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- A.P.B.
A.P.B.
Officer Bob's color handheld debut packed impressive sound but punishing gameplay
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PRESS START
An Introduction To Today’s Game
I wasn't going to write this week. The words felt forced, my hands heavy on the keyboard, the energy drained to nothing, the fear overwhelming.
Something knocked me down hard, the kind of blow that leaves you on the floor wondering how long it takes to stand again. A pain so consuming you wonder if you’ll ever stand again. Days blur. Panic attacks arrive uninvited. The exhaustion sits in my bones. The loneliness echoes louder than it should.
But when I looked at the schedule, weeks planned in advance, games lined up like careful dominoes, one title jumped out at me: A.P.B.
Not because it's a classic. Not because it's particularly good. But because it's an anchor, and right now I need something to hold onto while everything spins.
Sometimes the smallest cartridge holds the heaviest memories.
BEHIND THE PIXELS
Let’s Dive Into The Game
A.P.B. came out in 1991 for the Atari Lynx, a handheld that competed briefly with Nintendo's Game Boy before fading into obscurity. It's a port of the 1987 arcade game where you play Officer Bob, a cop trying to meet arrest quotas while navigating a top-down city filled with speeders, litterbugs, and criminals.
The game is punishing. The controls are clumsy, both buttons together activate the siren, a compromise that never quite feels right. The difficulty ramps up fast, the chief yells at you through digitized speech when you fail, and the time pressure is relentless.
It's not a great game by any objective measure.
But it's my game. It's summers at my dad's house.
I can close my eyes and I'm back there: the smell of the grill coming through the screen door, charcoal and burgers and the particular sweetness of summer heat.
A baseball game murmuring on the TV, the announcers' voices blending into white noise. My dog Mac beside me on the couch, working on a chew toy with the kind of single-minded determination only dogs possess. He was a Scottie and his head was at least 50% of his body. I loved that dog.
And me, hunched over my Lynx, squinting at that small backlit screen as Officer Bob careened through another shift.
The memories flood back stronger now than they have in years. Maybe it's because I'm scared. Maybe it's because when you're fighting through panic attacks and reaching out to your support system at 2 AM, your mind searches desperately for something solid, something real, something good.
Those summer afternoons were good. My dad was alive. Mac was vibrant. I didn't know what an anxiety disorder meant or what heartache was. I just knew that I had to catch the pink convertible littering and the blue sedan speeding, and if I could just make it through one more day, if I could just reach the donut shop to extend my timer, everything would be okay.
The game hasn't changed. It's still hard. The quota system still stresses you out. You still crash into innocent vehicles and accumulate demerits and watch the chief strangle you in a cutscene.
But what it represents, that's eternal. That's summers that will never come again. A dad who taught me to love games, baseball and books. Who didn't mind when I ignored the baseball game he put on because I was deep in a digital city chasing digital criminals. That's a version of me who didn't yet know how hard life could get.
Retro games do this. They anchor us. When everything feels unstable, when your chest tightens and the fear creeps in and you wonder if you have the strength for another challenge life's throwing at you, you can reach back to a cartridge, a screen, a moment.
You can say: I was there once. That version of me still exists somewhere in the past, and maybe if I can remember him clearly enough, I can borrow some of his lightness.
A.P.B. isn't teaching me anything about game design. It's not inspiring me creatively. It's just... there. Steady. Unchanged. The same game it was when my dad was flipping burgers and Mac was young and the biggest problem in my world was whether I could upgrade my patrol car's brakes at the Speed Shop before the next A.P.B. mission.
When it all clicks.
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WHERE TO PLAY
The original copy or emulation will be your best bet in playing this.
Original Copies of the Game (All prices in USD)
Loose: $18
Complete: $24
New/Sealed: $35
GAME INFORMATION
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Cover Art
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RETRO HARDWARE
Reading about retro games is great, but playing them is the real goal. This new Retro Hardware section is about easy, affordable ways to get those classics running without the headache.
Miyoo Mini Plus
The Miyoo Mini Plus. My first retro device I ever bought. Slightly bigger than the original Miyoo Mini, the Plus model adds a larger screen and a more comfortable grip, making it easy to toss in a bag and take on the go when I dare to leave my protective man cave. (Still scary.)
The Miyoo Mini Plus is an entry-level retro handheld, but in the best possible way. It excels at playing classic systems like NES, SNES, Game Boy, Game Boy Color, Game Boy Advance, Sega Genesis, and a massive arcade library, all of which run great. It’s simple, affordable, and perfect for anyone looking to dip their toes into retro gaming without overcomplicating things.
My readers can use the following code for a 12% discount: NY12
Click either of the pictures to take you to the website.
Some links in this section are affiliate links. If you buy through MECHDIY, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you.
GAME OVER
Why You Should Play This
Again, I almost didn't write this week. The fear made it feel impossible. But then I thought about Officer Bob and those impossible quotas and how the game never gave you a practice mode or difficulty settings, it just threw you in and expected you to figure it out. And I thought about all those summers, stringing together one good day after another, even when the game got hard.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe remembering the good days, holding onto them like a life preserver, is how you get through the scary ones to reach the future better ones. Because there will be more good days. Different ones, without my dad or Mac, but good nonetheless. Days I can't imagine yet, but they're out there waiting, just like the next level.
Sometimes we don't return to old games because they're good. We return because they remind us who we were, who loved us, and that we've survived impossible quotas before and can do so again.
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