I’ll wager my first truly vivid memory of Resident Evil—at least for anyone of a certain age—lines up pretty closely with yours. Ground floor, the eastern side, and then a sudden, gut-punching sound that makes your heart lurch. Do I really need to spell it out? Honestly, it’s hard to choose between that moment and the unforgettable sight of the franchise’s original zombie slowly swiveling its ruined face toward the camera. Either way, there’s no denying that Resident Evil from 1996 was a defining entry. I don’t remember much else about it, to be fair, except that it was the first time I encountered something that felt genuinely frightening—or at minimum, something capable of triggering the kind of relentless, sweaty-palm panic I didn’t even know games could cause back then. And it’s stayed that way ever since: a proper Resident Evil ride. So thirty years on, after countless refreshes and remakes, I can barely think of a series more deserving of the kind of milestone celebration we’ve just seen in Resident Evil Requiem (naturally, spoilers are coming…).
Looking back on my three decades with Resident Evil, I realize it’s less about the titles themselves and more about a chain of standout scenes. For instance, when I try to recall Resident Evil 2, Raccoon City PD blurs together in my head, yet I can still picture its damp, stale (and, yes, unbelievably spider-choked) crawl down into the sewers. Resident Evil 3 feels like little more than a frame of a dimly lit subway car, while Code Veronica, somewhat oddly, is made up of a handful of distinct beats: Steve Burnside’s hairstyle, the twist reveal, and the way a haunted mansion gives way to an even more unsettling mansion sitting somewhere on a hill.
Resident Evil 4, meanwhile, boils down in my memory to one long, breathy exhale the moment I finally reached the village clock tower. 5, I should admit, is mostly just Chris Redfield’s biceps. 6 is… well, maybe admiration for its scale? And 7—time for a quick confession—I haven’t really gotten into it much at all (I only reached the family dinner moment before my nerves completely gave out). As for 8, it’s still too recent for the kind of specific recollections that stick, but it’s probably a close contest between the mutant infant and, as expected, Castle Dimitrescu. And that doesn’t even cover Capcom’s endlessly quirky side projects (big shoutout to the underappreciated Resident Evil Revelations line—I genuinely appreciate you).
Still, these aren’t just “memories” in the ordinary sense; they’re more like landmarks. Each scene is tied up with other recollections—where I was, what I was doing (high school, college, my first shared flat, my first job), and who I was with at the time. That’s why revisiting Resident Evil Requiem recently for review wasn’t only a renewed appreciation for Capcom’s craftsmanship—it also pulled a wave of nostalgia right back to the surface. So many Easter eggs, so many little references to the franchise’s past. And even with the more dismissive takes about “fan service” aimed at Resident Evil Requiem, I can’t think of many series—or anniversaries—better suited to this kind of feel-good celebration. After thirty years together—almost half a lifetime for some people—what might be viewed as self-indulgence reads, to me, more like warm reminiscing with an old friend.
And to be honest, I genuinely enjoy Capcom’s approach to nostalgia here—especially the way it’s often woven directly into the core gameplay of Requiem. In Alyssa Ashcroft, for example, there’s a character returning from a strange spin-off—important enough to count as a pretty obscure nod—which (with apologies for the pun) neatly links to her daughter’s lockpicking abilities. A number of the connections are purely atmospheric too; for me at least, Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center strongly echoes Spencer Mansion, even without any explicit tie-in. The shift between Grace and Leon in the opening segment skillfully tiptoes through tributes to both older and newer Resident Evil, thanks to its clearly differentiated default viewpoints and even the contrast between the old-school and modern tone—Grace delivering straight-up contemporary horror, while Leon’s ridiculous chaos (complete with his hatchet-wielding antics) brings back the series during its peak fixation on action and its most unmistakably campy stretches.
But that’s not the full story. The two inventory setups—each clearly pointing to two distinct eras within the franchise—do more than just spark that pleasant feeling of recognition; they actually fit each protagonist’s individual approach to play. Even Leon’s first return to Raccoon City, packed with constant scrambles in tight spaces, feels like a nostalgic detour to the era of Resident Evil 4/5. There’s plenty of mechanical reuse here alongside the story nods and Easter eggs (and was I really overthinking those fixed camera angles showing up on a screen wall at one point?). It isn’t handled only with a playful wink, either. There’s real craft behind it—thoughtful touches throughout—taking thirty years of evolution, reshaping it, and bundling it into a surprisingly unified whole.
And even when Requiem leans into nostalgia during its latter stretch, it still comes off as earned. After thirty years inside Capcom’s oddly inventive universe, honestly, Leon isn’t the only one who deserves some closure about Raccoon City. More broadly, any video game franchise that’s stuck around this long—while still finding ways to stay fresh and relevant—ought to celebrate itself now and then, in my view. So sure: bring on your enormous spider. Surprise me with your completely ridiculous mutant plant. Slip in those cheeky reverse release dates hidden inside your pretend operating system version numbers. Let’s give Mr. X a high-five as he returns for his encore, shed a small tear for that team photo tucked away in the police station, and—why not—add a whole set of creepy kids to the mix too?
As for poor, gorgeous Leon—spinning through those ridiculous, gravity-defying bike-on-skyscraper stunts and delivering action hero one-liners—he’s also deserved his happy ending and a quiet, well-earned retirement (whoever that ends up being with) after nearly three decades of Umbrella’s chaos. So, well done, Requiem; well done, Capcom. Maybe we don’t need to repeat this every time, but if we make it to Resident Evil’s fiftieth anniversary, I’ll have my party hat ready.