If you’ve felt lately that every time you boot up a console you’re greeted not by innovation but déjà vu with higher frame rates, congratulations—you’re living in the golden age of digital déjà vu. The analytics firm Ampere Analysis has declared what anyone with two working thumbs and a Game Pass subscription already knows: IP holders are sitting on a “wealth of content.” Translation? The games industry has become the world’s most expensive recycling program.
Ampere’s new report lists 18 titles that are “ripe” for remake or remaster success, because apparently the term original IP now belongs in a museum alongside dial-up internet and trustworthy patch notes.
Nostalgia Is the New AAA
Ampere’s analysts are not wrong; they’re just describing the same economic strategy Hollywood’s been running since the Reagan era. People will pay to feel young again, even if it means buying the same digital escapism they bought fifteen years ago, just with more particle effects.
According to Ampere, consumers have spent twice as much on remakes as remasters in the past two years, totaling $1.4 billion across Xbox, PlayStation, and Steam. That’s not the sound of market success—it’s the muffled sob of developers realizing that making something new is riskier than dusting off a 20-year-old polygon parade and slapping an HDR sticker on it.
Remakes, apparently, “rejuvenate classic IP and attract new audiences.” Which is true, in the same way that reheating pizza “rejuvenates dinner.” It’s edible, it’s familiar, and everyone pretends it’s just as good as fresh until the crust reminds you of your life choices.
The Sacred List: 18 Digital Lazaruses
Ampere’s sacred scroll of resurrection candidates reads like the Steam Library of a millennial who peaked during the PS3 era:
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Remake: Assassin’s Creed, Chrono Trigger, The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past, Fallout, Rayman Origins, Resident Evil 5, Uncharted: Drake’s Fortune.
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Remaster: Batman: Arkham Origins, Bloodborne, Bully, Dragon Age Origins, The Elder Scrolls: Morrowind, Fallout: New Vegas, Red Dead Redemption 2.
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Remake or Remaster: God of War (2005), Assassin’s Creed IV: Black Flag, Far Cry, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time 3D.
Let’s pause there. Red Dead Redemption 2. A remaster? For a game that still looks better than most next-gen releases and requires a console that audibly weeps under its weight? What are they going to remaster—the horse testicle physics?
And Assassin’s Creed? That franchise has had more reboots than Windows XP. Ubisoft’s marketing department has turned “reinvention” into a religion. Each new Creed title claims to “go back to the roots,” which at this point are buried deeper than the Animus itself.
The Economics of Re-Polish
Katie Holt of Ampere kindly reminds us that IP holders are “sitting on a wealth of content.” That’s one way to describe it. Another is: hoarders, but make it profitable.
The strategy makes sense if you think like a CFO instead of a gamer. You already own the code. The nostalgia tax is built-in. The original creative team is long gone, replaced by interns named Kai who run Unreal 5 lighting simulations in 8K. You slap a $70 price tag on nostalgia, sprinkle in some DLC weapon skins, and watch as adults who once camped outside GameStop now pre-order digital editions between mortgage payments.
In a way, the remaster economy isn’t about creativity at all—it’s about monetized memory. Every polygon becomes a Proustian madeleine. That dingy alley in Morrowind? That wasn’t a texture; it was your youth. And now Bethesda would like to sell it back to you—4K, 60fps, $49.99.
Remake vs. Remaster: A Tale of Two Buzzwords
Ampere’s data reveals that remakes are “2.2x more profitable” than remasters, but “require substantially higher investment.” Translation: more money in, more money out, same game either way.
A remake lets developers pretend they’re doing something new, when in reality they’re just rebuilding the same nostalgia factory in Unreal Engine instead of Unity. A remaster, meanwhile, is the digital equivalent of polishing grandma’s furniture—you can still see the scratches, but at least it gleams under LED light.
Let’s take their examples:
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God of War (2005) could be either, says Ampere. It’s been 20 years, the hack-and-slash gameplay could use refinement, and the 2018 reboot added RPG depth. Sure. Or, you could just play the 2018 one again, since it’s objectively better and already running in 4K.
