Muchos retro-gamers justifican la descarga de packs traducidos porque:
For the last month, Elias had been haunted by a memory. It was a specific shade of teal and magenta—a level from a game he had rented once as a child in 1994 and never found again. It was a localization oddity, a Spanish translation of a Japanese platformer that only existed in a handful of cartridges in Europe. He had spent years looking for it in flea markets and retro stores, but the cartridge was gone, lost to time and landfill.
The rain in Valencia hammered against the windowpane, a rhythmic drumming that matched the frantic clicking of Elias’s mouse. It was 3:00 AM, and the blue light of his monitor was the only beacon in his dark apartment.
He hit publish. He had saved his past, and now, he had seeded the future. He closed his laptop, finally able to sleep, the digital ghosts finally at rest.
