Switching Up the Game: Multiplayer on Nintendo’s Next Level

We used to spend hours racing in Mario Kart.

Back in 2003, the Nintendo GameCube was essentially a member of our high school crew. It was a constant presence at every gathering, big or small. I even invested in a special carrying case, large enough for extra controllers and all the necessary cables. That console rode shotgun on countless road trips, buckled up like a valued passenger.

The moment we arrived at a friend’s place, setting up the GameCube was always the top priority, regardless of our other plans. Whether we were filming a comedic sketch, constructing forts in the woods, or rehearsing with the band, the GameCube would inevitably be switched on. We dedicated years to mastering the arenas within Hyrule Castle. We teed off at the most prestigious country clubs within the Mushroom Kingdom. And who can forget the chaos caused by red shells? It wasn’t just gaming; each session was a chance to connect, like teammates trading positions in Double Dash. Between races down Rainbow Road, we discussed school challenges and dreamed about our futures.

We used to play Mario Kart together. Those days are behind us now.

The release of Mario Kart World, coinciding with the Nintendo Switch 2, has sparked a wave of high school nostalgia. In a different phase of my life, this event would have been a game-changer within my social circles. Weekends would have been dedicated to extended Mario Kart parties. Summers would have morphed into never-ending “LAN Parties,” fueled by generic Mountain Dew for months of well-deserved relaxation.

My experience with Mario Kart World during its initial month was quite different. Despite its potential for 24-player races and the Switch 2’s improved social capabilities, I spent most of my 40 hours playing solo. I would curl up on the couch each evening after work, exploring the Mushroom Kingdom, searching for hidden P-Switches. The few multiplayer sessions I managed in June involved online lobbies created from codes shared on social media. I could see my friends’ usernames over their karts, but we weren’t truly playing *together* – not in a way that created lasting memories.

This realization hit me hard during a late-night Knockout Tour session. My disappointment wasn’t solely about the absence of regular gaming partners; it triggered a broader anxiety about the realities of adulthood. My social interactions are dramatically different than before. My friends no longer live just around the corner in our small hometown. Now in our mid-thirties, they are focused on raising families and managing demanding careers. Our get-togethers are less frequent and heavily scheduled. We might meet up to watch a football game on a particular date, or celebrate a birthday with a picnic planned weeks in advance.

Our flexibility is diminishing. The days of multi-night sleepovers with hours of unstructured time are long gone. Every minute of our gatherings is precious. It’s impossible to simply show up with a console and expect everyone to gather around it. The simple pleasure of a casual party game has steadily faded, symbolizing friendships at risk of losing their way. If we can’t find ten minutes for a quick kart race, how can we make time for the meaningful conversations that used to happen between laps?

These thoughts swirled in my mind as I packed for a vacation earlier this month. For the past three years, my friends and I have made a point of visiting Cape Cod every summer. It’s not primarily a beach trip. In 2022, we lost a dear member of our high school group. He’s buried in a peaceful cemetery there, so we make sure to visit and remember him around the anniversary of his passing. It’s always a mix of emotions. Each year, we share new memories of him, while also reflecting on all the moments we’ve missed. I never had the chance to discuss my career change with him. He never met my girlfriend. We never got to play Mario Kart World together.

So, I did something I hadn’t done since childhood: I packed the Nintendo.

I placed the Nintendo Switch 2, its dock, extra controllers, and even the Nintendo Camera into a backpack. I didn’t want to associate my memories of the new console with isolation; I wanted my friends to be involved. Packing it became symbolic, each accessory fitting into my bag like my clothes and toothbrush. These moments only happen when you deliberately make space for them.

My decision paid off quickly. After settling into our weekend rental, I mentioned that I had brought my Switch 2 in case anyone wanted to play Mario Kart. One friend hadn’t yet tried the console and was eager for a demo. I introduced him to the Nintendo Switch 2 Welcome Tour to showcase the mouse controls. I thought he’d lose interest within minutes. An hour later, my friends were gathered around the screen, taking turns competing for high scores in various minigames. Instantly, my initial memory of playing Welcome Tour alone on an airplane disappeared. It was replaced by the image of my friends laughing and trying to beat my scores. Between turns, I shared updates on my life and my recent career changes. We played, and we talked.

Later that evening, we all gathered around the TV for a bit of Mario Kart World. My perception of the game completely changed. Even something as simple as using the Switch Camera to capture our faces during races evolved into a hilarious improv session, as each of us tried to find the most absurd camera angles. I witnessed a friend discover the Cow meme for the first time, experiencing the genuine delight I’d only read about online. I felt the sting of betrayal as another friend used a shell to knock me out right before the finish line, taking the lead. All the highs and lows I experienced during my first month with Mario Kart World were amplified by the kind of joyous late-night gathering that has become so rare in adulthood.

The next morning, all five of us piled into one car for the hour-long drive to the cemetery. I jokingly suggested bringing the Switch 2 and using the mouse controls on our friend’s gravestone. It felt a bit too insensitive even for us, but we agreed he would have appreciated the humor. We spent an hour together at the grave site, sharing memories, showing each other silly YouTube videos, and observing a moment of silence. That night, we retreated to the simple joy of four-player split screen. Regardless of how much has changed over the past two decades, Mario Kart still unites us.

Staying connected with friends through games is easier than ever, even as local multiplayer becomes a niche attraction reserved for titles like *Split Fiction*. I can’t overstate how much life advice I received from friends during *Destiny 2* strikes. I still trade Pokémon with the same people I grew up with. I’m eager to fully utilize the Switch 2’s GameChat feature during this console generation. However, I especially value the rare opportunities to sit down with friends in the same room and share a multiplayer experience. They’re irreplaceable. It’s not the game we’re playing; it’s the ritual. To gather for a local multiplayer game is to assure our loved ones that we will always make time for them.

Who cares if it’s almost midnight? Time stops around a living room TV. Of course, we can squeeze in one more race. And another, and another. Let’s promise to play again soon.