Here's a video game scenario you've definitely seen before: a malevolent power is about to end the world as you know it, but no rush, because . It comes down to design philosophy: they want you to keep playing as long and as often as possible, so missions can't be too restrictive in how they let you use your time. The sense of urgency that's meant to push you to the end becomes little more than a carefully curated illusion that's easily broken if you decide to make a sandwich and don't hit pause.

Sometimes, anyway. Other times, you come back from your meal prep and all the hostages are dead, or the world has ended, or the love of your virtual life has turned into a horrific monster because you took too long, and the game wants you to feel it. It's a delicate balance to strike, making you feel the weight of a time crunch without pushing you so far that you quit. But games that do it well show that players don't need the virtual world to wait on our every move. Sometimes lighting a fire under your ass is the best thing a game can do.

Easily the most famous game that uses time against you, The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask is also one of the most forgiving. Though you only have three in-game days (with a timer ticking away) before the moon faceplants directly into the planet, you can reverse to the first day as many times as you like. But make no mistake, it's harder than it sounds - failing to finish your current quest means you'll have to start that undertaking over during the next three-day period. Or worse, if you let the moon crash into the planet, expect to lose everything you gained during that cycle.

Kudos to Nintendo, because this is probably the best way to balance a foreboding sense of urgency with dozens of intricate sidequests. Putting a hard deadline on the game as a whole would push you to skip side material, while allowing ample time to complete everything would turn the moon's descent into an empty threat. Meanwhile, the reverse-and-start-over option makes virtually every dungeon-romp nerve-wracking, as you only have one shot to successfully finish if you don't want to start over from the beginning. At the same time, you feel comfortable enough with your schedule that you can set aside time to fight an army of ghosts in return for a bottle of milk. You know, the important things.

As it turns out, Revolution came very close to promoting paradoxical procrastination with its first mission. Specifically, you're told that you only have so long to save a group of hostages before things get ugly, but in the game's original version you could take as long as you wanted and they would never come to harm. Figuring that out immediately deflates any sense of importance the mission had (no need to worry, they're all gonna be fine without you) but also makes it hard to trust the game when it promises dire situations in the future. Chances are those will be falsified too, so why bother?

Thankfully, set a time limit on the hostages' survival, so if you don't get there fast enough, too bad for them. That one choice made Human Revolution significantly more effective at creating suspense and a sense of gravitas, because anyone who tried to call that Mission One bluff learned that this game was not messing around.

At face value, Prince of Persia isn't all that different from the standard hero-saves-princess plot: the Vizier of Persia captures the princess, saying he'll kill her if she refuses to marry him, and you have to rescue her. However, while the likes of Mario and Link have ample time to train before they face off against their nemeses, the Vizier gives the princess an hour to decide, and he isn't kidding around - you get one real-world hour to finish the game before you fail and the princess is left to her horrible fate.

Honestly, this is a far more realistic depiction of how a princess' abduction would go, and gives it the weight and urgency it deserves. Where other games assure you that the princess will be just fine with waiting until you show up to get her, Prince of Persia promises the exact opposite, making you feel your pixelated protagonists' desperation as you struggle to navigate a tricky maze of traps. With no on-screen timer to guide you, it feels like failure is always lurking a step behind, and nothing about the experience would've been nearly as effective if you didn't have the dwindling sands of an hourglass lighting a proverbial a fire under your feet.

Snake Eater might seem like a strange addition here, since the only place where time matters is a single boss fight, and even then it feels like you have to wait for-e-ver for the ravages of time to have any kind of effect. Yet, that use of time has a powerful effect, proving that while Big Boss may be the protagonist, he's not the center of the universe.

Here's the mission (in) brief: you face off against The End, a master sniper who's getting too old for this, and is only hanging on so he can hunt down his 'final prey', aka you. You can fight him in a properly grueling battle, or you can simply save in the middle of the fight and wait a week to play again, by which point The End will have died of old age. While it's easy to assume this feature was included in the name of shock value and some laughs you feel guilty about later, it also puts forward the idea that the world and everything in it isn't waiting on Snake's input - the world moves at its own pace, regardless of what he chooses to do. That doesn't necessarily hold true in other parts of the game (none of Snake Eater's other bosses will get bored and leave if you wait too long to fight them), but that one moment is enough to at least make you think.

Pandora's Tower may not feature of the world's greatest romance - while central to the story, it never gets far past "insert gifts, receive affection" territory - it does remind you that your love Elena has a life of her own outside your adventures and won't just twiddle her thumbs until you get back. Mostly because she's mutating into a horrific demon and needs to eat the flesh of the demons you're slaying in a timely manner if she's going to stay human. And I do mean timely: every mission is on a timer, and if you wait too long before getting back to her with more flesh, she (and your relationship) will start to rapidly deteriorate until her transformation is complete and she destroys the world.

That may seem brutal and at least a little annoying, as you constantly have to return to her room instead of pressing forward, but the timer does serve as a constant reminder of why you're going on this adventure at all. While the game could just teleport you back to her place for a cutscene or two and then let you go about your business, it'd be easy to look right through those interactions without noticing them. Because you have to constantly think about maintaining her health, Elena is at the forefront of your mind, and the game serves the story rather than wearing it like a thin and ineffective overcoat.

