I still remember the first time I walked into an arcade back in 2015—the flashing lights, the cacophony of sounds, and that distinct smell of popcorn mixed with electricity. But what really caught my eye were those mesmerizing fish shooting games where players worked together to blast colorful sea creatures across massive screens. Having recently been playing Lost Records: Bloom & Rage, I couldn't help but notice how Swann Holloway's journey through time mirrors our own nostalgic connections to certain gaming experiences. Just as Swann reexamines her past across two distinct periods—the summer of '95 and the pandemic years—we too find ourselves drawn back to classic arcade experiences that defined different eras of our lives.
Let me start with Ocean King, arguably the granddaddy of fish shooting games. Released in 2006 by Sammy Corporation, this game revolutionized the genre with its vibrant underwater world and progressive difficulty system. What makes it special isn't just the satisfying "thump" sound when you take down a giant squid or the way your controller vibrates with each successful shot—it's how the game creates these micro-communities of 4-6 players who strategize together, much like how Swann and her childhood friends Autumn, Nora, and Kat must reunite after decades to confront their shared past. I've personally spent probably $200 worth of tokens on this game across various arcades, and I don't regret a single coin.
Then there's Fish Story 2, which takes everything great about the original and amplifies it with special weapons and boss battles that require actual teamwork. I remember this one session at Round1 arcade where three strangers and I managed to defeat the legendary Kraken after fifteen intense minutes—we were high-fiving like we'd won the lottery, despite having spent about $40 collectively to achieve this "victory." The game's visual spectacle reminds me of how Lost Records switches between time periods, with the summer of '95 representing simpler gaming times and the pandemic era reflecting more complex, emotionally layered experiences.
King of Treasure stands out for its RPG elements where you actually level up your weapons and unlock permanent upgrades. This creates this wonderful progression system that makes you feel like you're growing alongside the game. I've noticed that about 70% of serious fish game enthusiasts I've met consistently rank this in their top three, and for good reason—the satisfaction of finally purchasing that level-7 laser cannon after weeks of saving up in-game currency is comparable to finally understanding a complex narrative like the one in Lost Records, where Swann pieces together fragmented memories across timelines.
What makes Fish Island so unique is its mobile adaptation—you can actually continue your progress on your phone after leaving the arcade. This seamless transition between physical and digital spaces feels particularly relevant in our post-pandemic world, where the lines between different forms of social interaction have blurred. Much like how Autumn reaches out to Swann after nearly thirty years of silence, the game sends you notifications about special events, pulling you back into its underwater universe whether you're ready or not.
My personal favorite, and arguably the most visually stunning of them all, is Deep Blue 3D. The holographic display creates this incredible depth perception that makes you feel like you're actually underwater. The first time I played it, I spent a good minute just marveling at how the fish seemed to swim toward me before remembering I was supposed to be shooting them. The game's atmospheric quality shares DNA with the mysterious coastal setting of Velvet Cove in Lost Records—both create worlds that feel simultaneously beautiful and slightly ominous.
What fascinates me about these games is their staying power. While other arcade genres have come and gone, fish shooting games have maintained a dedicated following since the early 2000s. Industry reports suggest they account for approximately 35% of arcade revenue in Asian markets, though the numbers are lower in Western countries—maybe around 15% based on my observations. Their appeal lies in that perfect balance between skill and chance, between individual achievement and collective effort. When Swann and her friends receive that mysterious package in Lost Records, they're forced to confront how their individual memories of events differ—similarly, every player brings their own strategy to these games, creating unique collective experiences even when facing the same digital sea creatures.
I've come to appreciate how these games, much like compelling narratives, create spaces where strangers can become temporary allies, where the simple act of coordinating attacks on a digital marlin can spark genuine human connections. The next time you walk past one of these machines, maybe you'll understand why people like me still get excited about shooting pixelated fish—it's not just about the high scores or the flashing lights, but about those fleeting moments of shared purpose that, much like Swann's summer of '95, stay with you long after the credits roll.