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22 Video Games You Absolutely Have to Play, According to PlayStation's Godfather

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Ignacio Weil

Gaming - January 19th 2026, 22:00 GMT+1

Cropped About — About this gallery:

Shuhei Yoshida – often dubbed the godfather of PlayStation – has a knack for cutting through the noise and pointing straight at the games that actually matter. The picks here are the titles he’s personally singled out as must-plays, the kind you finish and immediately understand why they stuck with him.

You’ll notice they’re arranged by release date, not “best to worst,” because turning this into a personal-ranking bloodbath felt like the wrong energy. Which one is your favorite, and which pick would you argue about on sight? Drop your take in the comments!

| © Kiyoshi Ota / Bloomberg

Cropped Nine Sols — Nine Sols (2024)

A hand-drawn world with a sharp, “taopunk” edge doesn’t mean the game is all vibes – combat demands attention, and it demands it fast. The deflection-heavy fighting feels like a duel even against regular enemies, pushing you to learn patterns, stay calm, and turn defense into momentum. Exploration has that metroidvania pull: new tools open locked paths, secrets tuck themselves behind optional challenges, and the world keeps layering itself as you push deeper. What really sells it is the tone, mixing mythic imagery with sci-fi grit without flattening either into a costume. By the time *Nine Sols* has its hooks in, you’re not just chasing upgrades – you’re chasing the next reveal. | © Red Candle Games

Cropped Sifu — Sifu (2022)

Revenge stories are usually straightforward, but this one makes every mistake part of the cost. You’re fighting through stylish, brutal encounters where timing matters more than raw aggression, and mastery comes from learning to read a room like a martial artist, not like a gamer looking for an exploit. The aging mechanic changes the pressure: death isn’t “game over,” it’s experience paid for with years, and that trade-off gets more tense the deeper you go. *Sifu* feels great when you’re flowing – parries, counters, sweeps – then humbles you the second you get sloppy. It’s the rare action game where improvement is the real progression system, and you can feel it in your hands. | © Sloclap

Before Your Eyes (2021)

Blinking isn’t a metaphor here – it’s the mechanic, and it’s brutal in the gentlest-looking way. You’re living through memories that jump forward whenever you blink, which means time keeps slipping out of your hands even when you’re trying to hold on. The story builds its emotion through small domestic details and quiet shifts, and it lands because you’re constantly aware of what you’re losing as the scenes move on without asking permission. By the time *Before Your Eyes* hits its hardest moments, the tech trick has stopped feeling like a trick at all; it’s just how the narrative breathes. It’s short, but it sticks, because it understands how quickly a life can blur into highlights. | © GoodbyeWorld Games

Cropped Inscryption — Inscryption (2021)

A creaky cabin, a table of grimy cards, and a host who feels a little too pleased with himself – this one sells dread before you even understand the rules. The deckbuilding is tight, but the real hook is how the game keeps slipping puzzle-box tricks into the margins, nudging you to poke at the walls and question what’s “outside” the match. Somewhere along the way, *Inscryption* turns into a shape-shifter, changing genres and expectations with the confidence of a magic act that knows you’re watching for the secret. It’s unsettling, funny in a mean way, and genuinely clever about how it uses the medium to mess with you. Even when you think you’ve solved it, it finds a new angle to make you doubt that. | © Daniel Mullins Games

Cropped Returnal — Returnal (2021)

You crash-land on an alien planet. You explore. You die. And then you wake up, back where you started. Welcome to *Returnal*, a mind-bending, adrenaline-fueled roguelike where the only way out is to fight through relentless waves of cosmic horrors, over and over again. The combat is pure arcade bliss – fast, fluid, and ridiculously satisfying – and the game’s haunting sci-fi narrative keeps you questioning what’s real and what’s just part of the nightmare. With every loop, you get stronger, uncovering more about the eerie world of Atropos and the mysteries lurking beneath the surface. It’s equal parts *bullet hell shooter* and *psychological thriller*, and it never stops being exhilarating. | © Housemarque / Sony Interactive Entertainment

