Games That Hooked Us in the First 10 Minutes

May 16, 2025

You know the moment.

You boot it up, maybe not expecting much. The logo splashes. The music kicks in. A character runs, a screen fades, a voice speaks. Something happens. And suddenly, you're not just playing a game—you're in.

You lean forward a little. The outside world goes fuzzy. You forget what time it is.

It's not always big or loud. Sometimes it's just the way a camera pans, or how a character moves when you nudge the stick for the first time. It can be the first enemy you see, the way the UI fades in, or the exact moment a soundtrack hits your chest like a memory you didn't know you had. There's a shift. Your brain says, "Wait... this is something."

That's the hook. And some games have it down to an art.

We're talking about those magical first ten minutes—when a game grabs you by the heart (or the thumbsticks) and doesn't let go. Some do it with cinematic flair. Some with a single line of dialogue. Others? A jump. A fall. A freakin' door creaking open just right.

This isn't about slow burns. This is about love at first press start. Let's talk about the games that made us forget everything else within moments of starting them. The ones that cracked us open before the title card even faded.

The Jump That Changed Everything (Super Mario 64)

If you played it in 1996, you already know.

You turn on your brand-new Nintendo 64. A floating Mario face stretches and squishes under your cursor—cute, whatever. Then the screen fades. The camera sweeps down over a bright blue sky, past trees and water, toward a castle moat. A soft piano glides in like it's welcoming you home. Lakitu's camera hovers behind Mario's red cap, and suddenly, the stick is yours. You move.

And Mario jumps.

That jump wasn't just vertical. It was generational. Responsive, fluid, joyful. Like touching a dream with your thumbs. No lag. No delay. Just motion so intuitive it felt like your thoughts had legs.

And that was the moment. A leap so satisfying, so immediate, that it made you stop exploring and just move. You jumped for the sake of jumping. You tried wall kicks on nothing. You dove into grass and cartwheeled across the courtyard. Not because the game asked—but because the physics felt good.

No tutorial. No hand-holding. Just Peach's note, a sense of mystery, and a playground disguised as an entryway.

Ten minutes in, you're not just playing a new Mario game. You're in a new dimension of gaming. One where exploration isn't taught—it's felt. One where a single jump said more than a dozen cutscenes ever could.

A Bomb, A Train, A Mission (Final Fantasy VII)

It's cold. It's industrial. The screen is black.

Then…

Chimes, strings, a girl selling flowers under starlight. For a few seconds, everything feels quiet—almost gentle. But the camera won't sit still. It pulls back, the music twists, and suddenly we're racing through steel and steam, down into the mechanical veins of a dying city. It's Midgar. It's alive and choking.

A train screeches into the station. Sparks fly. The camera slams into motion.

Out jumps a spiky-haired merc with a sword the size of a surfboard.

No name yet. No backstory. Just boots on metal and a job to do.

The opening mission of Final Fantasy VII isn't just an intro—it's a statement. You're breaking into a Mako reactor. You're blowing up the planet's beating heart. And you're doing it with a team you barely know, in a city that feels impossibly big and wrong.

The game feeds you combat basics with quick turn-based scraps. You meet Barret, and he's yelling—but also right. The Shinra guards fall fast. Alarms blare. Timers tick. Every hallway hums with purpose.

But what sticks isn't just the action—it's the tone. Harsh metal against emotional strings. Political angst baked into your first objective. A protagonist who doesn't talk much, but feels heavy.

It's kinetic, it's cinematic, and it wastes zero time. Within ten minutes, you know: Midgar's a mess. The stakes are high. Cloud's got issues. Avalanche isn't ready. And this game? It's not just another fantasy. It's a revolution dressed like a mission briefing.

Trapped, Alone, and Armed with a Crowbar (Half-Life)

No guns. No enemies. Just a monorail ride.

You're Gordon Freeman. A theoretical physicist with a clipboard and a very late start. The tram glides through the cavernous, humming guts of Black Mesa as an automated voice calmly recites safety protocols over industrial hums and flickering lights. Scientists go about their day. Security guards make small talk. Nothing seems wrong. Yet everything feels off.

No cutscene. No prompt. Just immersion. You can move your head. Look out the window. Take it all in. The game doesn't force you to act—it invites you to exist.

Then the experiment happens. A cascade failure. Lights strobe. Alarms scream. The walls groan as something rips the world open.