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Bloodborne is cited as a perfect remaster candidate. Fans don’t want new content—they just want it at 60 frames per second. Which, hilariously, Sony could’ve patched years ago. Instead, they’re letting scarcity build anticipation. Economists call it demand management. Gamers call it torture.
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Fallout (1997) needs a full remake, says Holt, because “control systems and UI are outdated.” True, but that’s the charm. Fallout’s janky, text-heavy chaos is part of its soul. Smooth it out too much and you’ve made Cyberpunk 2077 with beige filters.
Zelda: The Perennial Cash Cow
The Legend of Zelda gets not one but two nods on the list: A Link to the Past and Ocarina of Time 3D. Nintendo could sell you a cardboard box with the Triforce on it and fans would still declare it the greatest game since the last Zelda remake.
Ampere’s data even cites Reddit analytics: 48,200 search results for “A Link to the Past remake.” That’s not research—that’s evidence of mass yearning. You could announce that the remake would only run on a toaster powered by amiibo and people would still queue up.
Nintendo already proved with 2019’s Link’s Awakening remake that players will happily pay for the same story rendered in toy diorama form. It’s not about gameplay anymore; it’s about capturing the essence of childhood afternoons where your only worry was whether your Game Boy batteries would die before the dungeon boss.
Bloodborne: The Game That Refuses to Die
Bloodborne is the gaming equivalent of a rock band that retired in 2016 but whose fans still chant its name at every concert. Ampere’s logic is simple: Elden Ring peaked at 14.4 million monthly users, therefore the appetite for masochistic gothic suffering is alive and well.
The analyst notes that “all ages under 45 over-represent in their enjoyment of the Dark Souls franchise.” Translation: we’ve spent a decade teaching an entire generation that suffering is content. So of course Bloodborne is a “safe” remaster bet. All FromSoftware has to do is upgrade the textures and charge $70 for the privilege of dying in higher definition.
Fallout: The Apocalypse That Never Ends
With Fallout and New Vegas both on the list, Ampere essentially told Bethesda, “You know those games that modders have already remade for free? Do that again, but charge full price.”
They even cite Baldur’s Gate 3 as proof that modern gamers want “deep role-playing elements.” Sure—but they also want functional UI, good writing, and a lack of game-breaking bugs. Bethesda’s never been one to let details like “functionality” get in the way of profit.
Still, with the Fallout TV show reviving interest, there’s money on the table. Ampere’s data says monthly active users peaked at 16.8 million after the series launched. That’s a lot of people who might shell out for a remake—especially if Todd Howard promises, yet again, that this time the engine really is new.
The IP Mines: Where Creativity Goes to Die
Ampere’s research reads like a corporate treasure map for executives who think “innovation” means “changing the menu font.” The phrase “wealth of content” sounds nice until you remember it means entire creative teams spent years building worlds that now serve as intellectual property farms.
Developers aren’t encouraged to make the next Chrono Trigger—they’re told to remake Chrono Trigger, because nostalgia is the only guaranteed ROI. We’ve turned creativity into capital efficiency.
The tragedy isn’t that these remakes exist; it’s that we’ve built an industry where making something new is the riskier option. Imagine being a developer pitching a fresh idea in a boardroom:
“What if we made a game that’s entirely new?”
“Cool. But could you make it sort of like Zelda?”
It’s the creative equivalent of living in a house made entirely of mirrors—every direction looks familiar, and nothing moves forward.
The Psychology of Pixel Nostalgia
Ampere’s data doesn’t lie. People buy remakes because they’re not just buying games—they’re buying identity. A remastered Morrowind isn’t just a product; it’s an emotional time machine for the 30-something who once escaped middle school bullies by getting lost in Vvardenfell.
There’s comfort in predictability. When everything else in the world is chaos—climate anxiety, rent, AI replacing your job—knowing that Ocarina of Time will hit the same dopamine chord it did in 1998 is worth $60 and a Saturday afternoon.
Nostalgia is recession-proof. It’s the safest investment in entertainment because it trades in emotion, not innovation. Ampere’s analysts probably have a chart showing this in 3D pie form, with a label reading “consumer attachment: priceless.”
