Collecting physical video games is like being a modern-day archaeologist, except instead of digging up ancient bones, you’re hunting for a slightly cracked copy of Final Fantasy VII with the original manual intact. There’s a unique thrill in scouring flea markets, thrift stores, and that one sketchy dude on Craigslist who insists his garage is “climate controlled.” You lovingly stack cartridges like Tetris blocks and alphabetize jewel cases with the kind of precision normally reserved for heart surgery. And nothing beats the heady rush of peeling off a $1.99 Goodwill sticker to reveal Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance underneath. It’s cardboard crack, and you’re hooked.

But let’s not pretend it’s all glory. Your home slowly morphs into a shrine to formats that time forgot—discs, carts, mini-discs (looking at you, GameCube), and mysterious region-locked plastic rectangles. Your friends may not understand why you needed five different versions of Resident Evil 4, but you do: the PAL edition has a slightly different font and that, my friend, is worth celebrating. You tell yourself you’re preserving history, even as your partner gently asks if the Sega Saturn collection has to live in the kitchen. It does. Because in the kingdom of game collectors, shelf space is sacred, dusting is optional, and joy smells faintly of old instruction manuals and 90s plastic.