Often enough, completing all of the sidequests in a game is just a question of your interest and willingness, because the objectives themselves typically don't require much skill or effort. But Dead Rising - a game where you and a handful of survivors are trapped in a zombie-infested shopping mall that's also housing a few "psychopaths" from the local prison - doesn't want to go that easy on you. Side objectives involve rescuing as many other survivors as you can, but you only have a limited amount of days before the rescue team shows up to collect them. Even trickier, each survivor is only alive and mobile for a short period of time. Miss that window, and they're gone for good.

That sidequest setup is immensely punishing, and you can expect to see plenty of announcements that survivors are dying on your watch as you level up. But it immediately drives home how dangerous your situation is, and proves that this zombie infestation isn't just a good excuse to beat a few shambling bodies down with a weed whacker or a six string. Getting everyone out alive is possible, but incredibly difficult, and you're basically going to have to be superhuman to pull it off.

Lightning's world is going to end in thirteen days. And unlike most games, there's no chance you'll be able to save the world in that time; all you can hope to do is send the souls of the living to their rest before the apocalypse arrive. There is a bright side, because if you can rescue enough souls before the clock strikes midnight on the final day, everyone will be reincarnated in a new world. But that's only if you rescue enough, and you're on a deadline: there's a timer at the top of the screen constantly reminding you how close you are to imminent doom.

That sense of looming destruction is what keeps you on the move over the course of Lightning Returns, forcing you to constantly think about how much time you're taking and how you'll fail if you don't recover enough souls. But what really sets it apart from any other timed game is that sidequests don't detract from your time - they add to it. You're actually only given six days to work with when the game begins, and have to earn seven more by finishing various quests scattered throughout the world. It's a brilliant way to solve the 'speed versus completion' problem, making them inseparable without losing out on the tension that's meant to keep you on the move.

Pikmin may look like an adorable game about flower creatures helping a spaceman rebuild his rocket, but pull back that veneer and it's a cold, calculating resource management game. Each task takes a certain amount of time to complete, whether it's getting the tokens to grow new Pikmin, gathering materials, or taking down enemies. You could Pik the surrounding environment clean if you had the time, but you don't, because you only have 30 in-game days to repair the ship.

Pikmin's all about making the best choices about how to manage your time. Sending your Pikmin to harvest parts from a giant monster nets you a lot of materials at once, but you'll lose most of your workforce and halve your productivity in the process. Going after smaller prizes isn't as dangerous, but it also isn't as rewarding, and you simply don't have time to gather everything you need piecemeal. That 30-day timer keeps the pressure on, forcing you to think fast and change your strategy in an instant when the situation calls for it. Yet that demanding nature is what makes the Pikmin series worth playing: these games may be cute, but satisfying victory can only be earned through careful planning and preparation.

Choosing the top 10 MGS moments is an enviable task given the series’ astonishing volume of incidental details, Codec conversations and monumental set- pieces. We asked the readers of GameRadar.com for their favourite memories, sprinkled in a selection of our own; and tried to rank them based on factors like innovation, excitement and poignancy.

You almost certainly won’t agree with our running order, but no one can dispute the legacy of Kojima’s incredible series, or the sheer diversity of its greatest moments…

Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots

It’s revealed in Metal Gear 4 that Vamp isn’t actually a supernatural, immortal vampire: it was nanomachines that gave him his powers all along. Of course.

Raiden fails to kill him in MGS2, but Snake gets his chance in 4. He bypasses the flamenco-dancing weirdo’s nanomachines by grabbing him around the neck and injecting him with a suppressing chemical, ending his reign of terror once and for all. Van Helsing is nothing compared to Snake.

Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater

The End, the Cobra Unit’s elderly sniper, is waiting in the jungle, ready to take on Snake in a fight to the death. Arguably the best boss battle in any game, the duel with ancient sniper The End can last minutes or hours. This firefight takes place in three alternating areas of MGS3’s vast jungle. The End only has one reliable tell as you figure out the sniper’s location: sound, as players slowly stalk the jungle with the directional microphone, listening for the wheezing old man as he mumbles “This...is the end” or goes to sleep.

It’s unbelievably tense, and searching for The End is filled with uncertainty. You can’t use the directional mic in first-person and still have Snake’s full peripheral vision; every time you stop and search, you’re putting yourself at risk of him finding you and picking you off. Shortly after The End is introduced in a cut-scene, you’re given the chance to snipe the geriatric marksman while he’s still napping in his wheelchair. It’s not only an ingenious twist, but a huge timesaver – killing The End at this juncture takes away an hour-long sniping battle. Giving the player the option to skip your game’s best boss battle? Now that’s ballsy. The End actually slowly dies during the fight. Cowardly players could adjust the PS2’s clock and kill him with time. Even better, The End can sneak up on Snake and take him prisoner. You wake up in jail and are forced to break out, before going back to resume the duel.

Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater

Sending Snake’s mentor to her maker with gaming’s most painful mercy kill The Boss is Kojima’s most fascinatingly layered creation. At her most base form, she’s already that rarest of entities: a middle-aged woman in a video game. She’s also a mother, a mentor and a badass soldier. With a convoluted plot that skirts around her true intentions, the climax of Snake Eater eventually reveals The Boss to be an American patriot, rather than the Russian defector you previously assumed.

Fittingly, Snake’s final fight against The Boss is as conflicted as her character. It’s a brutal CQC brawl framed by a field of brilliantly white flowers; the emotionally charged violence offset by MGS3’s most tranquil setting. To win, you must tap into the naturalist spirit of Snake Eater; dressing your hero in white to match your floral surroundings, before sneaking up on your mentor. Upon draining The Boss’ life bar, the game passes control to you one final time; a single press of square dealing a slow-mo bullet to release the tortured soldier. As the shot rings out, those flowers turn from red to white; a merciful yet bloody act that transforms Naked Snake into future series villain, Big Boss. It’s a haunting, honourable end to Kojima’s boldest Metal Gear.

Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots

MGS4 continually highlights Snake’s escalating decrepitation. He’s a wreck: old, tired, wounded and prone to violent coughing fits. Nowhere is his physical degradation more heartbreaking – and yet strangely uplifting – than during his crawl through Outer Haven’s microwave corridor to deliver the AI virus.

The scene is clever in its framing, in that it uses a split-screen effect to juxtapose Snake’s unfailing determination with the struggles of his faltering friends. It’s a gruelling sequence, and goes on just a little bit too long to create self-doubt. Your arms burn with lactic acid, forcing you to change how you hold the pad. Triumph is an act of will over physique.

Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater

This is the most varied, fast-paced, conclusion to any game ever. First, a boss scrap with Russian general Volgin – forcing you to pull all out all the dirty tricks, like disguising yourself as his beloved Raikov, or startle him with captured tree frogs (his pet hate). Next, a rattling bike escape from the Shagohod, followed by a surprise stealth section with Eva… before the epic final scrap with The Boss.

Except that’s not it. ‘Safe’ in your escape plane, you play Russian Roulette with Ocelot. You can’t lose – but for a few seconds, it feels like the entire journey might have been for nothing.

Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater

Games rarely give you time for quiet reflection – it’s the antithesis of mainstream game design, which focuses on keeping player’s engaged at all times. Even cutscenes, ostensibly a moment of downtime, require you to pay attention to plot developments and interpersonal conflict.

After the staggering one-hour boss battle with The End, MGS3 gives you time to consider Snake’s state of mind with a two-minute ladder climb backed by a quiet, vocal-only version of the Snake Eater theme. It’s beautiful, haunting and reflective, creating a genuine sense of scale.

Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty

It’s Kojima’s mic drop, as The Patriots’ grand deception is revealed. Raiden fights through Arsenal Gear’s Sigmoid Colon, taking out tengu soldiers with Solid Snake, when the screen suddenly flashes with a fake Game Over screen – Fission Mailed.

Colonel Campbell goes mad and advises you to turn off the console. Disorienting and deliberate: Kojima tries to play us like The Patriots’ played Raiden himself.

Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns Of The Patriots

The Best Is Yet To Come plays during Snake’s return to Shadow Moses’ helipad. The most overtly nostalgic moment in the entire MGS saga. Upon Old Snake’s return to Shadow Moses, he quickly stumbles upon the decaying remains of the island’s heliport.

Visibly crumbling in front of the now decrepit agent, its decaying state reflects our hero’s disintegrating genes. As you first enter the helipad, The Best Is Yet To Come – the song that plays during MGS1’s closing credits – flutters on the wind. A haunting, humbling and expertly judged piece of fan service. Even seeing the crumbling CCTV camera feels poignant.

Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty

By controversially forcing players into the role of Raiden for the majority of MGS2, Kojima wanted players to see Solid Snake from another perspective: as the legendary, mythical hero, and not the character we got to know in the first game. Raiden catches glimpses of Snake throughout the game, building on this image until they eventually join forces at the end. It’s a powerful moment, and we finally see Snake shed his ‘Pliskin’ skin to become the legend.

For a few electrifying minutes, Raiden and Snake work together to battle waves of elite Tengu soldiers in the bowels of Arsenal Gear. Stealth be damned, this is a sword-waving, guns-rattling scrap for survival. It’s a thrilling moment, and you see Snake in the same light as Raiden: the hero of Shadow Moses, the son of Big Boss, and the world’s greatest living soldier.

Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots

As Solid Snake tries – and fails – to take his own life, he’s stopped by a familiar face How do you craft a satisfying end to a series that juxtaposes themes of genetics, economics and politics with Godzilla in-jokes, groin punching and nude cartwheels? A game that defies focus-group compromise with varied game styles torn from Kojima’s toybox psyche? The answer is fittingly enigmatic as Big Boss puffs his final cigar with lost ‘son’ Solid Snake and declares: “This is good, isn’t it?”

What is good? The fleeting, sensory pleasure? Sharing a last moment with your son? This – the game, the series and Kojima’s final knowing wink that a game like this might never exist again? All these things are good, and it’s a fitting end to the contradictory, epic series that defined a generation.