I quickly became obsessed, jotting down times and notes in a journal. So, as Toronto settled in for yet another citywide lockdown late last year, I tried to play it through myself and see how fast I could do it-or at least, if I could beat my brother’s pace from all those years ago. It’s a game where players are intended to move quickly, spin-dashing and speeding through levels. The classic game, released in 1994 for the Sega Genesis, was a staple of my childhood: My older brother, then much more of a gamer than me, would play through the game over and over, and I’d dutifully watch each time. I started speedrunning Sonic the Hedgehog 3 in January, keen for a new pandemic pastime. When the realization sets in, I’m exhilarated. Eventually, on the official leaderboards, I’ll rank among the top players to beat this particular Sonic game in the fastest possible time. And then I stop my timer: 49 minutes, 51 seconds. I keep breathing, heavier and heavier, until it’s over, until Sonic destroys Dr. On my screen, a pixelated blue hedgehog zooms through loops and hops from platform to platform. It’s a warm May night in Toronto, and I’m hunched over my computer, clicking away at a Sega Genesis controller and trying to make personal history. I try to regulate my breath-inhale, slowly, exhale-but I have the jitters. My grip hasn’t changed in nearly an hour, but I refuse to let my wetted hands kill my focus. My palms won’t stop sweating, beads of moisture dripping down the buttons of my controller.

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