📼 Nostalgic

Space MMO from 2006 still full of people mining, shooting and complaining about the economy, all inside one browser tab.

Field reports and photographs of American shopping centres in decline, written by people who cared about this long before it was an aesthetic.

The 2007 original that turned maze building into a genre, played across a desktop with the icons still sitting on it.

The original single-player dice conquest game: no accounts, no sound, no explanation, and still a perfect twenty minutes.

A browsable index of every named dinosaur, with size comparisons and the period each one actually belonged to.

Ankh-Morpork rendered as a text world, with guilds, working shops and an obsessive attention to what Pratchett actually wrote.

Turns any image into one-bit dithered grain, with a choice of classic algorithms and a two-colour palette picker.

Dithering aimed squarely at the chunky, ugly end of the spectrum, with palettes lifted from old hardware.

Mine dogecoin with a shiba inu until you can afford to buy the moon. The year 2014, preserved in fully playable form.

A 1996 US presidential campaign website, still up, still exactly as it was. An accidental museum of early political web design.

A curated DOS library with working touch controls, which makes it the rare emulator front end that is usable on a phone.

Single-player browser RPG from the AdventureQuest studio, with a long story campaign and jokes aimed squarely at 2007.

A directory that has been curating this genre since 2004, including a great many games nobody else bothered to archive.

Thousands of public webcams pointed at squares, harbours, volcanoes and building sites, some with archives stretching back decades.

The 2001 humour portal that somehow still updates, with the same mix of clips, pictures and questionable taste.

A museum of Google easter eggs that Google removed — gravity, the barrel roll, the mirrored search — all restored and working.

A simulated 1990s desktop with a working browser, games and applications, assembled as a preservation project rather than a joke.

Twenty-five years of accidentally poetic English on packaging and signage, photographed across East Asia.

Writing community from 1999 where each subject gets personal essays instead of an encyclopaedia entry, and the tone never settles.

Ugly, ancient, and still better than everything else at cutting, resizing, reversing and optimising a GIF.

Tens of thousands of fan-run wikis, each documenting one fictional universe in wholly unreasonable depth.

Home of the format that turns text into large letters made of smaller letters, with the whole font archive attached.

The pipe game its own creator pulled from the app stores for being too addictive, rebuilt and still ruining afternoons.

A preservation project that has rescued more than a hundred thousand Flash games and animations from deletion, all playable.

The two-person studio behind the entire Papa's restaurant series, with the back catalogue and the odd non-cooking game too.

Street-level archaeology of the city — old lamp posts, painted signs and vanished railways, walked and documented since 1999.

Home-video horrors rescued from charity shops and skips, curated by two men with an unhealthy commitment to the format.

The 1978 electronic memory toy rebuilt faithfully in a browser tab, still beating most grown adults somewhere around level twelve.

A grid of small games and nothing else — no descriptions, no ratings, no explanation, exactly as it was in 2010.

A search engine that strips every result down to plain HTML so it can be read on a genuinely ancient computer. Also very fast.

Every symbol, alphabet and text decoration you might want to paste somewhere, organised well enough to find one.

A million questions written and edited by volunteers since 1999, filed under categories nobody would ever think to commission.

Name the video game from a blurred cover, then a screenshot, then artwork. New puzzle daily and several modes to lose at.

Top-down shooter with class loadouts and destructible cover, still busy years after everybody stopped writing about it.

Twenty-odd fake hacking interfaces — agency mainframes, terminals, satellite maps — with buttons that fill progress bars.

A browsable restoration of the GeoCities neighbourhoods, so you can wander into Area51 or SunsetStrip the way people once did.

Directory of the emptied-out settlements of the American West, one short paragraph and one faded photograph at a time.

A search engine for animated GIFs recovered from GeoCities. Type any word and receive several spinning versions of it.

Name three bands you like, then answer yes or no to its guesses until it works out what you are actually in the mood for.

Castle building and siege warfare with the exact aesthetics of an advert you have definitely been served, and better strategy underneath.

Tim Rowett's collection of optical toys and physics oddities, each demonstrated on camera by a man visibly delighted with all of it.

A daily video game identified from progressively less obscure screenshots, with six guesses and a genuinely cruel first frame.

The cult's own website, left exactly as it was in 1997 and still quietly maintained. A sobering artefact rather than a joke.

A superhero character creator with a costume parts library deep enough to have outlasted three separate web technologies.

Old photographs pinned to the exact street corner where they were taken, fading into the modern view behind.

The lolcat archive that taught the internet its first grammar, still posting captioned animals two decades later.

Classic Mac OS booting instantly in a browser, with the software of the period already installed and ready to open.

Books, films, software, concerts and the web itself, archived at a scale no other institution has come close to.