Postcards from Mario Kart: Roaming an Unsteady World with a Switch 2

“The people in my neighborhood are poor,” a friend tells me. “They’re gonna have plenty of stock.”

I severely underestimate how long I’m going to be in this queue. It’s around 86 degrees Fahrenheit in the heart of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I didn’t have time to get lunch or grab a water bottle. I rushed to be here 25 minutes before 3:00 p.m., the time at which those who made a pre-order can line up, get their order processed, and be handed a receipt to pick up their console during the midnight launch.

I spend around 45 minutes in line. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and the street is bustling with people. Some laugh while recording a video of the line with their phones, and some ask what we are all lining up for. Most didn’t even know the Switch 2 was launching this soon. Others weren’t even aware of the console’s existence.

Customers go in and out of the store, and I do my best to try and hear what indications they receive. Crucially, I have no idea if the store has a stock surplus. I rehearse a spiel in my head before my turn.

I get to the counter. Before I can say a word, the employee asks if I want the regular or the bundle with Mario Kart World. It takes me less than five minutes to get my receipt.

I exit the store and immediately message a few friends to tell them the good and surprising news. As I make my way back, I walk past a group of unhoused people sleeping on the street. An immense sense of regret engulfs my gut.

The concept of a midnight console launch is foreign to me, akin to actual Halloween celebrations or snow during Christmas. As industry people prepare for the evening, some share anecdotes of previous times a videogame company decided to hold them. After all, these events have become increasingly rare over the years—especially in 2020, as most countries were in quarantine during the release of the PlayStation 5 and the Xbox Series X|S consoles.

I return to the store with my backpack and carry-on. I’m taking a reverse red-eye flight to Los Angeles with a friend in a few hours to attend Summer Game Fest. I mentally prepare myself for at least another 40 minutes in line. Thankfully, this time I have company—old-time friends of a friend are also waiting, and they’ve been tasked to get a second Switch 2. One that, if successful, I would have to take with me to LA.

The first person in line is blasting music tracks from old Mario Kart games through the biggest “portable” speaker I’ve seen. People passing by in their cars decrease the speed or outright stop to ask what we’re all in line for. Some laugh when we tell them how much the Switch 2 costs. Others were unaware of the console’s existence until now.

Somebody mentions that they asked one of the GameStop employees if they were getting PTO for the extra hours in and around the midnight launch. They said no. Another person says that they might get a day off later in the week. No one knows for sure.

We’re in and out of the store on a whim. Now, we have to do a second, slower line, to try and see if we can get the extra console for our mutual friend. It takes an extra half an hour or so. All the while, we see people take selfies with their consoles immediately after exiting. “They still have stock,” some reassure us. Somebody in line says they have four Switch consoles at home, each with a different Animal Crossing: New Horizons island. They’re thinking about whether they want to transfer one of them to the Switch 2 or start a fresh save once again. A father exits the store with his kid, who smiles ear to ear while holding his console.

I call for a car. I part ways with not one but two Switch 2 consoles under my arm.

I wonder how many people will have Switch 2 on the flight. My friend tells me I’ll likely be the only one. The console is so new that it gets flagged by TSA, despite the first Switch not counting as an electronic to take out of your bag.

My goal is to download Mario Kart World to get a few races before boarding starts. I connect to the airport’s public Wi-Fi. The verification step opens up the browser, which displays a stretched-out JetBlue logo. It says the download will take around seven hours. It gets down to six hours before we board.

We get to the hotel. Finding an available HDMI port that is actually at arm’s reach requires some acrobatics on our end, as well as figuring out how to display it. At one point, the console’s dock is an inch from being suspended in mid-air, the HDMI and power cables extending from each side of it. But we get it to work. I connect to the Wi-Fi, and the estimated download time is now around five hours.

During the next few days, we play a few races every night before winding down. Every place we go to hosts at least one session of Mario Kart World with whoever is lucky enough to have their console. Everybody I speak to mentions a different situation. Some shipping alerts say that it may or may not arrive on time. Shipments being fulfilled right after the person already left for LA. Anywhere I go, it’s everybody’s fixation.

On the last day before flying back, another friend had finally gotten his console. We gather in the hotel room at night, but the group is bigger than usual. I headed back earlier, but those who went out had to wait inside a bar, as the police weren’t letting anybody out, drastically reducing mobility around Downtown LA during the otherwise peaceful protests from residents. We all monitor the situation from the room while checking in on other people.

Already knowledgeable of the slow download speed, my friend decides to leave Mario Kart World downloading overnight. We sit in silence while the music for the setup process plays. As of now, it’s the only time that you can listen to it. It signifies an achievement and a moment of relief.

For a while, all that echoes inside the room is the music, and the sound of police sirens on the streets outside.

I’m thousands of miles away from all of this. From Williamsburg and LA. I sit alone in my apartment in Argentina. The people who come over to see me after the trip examine the console for a bit, and when I offer to play Mario Kart World, they pass. We talk or watch something on the TV instead.

I put my old Switch on sale. To my surprise, I see dozens of others available. The price is more than double the original MSRP. I’m reminded that very few people are trying to buy a console nowadays.

A friend says they’ll ask around, and asks me for details on my model to see if it’s eligible for hacking. After all, the first Switch has been one of the latest examples of a longstanding presence of piracy in Argentina. I check with a site that says that it’s too new. “Well, the alternative method is harder, but it’s possible.” I also tell them that I have a few physical games up for sale. “There’s no point in buying them anymore,” they respond.

At night, I keep an eye on Bluesky. On occasion, I see industry people share a multiplayer lobby code. When it happens, I stop everything and rush to grab my console. I smile whenever a familiar name joins the room. Regardless of how many races we end up doing, we’re all together again in the same room, albeit a virtual one. They can’t hear me swearing after being hit by a red shell, nor I can hear a reciprocal “fuck you” after taking the lead in a lucky turn. It’s all quieter now. I get Discord messages instead. If I’m lucky, I’m featured on a clip shared on Bluesky afterward. 

After a race set, someone uses the in-game text prompts to say they’re about to take a picture. I rush to join the group, searching for a gap that allows me to be in the frame.

Diego Nicolás Argüello is a freelance journalist from Argentina who has learned English thanks to videogames. You can read his work in places like Polygon, the New York Times, The Verge, and more. You can also find him on Bluesky.