I think my internet childhood started around 1994. Before browsers, before tabs, before UX was a science instead of a guess. Back when you could dial numbers for $2 a minute to get hints for Hugo 3 or Space Quest, when the idea of getting game help from a stranger felt like magic.
Offline I was the bullied nerd. Online, the nerds were royalty. And if you knew the right AOL Keyword, you could go anywhere.
It didn't feel like a tool. It felt like a portal.
At first I used the built in AOL browser. It was clunky, slow, prone to freezing, but it was a doorway.
Then I installed Netscape Navigator. The world felt bigger, faster, infinite.
Those "Best viewed in Netscape" badges weren't branding. They were tribal markers.
AOL chatrooms, MMer rooms, IRC servers — each one a different universe.
And then the web stopped being something I read, and became something I made.
When AOL supported online games, something in me changed forever.
Warcraft multiplayer felt impossible in the best way. But Magestorm — that was the spark.
A world of strangers playing together. No limits except the phone bill.
(I learned that part the hard way.)
$900 of long distance charges. Worth every minute.
Ultima Online came next, then EverQuest. Hundreds of people instead of dozens. A world so alive it made real life feel flat. The internet didn't look big — it felt infinite.
I wanted to create something that outlived me. Something like Andy's Art Attack. I found Andy's looking for graphics for videos Chris and I made. That page looked like a spaceship dashboard. Chrome gradients, neon glows, spinning menus. It was art powered by 28.8K.
I wanted to make something that gave others that feeling.
So I claimed a Geocities lot — Area 51. I filled it with flame text headers, blinking marquees, hit counters, and colors loud enough to burn retina. It would make my eyes bleed today, but back then it felt like invention.
I joined a group called The Hacker's Zone, built graphics and pages for them. We weren't building for money or followers. We were building because the web was empty and needed filling.
We were staking land on the frontier.
Some places were more than websites. They were landmarks.
A vault of buttons, gradients, explosions of 90s texture. Downloadable magic. Proof one person could fill the web with art.
Years later, Zen Garden changed me. One HTML file. Infinite designs. Same bones, new worlds.
Andy's taught me how wild the web could be. Zen Garden taught me how beautiful it could be.
Both shaped me.
- •Modem handshake
- •You've Got Mail
- •ICQ incoming message
- •AIM door slam
- •Under construction GIFs
- •"Get Flash!" banners
- •Netscape vs IE war
I even muted the modem by editing connection modifiers. It felt like hacking reality.
Modern internet is convenient and instant. Any answer, video, tutorial — seconds away.
But convenience killed exploration.
Back then, searching was adventure. Building was necessity. Sites mattered because there weren't enough.
Yet pieces still survive. archive.org, Geocities Restorations, DOS games with my kids.
The frontier isn't gone.
It just moved.
Some of us carried it with us. Some of us are rebuilding it.