And just like that, your morning commute becomes a survival nightmare.

Screams echo down ruined hallways. Colleagues you just saw moments ago are now corpses—or worse. Aliens tear through vents. Electricity arcs across broken labs. There's no quest log. No voice in your ear. Just a wrenching sense of figure it out.

Valve understood that tension is more gripping when you live it. The first ten minutes of Half-Life don't show you a story—they trap you inside it. You're not watching Gordon Freeman—you are him.

No one's coming to save you. No one's holding your hand. The only thing between you and the void is a battered crowbar—and your next decision.

You're a Kid Now... No Wait, You're a Squid (Splatoon)

Nintendo, in 2015, did something nobody expected.

They made a shooter.

Not a gritty one. Not brown-and-gray. Not about war or aliens. They made one about ink.

And it wasn't just fresh—it was fresh.

The first few minutes of Splatoon are fast, weird, and wildly colorful. You drop into a tutorial that doesn't feel like a chore—it feels like a playground. You learn to spray ink, swim through your own color, and pop up to splatter walls and enemies alike. The controls are slick. The movement is addictive. You're not just being trained—you're being styled.

Then you're tossed into Inkopolis. And wow.

It's a place that feels lived-in but still totally alien. Like if Jet Set Radio and Animal Crossing had a neon-punk baby. There are squid-kids strutting around in gear you wish you could own in real life. There's music pumping, shops beckoning, and a news broadcast hosted by pop idols made of cephalopods.

You're not even in a match yet—and you already get it.

Style matters. Movement is king. Shooting isn't the point—painting is.

Then the first turf war hits. And suddenly, it clicks. It's not about kill counts. It's about color. About control. About skating, splashing, and slinging chaos across every corner of the map.

It's rhythm. It's madness. It's roller brushes bigger than you are and bombs shaped like sprinklers. It's fun in its purest, messiest form.

Ten minutes in, you're not just playing a shooter. You're part of a culture. And in that moment, you're a kid… and a squid… and absolutely in love.

A Giant's Footstep, A World's Whisper (Shadow of the Colossus)

Wind. Silence. A horse.

You ride across vast, empty plains. There's no map. No glowing icons. No voice in your ear. Just the sound of hoofbeats and distant birds carried by the wind. The world feels ancient, like it's been waiting for centuries—for you.

Then you see it.

A shape on the horizon. Too big. Too still. You get closer. It towers above the landscape like a half-forgotten god. For a moment, you think it might be part of the scenery. Until it moves.

The ground trembles.

You climb it. You don't know how yet, but your hands find ledges. Stone becomes fur. Fur becomes movement. The music shifts from soft and mysterious to haunting and heroic. The camera pulls back to show just how small you really are.

You stab. It howls.

And something inside you flinches.

Shadow of the Colossus doesn't waste time on tutorials or text boxes. It just shows. The first colossus teaches you everything through awe. Scale. Tension. Quiet dread. You're not just fighting—you're desecrating something holy.

There's no evil here. Only you, a blade, and a mission no one fully understands yet.

Laughter in the Apocalypse (The Last of Us)

The first few minutes of The Last of Us don't feel like a game.

They feel like a memory you wish you could forget.

You play as Sarah, a teenage girl with sleepy eyes and a wry sense of humor. You wander around a quiet house at night, half-asleep, half-curious. You joke with your dad about his broken watch. You fall asleep on the couch to late-night TV. It's slow. Domestic. Safe.

And then—sirens. Panic. Chaos.

The TV flashes emergency news. A neighbor crashes through the glass. Joel grabs you. The camera doesn't cut away. There's no HUD, no ammo count, no tutorial—just raw fear.

You're running through your neighborhood barefoot. Streets are blocked. Fires rage. The infected snarl like broken animals. A car slams into your path. You're not in control of the world—you're barely in control of your own body.

And then… that scene.

The one that breaks something inside you.

By the ten-minute mark, you're already emotionally compromised. Not because of a game mechanic. But because of grief.

It's brutal. But it's honest. It doesn't ask for your tears—it just shows you why they matter. And it earns every ounce of investment that follows.

By the time the title fades in, you're not just curious. You're wrecked. And you need to know what happens next—not just for Joel. For Sarah. For everyone who didn't make it out of those first ten minutes.