Cropped Genshin Impact — Genshin Impact (2020)

It’s easy to log in “just to check something” and accidentally spend an hour chasing a glowing thing on a cliff because the world keeps dangling little curiosities in front of you. Each region has its own personality – music, puzzles, terrain, enemy types – so exploration stays fresh even when you’re doing familiar activities like opening chests or clearing domains. The gacha side of *Genshin Impact* gets the headlines, but the open-world design is what hooks people: climbing, gliding, elemental interactions, and a constant stream of small discoveries. Story quests and character arcs add another layer, turning the map into a stage rather than a backdrop. It’s a live game, but the sense of place is what makes it stick. | © miHoYo

Cropped Hades — Hades (2020)

A good run starts with a simple goal – get out – then the game keeps sweetening the temptation to try “just one more” because the story actually moves when you fail. Combat is fast, flexible, and built around builds that feel meaningfully different, so each escape attempt becomes its own little experiment in speed, risk, and style. What makes *Hades* special is how it wraps roguelike repetition in character work: gods bicker, friends evolve, and the underworld starts feeling like a workplace full of complicated relationships. Even the smallest upgrades land because the writing sells the idea that everyone remembers what you did last time. It’s rare to see a game this kinetic also feel this warm. | © Supergiant Games

Cropped Nioh 2 — Nioh 2 (2020)

Every fight feels like a conversation you can lose if you stop paying attention, and that tension is exactly what makes it addictive. The combat system is deep – stance switching, ki management, weapon variety – and it rewards players who treat battles like skill-building rather than button-mashing. What elevates *Nioh 2* is how much freedom it gives in building a character, from gear and stats to Yokai abilities that add a wild, supernatural edge to the duels. Missions are dense with shortcuts and secrets, so exploration has purpose beyond sightseeing, especially when you’re hunting for better loot. It’s challenging, but it’s also generous in the “learnable” way: you improve, and the game visibly respects that improvement. | © Team Ninja

Cropped Ghost Of Tsushima — Ghost of Tsushima (2020)

Wind becomes your waypoint, which is a small design choice that ends up changing the whole mood of exploration. You’re riding across fields and forests while foxes lead you to shrines and the horizon keeps offering another ridge that looks worth climbing. The swordplay has a clean, cinematic rhythm, but the world is where the game really flexes – quiet villages, smoke in the distance, sudden ambushes, and side stories that make the island feel lived-in. *Ghost of Tsushima* balances beauty with menace so well that wandering can feel meditative right up until it isn’t. It’s the kind of map where taking the long way is the best decision you can make. | © Sucker Punch Productions

Cropped Fall Guys — Fall Guys (2020)

The joy is immediate: you’re a wobbly little bean in a carnival of bad decisions, and the physics are designed to betray you at the funniest possible moment. Rounds are short, colorful, and readable, which is why it works both as a party game and as a surprisingly sweaty competition once you start caring about wins. *Fall Guys* thrives on the gap between confidence and reality – jump timing, crowd chaos, sabotage, and that one guy who grabs you at the worst time. It’s also endlessly watchable, because every match generates tiny slapstick stories that feel different even when the levels repeat. When it’s at its best, losing is still a punchline. | © Mediatonic

Cropped Dead Cells — Dead Cells (2018)

Speed is the addiction here, the kind that makes you restart immediately because the movement feels too good to stop. Combat is snappy and precise, with builds that can turn you into anything from a cautious trap-setter to a full-send blender, depending on what you pick up. The roguelite structure is what keeps it dangerous: you’re always learning routes, unlocking new tools, and chasing that cleaner run, even as the game punishes sloppy confidence. *Dead Cells* rewards exploration with secrets and alternate paths, so the world feels like a shifting maze you slowly master through repetition. It’s tough, but it’s also fair in the way that matters – you can usually see why you died, and you always feel like you could do better. | © Motion Twin

Cropped Doki Doki Literature Club — Doki Doki Literature Club (2017)

