The Sonic the Hedgehog games are celebrated for their music, from the giddy chipset ballads of the original 2D instalments to the squalling glam rock tracks of later 3D outings. In the case of 1992’s Sonic 2, the music is also something of a magic portal. By selecting certain tracks on the game’s Sound Test menu, you can unlock a set of cheat modes, including a bizarre slow-mo feature and, most usefully, a level select screen.

To my nine-year-old self, all this proved transformative: it gave me a fresh perspective on the game’s design, and so, transported me further into it. No longer was I constrained by the given cadence of stages and in particular, the difficulty spike imposed by the infamous Chemical Plant level. Now, I could explore and study them in isolation, tackling them in different orders as though composing a playlist. I was particularly fascinated by the game’s Debug Mode, which let me conjure up props such as golden rings at whim, and fly through levels in the curious guise of a power-up TV. This feature does not, in fact, exist for the benefit of Sonic players: as the name implies, it was added to help Sega’s QA staff stress-test levels before release.

All of which is to say that cheating in video games isn’t just about, well, cheating. It’s to stray across the gap between player and designer – to put one foot outside the simulation, often in a spirit of cheerful antagonism. DOOM’s No Clip Mode lets you glide through walls, for example, turning the tables on claustrophobic Martian mazes that are packed with monster lairs screened by sliding partitions. Mortal Kombat​’s self-explanatory Blood Code allowed players to reverse the censoring of its home format release, back when moral panic over ​“video game nasties” was at its peak. The playfulness of cheating goes beyond tapping in codes to broader questions of game design. As an ethos, it’s strangely integral to immersive sim games, a genre where players are encouraged to use tools in ways the designers haven’t prepared for.

Sadly, cheating gets short shrift in discussions of games today, running contrary as it does to the meritocratic worldview expressed by many developers and gamers, where rewards and self-improvement are held to come about exclusively through exercise of ability on a supposedly level playing field. To cheat a game, in the words of one recent tweet concerning FromSoftware’s Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice, is to ​“cheat yourself”, to pass up an opportunity to ​“grow”. The tweet in question has been widely memed by critics, developers and marketing teams looking to boost their numbers – it has attracted a flood of videos of classic cheats with the text pasted over character dialogue – but the loudness of the reaction against the sentiment betrays its popularity.

