The first time I saw GT running on a console, I was in Japan. It was 1998, in the Shibuya district, where buildings never go dark and the noise of metal balls clattering through pachinko machines fills endless game halls.
Sony had just launched the first PlayStation. And Polyphony Digital, the first Gran Turismo.
Ours was a long, solid relationship. With a few excesses here and there, but overall a stable one.
Until one day in December 2010.
That was the first time GT truly struck me like lightning. I was in an apartment, inside a newly built building, in west London. More or less where the Thames slips between the wooded fingers of Richmond Park, and the pubs that pretend to be old release the smell of grilled meat and onion rings along the platforms of Twickenham.
The console was a brand-new PlayStation 3. It sat in the living room of a couple of friends, between their flat-screen TV and a ceramic Albisola stand filled with sweets. GT had reached its fifth incarnation.
The new definition of those cars, really flying through the streets of European capitals reproduced with maniacal accuracy—so precise that I could recognize them in every detail—won me back.
And despite the springs quietly counting themselves on my passport, I already knew what I would write in my little letter to Santa Claus.The story of GT begins a bit like all stories do.
Once upon a time, there was a Japanese man who dreamed of building the perfect simulator. Not a game—mind you—but the ideal driving simulator.
Kazunori Yamauchi, as elegant as a NASA engineer and as stubborn as a mechanic from Bassano del Grappa, in 1997 managed to squeeze into the small PlayStation an idea far bigger than the console itself. A videogame that treated cars not as objects to smash against guardrails, but as living creatures—to be understood, mastered, and perhaps even loved.
He called it Gran Turismo—and from that day on, the videogame world was never the same again.
In the first chapter, cars had barely 300 polygons: more edges than curves, really. But even then, everything was already there—the passion for detail, the virtual smell of gasoline, and that cheeky promise printed on the cover: The Real Driving Simulator.From that point on, every new chapter, every new console, saw Yamauchi slipping a little more truth inside. 500,000 polygons per car in GT5, a near-obsessive focus on automotive physics worthy of an aerospace lab, and a soundtrack capable of turning every corner into a Soderbergh film.Gran Turismo wasn’t a success. It was an epidemic.In 1997, when it hit the market, it climbed to the top of console sales—like one of the hippos in Fantasia—with over 10 million copies sold, a figure that calling a “record” today would be an understatement.
At the time, it was a slap in the face to noisy, carefree arcade games. Gran Turismo was the coming of age of a videogame that dared to embrace the most faithful simulation imaginable.
GT was the first to say: this is serious business.
Today, the saga has surpassed 100 million copies sold. In practice, it’s as if every driver in Japan owned a copy. Or maybe two.
And to think this digital dream almost never existed.At the time, Shuhei Yoshida—a Sony executive with an exceptionally sharp instinct—recalled how the game risked being too realistic, to the point that no one would have been able to keep those digital cars on the road.
Yamauchi, both maniacal and poetic, insisted on absolute simulation—so much so that in one prototype version the cars genuinely slid and plunged down embankments at the slightest mistake, like on an icy track in Sapporo.
Sony stepped in, trimmed a few polygons, and added a touch of mercy for ordinary mortals with a joystick in their hands. Thankfully so. Because perhaps—and I stress perhaps—without that compromise, today we wouldn’t be talking about Gran Turismo, but about an obscure Japanese title loved only by engineers at Toyota.
Sony had just launched the first PlayStation. And Polyphony Digital, the first Gran Turismo.
Ours was a long, solid relationship. With a few excesses here and there, but overall a stable one.
Until one day in December 2010.
That was the first time GT truly struck me like lightning. I was in an apartment, inside a newly built building, in west London. More or less where the Thames slips between the wooded fingers of Richmond Park, and the pubs that pretend to be old release the smell of grilled meat and onion rings along the platforms of Twickenham.
The console was a brand-new PlayStation 3. It sat in the living room of a couple of friends, between their flat-screen TV and a ceramic Albisola stand filled with sweets. GT had reached its fifth incarnation.
The new definition of those cars, really flying through the streets of European capitals reproduced with maniacal accuracy—so precise that I could recognize them in every detail—won me back.
And despite the springs quietly counting themselves on my passport, I already knew what I would write in my little letter to Santa Claus.The story of GT begins a bit like all stories do.
Once upon a time, there was a Japanese man who dreamed of building the perfect simulator. Not a game—mind you—but the ideal driving simulator.