It looks like a cute visual novel about a school club, and it’s very determined to weaponize that expectation. You’re writing poems, flirting awkwardly, and choosing dialogue options that feel harmless – until the game starts pushing past the edges of what the genre usually allows. What makes *Doki Doki Literature Club!* so memorable is how it turns the interface itself into part of the horror, blurring the line between story and the act of playing. It goes for discomfort, not jump scares, and it sticks because the tone shift feels like the floor dropping out from under you. Even people who “know the twist” still recommend it because the experience is the point. | © Team Salvato

Cropped crash bandicoot — Crash Bandicoot N. Sane Trilogy (2017)

Tight platforming is a different kind of nostalgia when you realize your muscle memory was lying to you. The levels look brighter and smoother, but the challenge is still built around precise jumps, awkward timing, and that constant “one more try” itch that made the originals legendary. What’s impressive is how the collection keeps the old-school structure intact – linear stages, hidden routes, bonus rounds – while giving it a makeover that doesn’t erase the personality. *Crash Bandicoot N. Sane Trilogy* is also a reminder of how satisfying simple design can be when it’s executed well: run, spin, survive, celebrate, repeat. It’s joyful, frustrating, and weirdly therapeutic once you get into the rhythm. | © Vicarious Visions

Cropped Let it Die — Let It Die (2016)

A neon-soaked death tower run by a smug announcer isn’t exactly subtle, and that’s part of the charm. You’re climbing floor by floor with scavenged gear, constantly deciding whether to push your luck or cash out before the game snatches your progress. The difficulty spikes and the meta systems can be brutal, but the loop is addictive because every run feels like a desperate heist: grab materials, upgrade, survive, repeat. *Let It Die* also leans into its own weirdness – punk aesthetics, dark humor, and a sense that the world is laughing at you while you grind your way upward. It’s the kind of game that turns frustration into motivation, which is a dangerous trick to pull off. | © Grasshopper Manufacture

Cropped Bloodborne — Bloodborne (2015)

Yharnam doesn’t invite you in so much as dare you to survive the first street, and the mood hits before you even understand what you’re fighting. The combat is fast and aggressive, built around committing to attacks and stealing health back, so every encounter feels like a negotiation with panic. What makes it unforgettable is how the world keeps unfolding sideways: gothic horror gives way to cosmic dread, and familiar enemies start looking like symptoms of something much larger. *Bloodborne* rewards exploration with shortcuts, hidden bosses, and lore fragments that feel like you’re reading a cursed diary one page at a time. It’s punishing, yes, but it’s also weirdly empowering once the rhythm clicks – and that’s why people talk about it like a rite of passage. | © FromSoftware

Cropped SUPER TIME FORCE — Super Time Force Ultra (2014)

Time travel usually means lore dumps and paradox charts, but here it’s a gameplay toy you can break in half and still have fun with. You play a level, die, rewind, and then fight alongside your past selves, stacking a ridiculous army of “you” until the screen looks like a perfectly planned accident. The best part is how it turns mistakes into strategy – failure isn’t a reset, it’s fuel for a better run, and the game keeps rewarding clever timing more than raw reflexes. *Super Time Force Ultra* stays lovable because the chaos feels controlled, like the designers want you to experiment and laugh when your plan barely works. It’s an action game that’s also a comedy about action games, and it never wastes your time. | © Capybara Games

Cropped Journey — Journey (2012)

That distant mountain does something to your brain – you keep walking toward it even when you don’t know why, and the game understands exactly how to feed that pull. The desert, the ruins, the wind, the light: everything is tuned for mood, so exploration feels like drifting through a living painting that occasionally bites back. One of the boldest choices is how *Journey* handles connection, letting you meet another player without names or chat, communicating through movement and simple signals. It’s not “open world” in the giant-map sense, but it’s pure exploration in the emotional sense – wonder, loneliness, trust, and a finale that lands because you earned every step. | © Sony Computer Entertainment

Cropped Sound Shapes — Sound Shapes (2012)