Blue Skies and Limitless Speed (Sonic the Hedgehog)

Green Hill Zone, 1991. You blink and you're running.

No exposition. No tutorials. No slow pan across a fantasy map or drawn-out dialogue dump. Just that iconic "SEGA!" scream and the sweet buzz of a CRT humming to life.

Sonic's already in motion. A blue blur against checkered hills, backed by chirpy synths and that blue sky that somehow looked bluer than real life. You nudge the D-pad. You hold right. You press jump—and suddenly, you're corkscrewing through loops, bouncing off springs, smashing through robots and walls like a lightning bolt with attitude.

It wasn't just the speed. It was the confidence.

Mario played by the rules. Sonic broke them. He didn't wait for your attention—he demanded it. With a smirk. With sneakers that never stopped. With a soundtrack that made you feel like the coolest kid alive.

Sonic didn't ask for permission to be cool. He just was. And within minutes, you weren't just running—you were flying.

And you never wanted to slow down.

You Fell Into a Hole and Met a Flower (Undertale)

It starts like a joke.

You fall down—literally. Into a hole. Into a world that looks like it was made with crayons and kindness. A talking flower greets you with a smile and cheerful music. You're in some kind of Earthbound fever dream, and it's charming, strange, maybe even a little dumb in the best way.

Then the flower tries to kill you.

"In this world, it's kill or be killed."

That line hits harder than it has any right to. Because suddenly, this goofy little game isn't playing by anyone's rules—not JRPGs, not indies, not yours.

It's not just the start of a weird RPG—it's a challenge. A taunt. A thesis statement wrapped in pixel art and sarcasm. You've played games before. But have you ever been judged by one?

What kind of player are you?

Merciful? Curious? Bloodthirsty? The game is watching, quietly, from moment one. Every choice, every spare, every attack—it remembers.

In ten minutes, Undertale sets you up, flips the script, and dares you to care. And somehow, it does it all with a wink, a giggle, and 8-bit charm that makes you lower your guard—until it doesn't.

You smile. But you also wonder: what else is this game hiding?

And if it's messing with you now… what happens next?

The End of the World, Again and Again (Majora's Mask)

Three days. That's all you've got.

Right out of the gate, Majora's Mask is weird. Eerie. Sad. A sequel that ditches the hero's welcome of Ocarina of Time for something colder, stranger—dread-soaked déjà vu. You don't start with a sword or a triumphant cutscene. You start lost.

You're turned into a Deku Scrub. Small. Powerless. People look at you differently. Some don't recognize you at all. Others pity you. And above it all, that awful moon leers from the sky—huge, cracked, and slowly falling.

And then the music starts to speed up.

The days tick by. The townspeople repeat their routines. Some cry. Some dance. Some prepare for the end. The pressure creeps in quietly at first, then all at once. You realize time isn't just passing—it's chasing you.

You feel it in every step. In every errand. Every decision.

The opening doesn't just introduce a mechanic—it instills urgency. You're trapped in a cycle. A puzzle box of doom and reset. No one is coming to stop it. Only you. But you're out of time, and even success is temporary.

And yet… it's beautiful.

There's melancholy in the air. A haunting stillness between the loops. The world of Termina doesn't just feel alive—it feels fragile. And in those first ten minutes, Majora's Mask doesn't just tell you what's at stake. It makes you live with it.

First Impressions That Last Forever

There's something magical about beginnings.

Not every game sticks the landing in its first ten minutes, and honestly, that's okay. Some of the greatest stories ever told take time to unfurl—slow burns, layered mechanics, emotional arcs that bloom hours in. But there's a special kind of thrill when a game just gets it right from the very first beat. When it nails the cold open. When it doesn't just tell you what it is—it shows you.

The best openings don't just wow you; they invite you. They build trust. They whisper, "Stick with me. I'm worth your time." And in an age where we're flooded with options, where hundreds of games sit in our backlog, that kind of immediate connection is rare—and precious.

Because when a game earns your trust in those first few heartbeats? That's when love begins. That's when you start thinking, yeah, this one's special.

Maybe it's nostalgia talking. Maybe it's just the human brain loving a good hook. Or maybe we're all just chasing that elusive feeling—that moment when a new world opens and you feel like you've been waiting your whole life to step inside it.

Either way, those first ten minutes? They matter. Maybe more than we think. Maybe more than we want to admit.

Because sometimes, one perfect moment is all it takes.