Kazunori Yamauchi, as elegant as a NASA engineer and as stubborn as a mechanic from Bassano del Grappa, in 1997 managed to squeeze into the small PlayStation an idea far bigger than the console itself. A videogame that treated cars not as objects to smash against guardrails, but as living creatures—to be understood, mastered, and perhaps even loved.
He called it Gran Turismo—and from that day on, the videogame world was never the same again.
In the first chapter, cars had barely 300 polygons: more edges than curves, really. But even then, everything was already there—the passion for detail, the virtual smell of gasoline, and that cheeky promise printed on the cover: The Real Driving Simulator.From that point on, every new chapter, every new console, saw Yamauchi slipping a little more truth inside. 500,000 polygons per car in GT5, a near-obsessive focus on automotive physics worthy of an aerospace lab, and a soundtrack capable of turning every corner into a Soderbergh film.Gran Turismo wasn’t a success. It was an epidemic.In 1997, when it hit the market, it climbed to the top of console sales—like one of the hippos in Fantasia—with over 10 million copies sold, a figure that calling a “record” today would be an understatement.
At the time, it was a slap in the face to noisy, carefree arcade games. Gran Turismo was the coming of age of a videogame that dared to embrace the most faithful simulation imaginable.
GT was the first to say: this is serious business.
Today, the saga has surpassed 100 million copies sold. In practice, it’s as if every driver in Japan owned a copy. Or maybe two.
And to think this digital dream almost never existed.At the time, Shuhei Yoshida—a Sony executive with an exceptionally sharp instinct—recalled how the game risked being too realistic, to the point that no one would have been able to keep those digital cars on the road.
Yamauchi, both maniacal and poetic, insisted on absolute simulation—so much so that in one prototype version the cars genuinely slid and plunged down embankments at the slightest mistake, like on an icy track in Sapporo.
Sony stepped in, trimmed a few polygons, and added a touch of mercy for ordinary mortals with a joystick in their hands. Thankfully so. Because perhaps—and I stress perhaps—without that compromise, today we wouldn’t be talking about Gran Turismo, but about an obscure Japanese title loved only by engineers at Toyota.
That’s how the GT Academy was born. A full-blown reality show, a sociological experiment, and an adolescent dream all fused into one. It’s worth remembering—if only for a moment—that one of those couch drivers, Jann Mardenborough, not only won the competition, but went on to become a professional racing driver.
From Gran Turismo to the podium at 24 Hours of Le Mans, without ever changing steering wheels. And if that’s not a digital miracle, then tell me—what is?
Every chapter of Gran Turismo is a time capsule of the automotive world. In the second episode, the Mazda RX-7 and the Nissan Skyline reign over Japanese nights. With GT3, European supercars arrive, bringing a touch of Milanese glamour. GT4 fills the PlayStation 2 with 721 cars from 80 different manufacturers, creating an encyclopedic collection worthy of a museum.
In GT7—the latest chapter, at least for now—everything returns to the essence: 400 models. But each one is sculpted as if it were destined for display at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.
The lighting, reflections, obsessive bodywork details—even in the rear-view mirrors—the detailed, truthful weather system that makes you long for a snowstorm in the middle of August: all of it contributes to the creation of a myth.This is the perverse charm of perfect simulation. The same one that pushes millions of us digital drivers to polish our virtual cars in the digital garage with the same care that, in real life, we reserve for ignoring the dusty windshield of our Fiat Panda 4x4.
Kazunori Yamauchi knew it by heart. The game didn’t need to be realistic like life—it needed to be more beautiful than reality itself. That’s why GT7 isn’t just a racing game, but a gallery of objects of desire. A museum of automotive worship, where the smell of new carpet is replaced by the scent of ray-traced, polished pixels.
And among the more than 400 cars, some have earned the status of icons. Not necessarily the most powerful or the most expensive, but the ones that, the moment you turn the key, make the people of digital drivers say: I’m home.
In GT7—the latest chapter, at least for now—everything returns to the essence: 400 models. But each one is sculpted as if it were destined for display at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.
The lighting, reflections, obsessive bodywork details—even in the rear-view mirrors—the detailed, truthful weather system that makes you long for a snowstorm in the middle of August: all of it contributes to the creation of a myth.This is the perverse charm of perfect simulation. The same one that pushes millions of us digital drivers to polish our virtual cars in the digital garage with the same care that, in real life, we reserve for ignoring the dusty windshield of our Fiat Panda 4x4.