Platforming and music usually sit in separate corners, but here they’re tangled together so tightly that movement becomes composition. You jump, roll, and bounce through levels where every collectible, hazard, and landing point adds a beat or a melody, turning a simple run into something you can hear as well as see. *Sound Shapes* also shines as a creative playground, letting players build stages that feel like little interactive songs, then share them like mixtapes. It’s the kind of game that makes you grin because it’s clever without being smug, and it stays charming even when it gets tricky. | © Sony Computer Entertainment

Cropped The Binding of Isaac — The Binding of Isaac (2011)

The premise is grim, the humor is pitch-black, and the runs are so unpredictable you can ruin your schedule in the best way. You’re diving into a basement of monsters and nightmares, grabbing items that can turn you into a walking death laser – or a fragile mess – depending on luck and smart choices. What makes *The Binding of Isaac* feel essential is how it rewards curiosity and risk: every room is a tiny decision, every item has wild consequences, and learning the game is basically learning chaos management. It’s messy, memorable, and oddly personal for something so cartoonishly grotesque. | © Edmund McMillen

Cropped Persona 4 — Persona 4 (2008)

A sleepy rural town shouldn’t be this addictive, but the routine is the magic – school days, friendships, part-time jobs, and then the sudden drop into a supernatural murder mystery that keeps twisting. The dungeons are where the combat and strategy live, yet the heart of the experience is the social web: who you spend time with, what you learn about them, and how those relationships change you. *Persona 4* gets under people’s skin because it balances cozy hangouts with genuine dread, letting comedy sit right next to tragedy without feeling like tonal whiplash. You’re not just grinding levels; you’re building a life, and that’s why the ending tends to hit harder than players expect. | © Atlus

Cropped Shadow of the Colossus — Shadow of the Colossus (2005)

Silence does the heavy lifting, and the empty space between objectives is what makes the world feel sacred and unsettling at the same time. You ride through wide, lonely landscapes toward distant landmarks, and the journey itself becomes part of the tension because the game refuses to distract you with busywork. Each fight is a puzzle disguised as a boss battle, asking you to read movement, climb surfaces, and improvise under pressure rather than just swing harder. The name *Shadow of the Colossus* is practically a mission statement: it’s about scale, fragility, and the strange sadness that creeps in when victory doesn’t feel clean. Few games make exploration feel this haunted. | © Sony Computer Entertainment

Cropped Ape Escape — Ape Escape (1999)

Before “gimmick controls” became a punchline, this one used the DualShock sticks as the whole point, turning gadget-swapping into a physical, hands-on chase. The hook is simple – round up escaped monkeys across time – but the levels are packed with playful surprises, from goofy enemy behavior to tools that make you experiment instead of brute-force. What keeps it lovable is how cheerful the design feels: it’s bright, weird, and constantly nudging you to try one more area because you’re sure there’s another hidden ape nearby. *Ape Escape* also has that rare first-game energy where everything is a bold idea, and somehow most of them land. | © Sony Computer Entertainment

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When Shuhei Yoshida talks about games that matter, it doesn’t sound like marketing – it sounds like someone remembering the moments that made the medium feel new. After decades helping shape PlayStation’s identity, his “must-play” picks land like a shortcut to what’s truly worth your time.

What’s fun is how wide that taste can stretch: prestige epics, inventive indies, genre-defining classics, and the occasional curveball that proves “essential” doesn’t always mean “obvious.” If Shuhei Yoshida calls a game unmissable, there’s usually a reason it stuck with him.

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When Shuhei Yoshida talks about games that matter, it doesn’t sound like marketing – it sounds like someone remembering the moments that made the medium feel new. After decades helping shape PlayStation’s identity, his “must-play” picks land like a shortcut to what’s truly worth your time.

What’s fun is how wide that taste can stretch: prestige epics, inventive indies, genre-defining classics, and the occasional curveball that proves “essential” doesn’t always mean “obvious.” If Shuhei Yoshida calls a game unmissable, there’s usually a reason it stuck with him.