough edges. And if something did go wrong, it became part of the game’s legacy, discussed in forums, printed in strategy guides, or turned into whispered lore among players.
CD-ROMs: A Slightly Softer Landing
The arrival of CD-ROMs changed the game just enough to let developers breathe, for a second. Instead of programming data onto ROM chips, we could now burn the final game to a writable disc. That made the production process faster and slightly more forgiving. If we caught a late-stage bug, we might still be able to burn a new gold master disc before duplication began.
But let’s not overstate the luxury. CD duplication still required physical production, and once those thousands of discs were pressed and shrink-wrapped, the situation was just as final as the cartridge days. You still had to make damn sure the build you shipped was stable and tested, because you weren’t going to get another shot.
PC Gaming and the Pre-Google Patch Scavenger Hunt
Now, you might be thinking: “Well PC gamers could just patch their games, right?” Technically… yes. But practically? Not so much.
Let’s not forget, this was before Google, before broadband, before Steam. If a player bought a PC game and it had a critical bug, their options for finding a patch were limited at best. They might call a tech support hotline (which they often had to pay for), or write in to a magazine to see if a fix was published.
Some patches were hosted on FTP servers, barebones websites that were hard to navigate even for tech-savvy users. Others might be found in obscure forums or, if you were lucky, on a cover CD included in a monthly PC gaming magazine.
And many players? They never patched anything. Either they didn’t know a fix existed or didn’t want to risk breaking the install. They just… lived with the bugs.
So even though the PC platform allowed patches, there was no guarantee the fix would reach the people who needed it most. Which meant, once again, getting it right the first time was critical.
How QA Actually Worked (Spoiler: No Jira Boards)
So how did we test these games? It wasn’t like today’s process, where teams use bug tracking systems, crash analytics, and version control. QA in the ’90s was scrappy, hands-on, and often brutal.
We’d sit in rooms with rows of CRT monitors, controllers in hand, playing through every level of the game over and over and over. Bugs were logged manually, often on paper or basic spreadsheets. Sometimes we’d even photograph glitches with a Polaroid camera taped to the screen so we could document exact frame-by-frame issues.
No automated testing. No regression tools. If you fixed a bug in one section, someone had to manually replay every scenario to ensure it didn’t break something else.
QA testers were the last line of defense, and often the unsung heroes of the entire development cycle.
The Weight on the Producer’s Shoulders
For a product manager or producer, launching a bug-free game was more than a goal. It was your reputation.
If you shipped a game that played smoothly, had few or no bugs, and reviewers gave it props for polish? That became your golden ticket to your next project, or even your next job.
But if your game launched with crashes, or broken mechanics, that followed you. And worse? If you were the kind of producer who didn’t play games, who didn’t care about quality or the player experience, it showed. Players could feel it. So could your team.
I’ve seen passionate developers held back by uninspired project managers who just wanted to tick boxes and hit deadlines. And I’ve also seen great producers rally a team and launch a rock-solid game that stood the test of time. It all came down to caring, about the craft, the players, and the end result.
Today’s Landscape: Patches Everywhere
Fast forward to now, and we’ve gone in the complete opposite direction. Games ship incomplete all the time. Day-one patches are expected. Live service games evolve in real time. Some titles launch with known bugs because teams are confident they’ll patch it quickly once it’s in players’ hands.
We’ve gained flexibility, sure. But we’ve also lost something, something about the finality, the discipline, the pride of shipping a clean build. When you had no choice but to get it right, it made you better. It forced teams to communicate, plan, and test thoroughly. It taught us how to finish things.
In the End, It Was About Ownership
Back then, when a game launched, you couldn’t hide behind a patch. What you released was what people got. There was a certain integrity to that process, a sense of ownership. Your name was on that game, and if it played like garbage, people knew whose fault it was.
And when you did ship a clean game? It felt like a miracle. Like threading a needle in a hurricane. It meant your team worked its ass off. It meant you earned every single positive review, every fan letter, every moment of joy your game gave to players.
We didn’t just launch games. We launched them into eternity.
Follow Ted on Instagram and Twitter @nedskee
See more of Ted’s work at: www.tahquechi.com
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