Comet

There are some things in this world that exist simply to remind you that fun is, above all, a dangerous business. *Comet*, the Williams pinball table released in 1985, was one such lesson, dressed up in boardwalk drag and ‘Step right up!’ optimism, but always just one mis-shot away from brutal disappointment and the clang of “Game Over.” Long before “rollercoaster tycoon” became a PC gaming power fantasy, Comet wheeled its creaking, carnival ambitions straight into the arcades, setting up shop to fleece your quarters in the guise of a midway attraction—dazzling and slightly sinister, the way carnies have always preferred it.

Step up to this cabinet and you’re not just playing pinball; you’re shoulder-to-shoulder with a slice of American rotgut nostalgia. The backglass sizzles with blown-out ‘80s color: big-haired blondes in sunglasses, grinning like they just lost money on the ring toss and blamed it on the carny’s thumb, all against the moonlit backdrop of an amusement park midway. It’s the kind of artwork that wants you to remember summers you never had, in places you probably weren’t allowed without an older cousin to shield you from the guy running the Tilt-a-Whirl. The sound package seals the deal—thumping synths, digital screams, and the relentless jingle of a midway that never closes. If the boardwalk had house music, it’d be this: shrill, insistent, faintly deranged.

But don’t mistake *Comet*’s garish friendliness for mercy. Designed by Barry Oursler—yes, the same fevered architect behind *Pinbot* and other Williams fever dreams—this table is pure trickster energy. The central feature is, naturally, the roller coaster ramp: a swooping orbit shot styled after an actual coaster ride, daring you to fling silver balls up its warped spine. Nailed it? You get points and the kind of smug satisfaction that makes the kid next to you want to hurl an Icee at your shoes. Miss it, though, and the ball hops back down like a ride operator cutting the lights, straight into a bottomless pit of regret. There’s even a “Bumpers” section disguised as a carnival dunk tank—because apparently, Oursler thought you should gamble your last quarter on the dream of humiliation as much as the fantasy of high scores.

Of course, it isn’t *Comet* without the infamous “one million point shot.” At a time when most pinball tables thought a six-digit score was spicy, Comet said, “What if we dropped a million on you like a last-minute funnel cake binge, and just as likely to end in shame?” Getting there required threading the needle: hit the spine-chilling ramp three times in a row, during a multiball round that turned most players into sweaty, cursing anti-heroes. To actually achieve it was rarer than finding a clean restroom at a county fair—everyone claimed their cousin’s friend did it, but you never saw photographic evidence.

Gameplay in Comet is less about skill and more about chaos management. The slingshots are fast and mean. Targets seem to laugh as balls careen past, and the “rabbit” target—a nod to midway skeeball games—is every bit as luck-infested as any ring toss. Multiplayer is technically available, but friends are as likely to turn on each other as they are to share in your glory. Losing at Comet feels like watching your little brother win at Whac-A-Mole using only his left hand: it’s personal.

Culturally, let’s be honest, Comet is the sweat-stained, cigarette-scented beginning of the Williams “amusement park trilogy,” a saga that had its sequels with *Cyclone* and *Hurricane*. But Comet is the one that caught people off guard—not yet buttoned-up family fun, but a game that feels like it wants you to stay up past midnight and maybe miss your ride home. Arcades in ’85 smelled like adolescence and fryer grease, and Comet was the table you drifted to after fighting off defeat on *Defender* but before the existential despair of a Ms. Pac-Man losing streak.

To play Comet is to remember when arcades were both escape and gauntlet—where you could relive the dizzy rush of carnival rides with none of the motion sickness, and every shot was a wager against house odds. It’s glamour, it’s grime, it’s the American dream executed in three balls or less. And if you pulled off that million-pointer? You earned the right to walk away—just before the local skeeball king strolled up, eyed your score, and made you look like you’ve never been to a carnival in your life.