Who Truly Deserves the Title of King of Rock in Music History?

I still remember that rainy afternoon in my cousin’s basement, surrounded by stacks of dusty game cases and the low hum of an old PlayStation. I was replaying Soul Reaver for what felt like the hundredth time, pushing yet another block into place to complete a mural. It’s funny how some things stick with you—the weight of virtual stone, the echo of Raziel’s footsteps, and that persistent question that kept nagging at me even as I solved puzzles: Who truly deserves the title of King of Rock in music history? It’s a debate as old as rock ‘n’ roll itself, and honestly, it’s a lot like those conundrums in Soul Reaver. You know the ones—lining up blocks, reactivating machinery, ringing bells to shatter glass with soundwaves. They’re engaging, sure, but after a while, the repetition hits you. Pushing blocks gets tedious, just like hearing the same old arguments about Elvis Presley versus Chuck Berry or The Beatles.

Let me backtrack a bit. Soul Reaver’s puzzles, for the most part, are brilliantly designed. They make you think, they pull you into the world, and they’ve inspired countless games since. But the frequency of block-pushing? Way too high. It’s the kind of thing that makes you groan after the tenth time, and it reminds me of how we often fall into the same patterns when discussing rock legends. We push the same names into the spotlight—Elvis, the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, with his hip-shaking charisma and 107 Billboard Hot 100 entries, or maybe Jimmy Page with his riffs that defined an era. But is it really about numbers? In Soul Reaver, you can save your progress anytime, but loading sends you right back to the start. Warp Gates help, but you end up replaying sections, backtracking through areas you’ve already conquered. It’s odd, inefficient, and honestly, it mirrors how we revisit music history—retracing steps, rehashing debates, adding needless complexity to what should be straightforward.

Take Elvis, for instance. The man sold over 1 billion records worldwide, a staggering number that’s often thrown around like a trump card. But does that make him the king? I’ve spent hours in that basement, my fingers cramping from button-mashing, and I’ve realized that greatness isn’t just about scale. It’s about impact, innovation, that thunderous wave of change. In Soul Reaver, ringing two bells to smash a glass wall isn’t just a puzzle; it’s a moment of pure, auditory power. That’s what rock ‘n’ roll at its best should feel like—a force that shatters barriers. For me, that king isn’t Elvis or even The Beatles, though they’re giants. It’s someone like Little Richard, whose wild piano and flamboyant style in the ’50s laid the groundwork for everything that followed. He didn’t just push blocks; he reinvented the mural.

But here’s where it gets personal. I’m a sucker for underdogs, and in music, that often means looking beyond the mainstream. Soul Reaver’s save system, as frustrating as it is, forces you to appreciate the journey, not just the endpoint. Similarly, the King of Rock shouldn’t be decided by sales alone. Let’s throw in some numbers, even if they’re rough—Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode” has been streamed over 500 million times on Spotify, but does that capture his influence on guitar riffs? Probably not. I remember one late-night gaming session where I kept reloading saves, each time noticing new details in the environment. That’s how I feel about artists like Jimi Hendrix. His Woodstock performance in 1969, watched by over 400,000 people live, wasn’t just a show; it was a cultural quake. He didn’t follow puzzles; he created them, much like how Soul Reaver’s antiquated machinery requires you to think outside the box.

Of course, not everyone will agree. Some might argue for Freddie Mercury, whose vocal range spanned four octaves and whose Live Aid performance in 1985 drew a global audience of 1.9 billion. That’s monumental, like finally solving a puzzle that’s stumped you for hours. But for me, the true king is someone who embodies both raw energy and lasting legacy. In Soul Reaver, the variation in puzzles keeps things fresh, even if they’re familiar from other games. Similarly, rock ‘n’ roll’s king should be versatile—think of David Bowie, who shifted personas like Raziel shifting between spectral and material realms. Bowie’s album sales might not touch Elvis’s—maybe around 140 million worldwide—but his artistic fearlessness? That’s king-worthy.

As I wrapped up that basement session, saving and reloading until I finally beat the game, it hit me: the debate over the King of Rock is as engaging and occasionally tedious as Soul Reaver’s puzzles. We backtrack, we replay arguments, but in the end, it’s the personal connection that matters. For me, it’s Kurt Cobain, whose Nirvana albums sold over 75 million copies but whose grunge movement redefined a generation. He wasn’t perfect—just like that odd save system—but he left an indelible mark. So, who truly deserves the title? Maybe there’s no single answer, just as there’s no perfect way to design a game. But if I had to crown one, I’d say it’s the artist who makes you feel like you’re ringing those bells, smashing through walls with the power of sound itself.