The Remake Industrial Complex
What’s fascinating—and horrifying—is how self-aware the industry has become. Companies now treat remakes as strategic pillars. Square Enix literally renamed Final Fantasy VII Remake into a franchise. Capcom has successfully reanimated Resident Evil more times than Umbrella Corp has created bioweapons.
Ampere’s report doesn’t reveal a trend—it codifies a business model. The industry no longer wonders if to remake; it debates how often. Like a snake eating its own tail, each iteration digests the last, and we cheer because the lighting is better.
And let’s not forget the secondary economy: streamers, YouTubers, and reaction channels all thrive on this cycle. Every “Remake vs Original” video fuels the next wave of hype. Nostalgia isn’t just a product—it’s content creation fuel.
The Absurdity of ‘Remastering’ Perfection
Take Red Dead Redemption 2. The game’s photo mode screenshots look like travel brochures for places that don’t exist. The idea of remastering it feels like repainting the Mona Lisa because “the smile could use RTX lighting.”
And Morrowind? Its awkward combat and janky charm are part of its legacy. You can’t just upscale awkwardness—it has to be experienced in 2002 resolution.
The deeper irony is that fan modders have been quietly doing this work for free for decades. Bethesda could release Morrowind: Special Edition tomorrow, and 90% of its code would be indistinguishable from the modding community’s unpaid labor. The only difference is a price tag.
Gaming’s Infinite Loop
Ampere’s findings reinforce what players already suspect: we’re living in the Infinite Loop era of gaming. Developers remake classics to fund new ones, which themselves become future remakes. The cycle never ends; it just reloads in higher definition.
What’s next? Chrono Trigger: Temporal Loop Edition. Bully: Remastered for Modern Bullying Awareness. Far Cry: Before the Cry.
Soon, even the remakes will need remakes. By 2035, we’ll have Resident Evil 4 (Re-Re-ReMake) running exclusively on the PlayStation Infinity, featuring microtransactions for “nostalgia filters” that make the game look like it did in 2005.
A Wealth of Content, A Poverty of Imagination
When Ampere says IP holders are “sitting on a wealth of content,” they’re right—but it’s wealth in the Scrooge McDuck sense: piles of gold no one dares spend on something new. The industry is rich in assets but bankrupt in risk-taking.
Meanwhile, indie developers—the only ones still trying new things—get crushed under the marketing budgets of these nostalgia machines. The next Celeste or Hades could redefine gaming, but good luck breaking through the noise when every billboard screams, “You liked this in 2005—buy it again!”
The Gamer’s Dilemma
And here’s the painful truth: we’re complicit. We’ll complain about corporate greed, then preorder Fallout: Classic Edition the minute it’s announced. Because deep down, we don’t want new—we want familiar done right this time.
We want our nostalgia optimized, our childhoods rendered in 4K, our regrets smoothed with ray tracing. The industry knows this, which is why Ampere’s report reads less like research and more like a mirror.
Every line of data, every graph about “player engagement,” is really just measuring how much we crave comfort disguised as progress.
Final Boss: The Future of Nostalgia
Ampere’s report ends with a note about balance: remakes require more investment but yield greater engagement; remasters are cheaper but less sticky. Which is corporate-speak for: “We’ll do both until the money runs out.”
At this rate, the 2030s will be one giant nostalgia buffet. We’ll see Assassin’s Creed: Origins of Origins and God of War: The Prequel to the Prequel. AI will start generating remakes automatically—because why hire writers when an algorithm can upscale your memories?
And somewhere, in a boardroom full of executives wearing Mario socks, someone will say:
“Gentlemen, I’ve got it. A remake… of the Ampere Analysis remake report.”
The room will erupt in applause.
Epilogue: The True Remaster
The irony is that beneath all the cynicism, we’ll still buy them. Because even the most jaded gamer can’t resist the siren song of nostalgia. When that Chrono Trigger theme plays again for the first time in decades, the sarcasm fades. For a brief, pixelated moment, you’re 12 again, the world is wide, and loading screens still meant anticipation, not monetization.
So yes—IP holders are sitting on a wealth of content. But it’s not gold they’re guarding. It’s our memories. And the remaster economy runs on one simple truth: no matter how many times they sell it back to us, we’ll keep buying the past—because the future looks too much like work.