Kazunori Yamauchi knew it by heart. The game didn’t need to be realistic like life—it needed to be more beautiful than reality itself. That’s why GT7 isn’t just a racing game, but a gallery of objects of desire. A museum of automotive worship, where the smell of new carpet is replaced by the scent of ray-traced, polished pixels.
And among the more than 400 cars, some have earned the status of icons. Not necessarily the most powerful or the most expensive, but the ones that, the moment you turn the key, make the people of digital drivers say: I’m home.
Lamborghini Murciélago LP640
In other words, the roar that reminds us why we bought that good pair of headphones in the first place.The Murciélago in Gran Turismo 7 is a twelve-cylinder symphony, a V12 so real that when you close your eyes you can almost smell the ragù drifting through Sant’Agata Bolognese.You don’t need to win with it.
You just need to listen.In a world of silent electric cars, the Murciélago is the last diva of old cinema.
It smokes, it screams, it consumes too much—and it doesn’t apologize.
Porsche 911 GT3 (997)
Thanks to this German marvel, precision becomes thrilling—even for those who hate precision.The 911 GT3 is the opposite of the Murciélago: where the Italian exaggerates, the German calculates.
Its six-cylinder boxer sings like a tenor holding his breath, and the chassis is surgical. It’s the car of players who spend more time shaving tenths than winning races. And yet, when you keep it clean through a corner, you experience something deeply poetic. The mathematics of control turning into art.
The 911 is the car that never betrays you—and forgives nothing. Perfect for those who like to feel superior, which—let’s admit it—in a racing simulator is exactly what we’re looking for.
Suzuki Escudo Pikes Peak
This Japanese machine is the monster that ruined all of our childhoods. If you were a kid back in the days of Gran Turismo 2, you know exactly what I’m talking about. This car was literally unbeatable. Absurd, almost illegal. It returns in Gran Turismo 7 like a ghost of Christmas past: 1,000 horsepower of nostalgia, spaceship bodywork, and the handling of a tracked vehicle. The Escudo is proof that not everything needs to make sense to become legendary. In the virtual garage, parked next to Ferraris and Bugattis, it’s the one rockstar who shows up in mechanic’s overalls and steals the spotlight from everyone else.
Toyota GT-One (TS020)
The subtitle for this car could be the Japanese obsession with aerodynamic perfection.The truth is, there are cars that look built—and others that look as if they were designed by speed itself.
The GT-One belongs to the latter category.
A four-wheeled missile born for 24 Hours of Le Mans, reincarnated in Gran Turismo 7 as a pure track weapon: slim, ruthless, and beautiful. Driving it is like playing a Stradivarius violin. With the small difference that missing a note here means slamming into a guardrail at 320 km/h.
Kazunori Yamauchi includes it because it represents the very essence of his Gran Turismo: the obsessive pursuit of perfection, even when no one is asking for it.
BMW M3 E46
This BMW is the everyday dream of being better than yesterday. At least through a corner.It’s certainly not the most powerful, nor the rarest. But anyone who has driven it in Gran Turismo 7 knows that the M3 E46 is like an old friend you bump into on the street. It never lets you down. Balanced, honest, exhilarating. Compassionate with mistakes—but not too much. And when you finally find the right line, in that legendary millisecond, a sensation radiates from just above the tailbone that hints at what it must truly mean to be a real racing driver.
The M3 is undoubtedly one of the reasons we all play Gran Turismo. Trying to improve. Race after race. Even if it’s only by two tenths of a second at a time.
Trial Mountain is among the most beloved tracks by fans of the series. Designed by drawing inspiration from the roads of Mount Fuji, grafted—like a wild orchid—onto a couple of corners borrowed from the sheer coastal roads above Antibes.
Many players learned how to get their license on Gran Turismo before doing it at driving school. And that’s also why, over the years, Gran Turismo has become much more than a franchise: it is a digital automotive ritual. GT is the only game that has managed to merge the maniacal precision of a simulator with a mechanical sensuality straight out of a noir film. It’s the idea that a steering wheel can become a form of art.
And in a world where cars are becoming electric and silent, Kazunori Yamauchi keeps celebrating the roar, the curve, craftsmanship, the perfect racing line. Every update, every patch, every online event feels like a new chapter in a cult that refuses to die. GT is an encyclopedia of mankind’s mechanical desires. A tribute to the act of driving—even when the garage lives inside our living-room television, and the helmet is a pair of wireless headphones.
