"Spider-Man vs. The Kingpin" is that cartridge you kept booting up on repeat: a couple notes from the title screen and you can already smell midnight Manhattan, feel Parker’s sneakers on rain-slick asphalt, and the taut snap of a perfect web swing. Spider-Man vs. The Kingpin, “Spidey vs. Kingpin,” “Spider-Man on Sega” — call it what you like (see the Wikipedia article), it’s a punchy superhero arcade-platformer where the big bad isn’t just Wilson Fisk — it’s the clock. Kingpin puts out the hit, the city boils, the Daily Bugle screams headlines, and we, in red and blue, sprint up brickwork, vault neon glare, and mummify street punks into neat little cocoons. It nails that comic-book New York vibe and a simple, sticky sense of pursuit — one timer for all, one shot to prove you’re not the villain. And this is the game where webbing isn’t just a rope, it’s a mindset: pick your height, rhythm, and swing angle, then skim above the blocks like tracing a map of old memories.

This one’s got a story with backbone, too. In the early ’90s, Sega took Marvel’s favorite wall-crawler and built a no-fuss adventure: a city map, freedom to choose your next swing, and a rogues’ gallery — Electro, Sandman, the Lizard, Doc Ock, Hobgoblin — and, of course, the Kingpin. Between scraps come signature web tricks, snapping evidence for the Daily Bugle, managing precious web-shooter charge, and rare minutes to catch your breath. Between stages, quick comic panels flash by like clippings from the morning paper — and you want to flip the page. For many, it was “the Spider-Man game on Sega,” the yardstick for adventure: buttery wall-crawling, bold web-swinging arcs, boss throwdowns, and that low hum of the nocturnal city. How the team pieced it together and what kept the project breathing — we unpack in our making-of — from the spark to the tiny touches that make the game feel alive.

“Spider‑Man vs. The Kingpin” is that rare one where your fingers find the groove on their own. Give it a couple seconds and you’re already swinging between New York’s lights—catch the moment, release, snag another line. Spidey‑Sense buzzes on the edge, walls shoot upward, rooftops beckon ahead. Wall‑and‑ceiling parkour just clicks: latch on, roll over a ledge, sail off like you were born to do it. Here the lightness of flight sits right next to the grit of a street brawl: step left and you’re an acrobat; step right and you’re just vulnerable Peter, and every mistake rings out. Wilson Fisk, the crime boss of record, looms like a shadow over the blocks—“Spidey vs. Fisk” stops being a title and turns into a state of mind.

The rhythm holds tight: short breathers flip into bursts across facades and shafts as your webbing runs dry and every miss shaves off health. Web‑swinging hands you that capital‑F freedom: the city turns into launch lanes, every ledge a springboard. Combat is straight off the page—combo strings, yanks, dodges, sticky slaps—and the bosses drop in on the refrain: Sandman oozes from underfoot, Lizard hisses through damp tunnels, Electro spits sparks across the girders, and Doctor Octopus snaps those claws. Economy rules: burn through your web shots and you lose your safety line; rush it and a timer kicks on, making the chase for Fisk meaner. Sometimes a lucky snap on the camera bails you out—bonuses drip in and you can finally breathe. The nuances, secrets, and that tactile control are all in our gameplay breakdown, but the core lives in your thumbs: flow, improvisation, and the hunt for the Kingpin.