Robin Williams, who died unexpectedly today at 63, was hugely admired among his own generation -- the genuine affection in the room, say, when he won his "Good Will Hunting" Oscar speaks to just how well-liked he was in Hollywood. And yet unlike many of his contemporaries, Williams had a particular impact on the slice of the population now in our mid-to-late 20s and early 30s. Through the 1990s, Williams, an established film star, shifted into a new gear in his career; he generously and humbly took on entertainment for kids. Williams will be remembered for his edgy comedy and for dramatic turns, but for people my age, Williams was our childhood. 
 
 Williams' filmography in the 1980s and early 1990s is full of prestige projects ("Good Morning, Vietnam," "Awakenings," "Dead Poets Society"), but something shifted with "Hook"; the movie about Peter Pan rediscovering the joy of Neverland had the same effect, perhaps, on Williams, who'd always been wacky and loose on-screen but was suddenly acting like he'd never grown up. It took a fairly humble A-lister to play a supporting role in an animated film at a time when voice acting was an anonymous profession, and a fairly brave comic known for working blue to abandon anything that wasn't safe for young children. And yet Williams' performance as the Genie in "Aladdin" was straightforwardly a triumph, lending one of Disney's grimmer stories its imaginative expansiveness. Without Williams, it's impossible to imagine "Aladdin" becoming the VHS classic it was through the 1990s; people in my age bracket, even those who may not be able to quote chapter and verse, can easily call to mind the sense of fun and comfort Williams' voice conjured. He was generous enough to erase his recognizable face and body entirely, and yet as a blue drawing was more vivid and lifelike than the vast majority of TV characters. 
 
 Again and again, Williams went to extremes in his desire to please. In "Mrs. Doubtfire," simply one of the best family films ever made, the actor buried his face under makeup and his body in a fat suit in order to pull off physical comedy that felt, for kids, somehow illicit. We weren't supposed to be seeing something so strangely charged, even if the moral (about parental love) was brought home safely. 
 
 Certain themes emerged. In "Mrs. Doubtfire," Williams plays a voice actor who's too childlike to sustain his marriage to Sally Field; in "Jumanji," Williams played a man who'd been trapped inside a board game since childhood and who'd never lived in the real world; in "Jack," he played a boy trapped in the body of a man; in "Flubber," he was a professor unable to deal with the very real pressures of running a lab and bedeviled by magical, fun green goo. It hardly needed to be made this explicit to the children in the multiplex seats or, more likely, watching on Blockbuster rental that Williams was like us. He was strangely innocent of adult-world concerns and, better yet, he was utterly unselfish about lowering himself to the level of kids. What he found funny was funny to his audience, who cared not at all about his Oscar nominations or public profile or past comedy career. 
 
 As the century turned, Williams got interested, again, in serious projects, but it didn't help that the mid-budget adult drama was beginning its disappearance. He'd been out of leading-man roles in adult movies for so long that something was off his fastball -- movies like "Jakob the Liar" and "Bicentennial Man" had conceits (a man tries to spread hope among his friends with fanciful lies during the Holocaust; a robot can live forever but just wants to be human) that were two degrees removed from the sunny, high-concept optimism of kids' movies. (He'd lately, fittingly enough, rebooted his children's movie career as Theodore Roosevelt in the "Night at the Museum" movies.) 
 
 It hardly mattered, though, to the now-early-teens who'd been raised on Williams' movies. For them -- for me -- Williams has a place in the pantheon simply by virtue of being that rare star who seemed excited to work on projects we cared about. Giving joy is as important as evoking tears or provoking thought, and Williams' legacy, perhaps, can be measured in the imprints his movies left in rec-room carpets, as kids parked in front of the TV rewound his movies again and again. ||||| Fate threw me in Robin Williams' path more than once, and I never forgot any of the encounters. He was such a wired, complex, brilliantly funny individual, no connection with him was anything like ordinary. 
 
 Though Williams, who died Monday at age 63, appeared in dozens of films, getting Oscar nominated for four performances and finally winning for 1997's "Good Will Hunting," it was as a dazzling, unknown stand-up comedian that I first met him. In a pair of linked meetings, he made an impression on me that in an unnerving way connects in my mind to the tragic way his life ended. 
 
 The year was 1978, I was a freelance journalist newly arrived in Los Angeles when an editor I knew at Rolling Stone called me with a quick last-minute assignment. 
 
 A TV show called "Mork & Mindy" was being filmed, and though it hadn't aired yet, the word was already out that its star, a young comedian named Robin Williams, was going to break out. 
 
 In addition to filming the show, Williams was doing occasional stand-up at the Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard. Would I catch one of his shows, do a brief interview and write a small story for the magazine? Who could say no to that? 
 
 Asphyxia from an apparent suicide is what officials are initially saying is the cause of death for 63-year-old comedian Robin Williams, ahead of an official coroner's report. Asphyxia from an apparent suicide is what officials are initially saying is the cause of death for 63-year-old comedian Robin Williams, ahead of an official coroner's report. See more videos 
 
 The Comedy Store was half-asleep and half-empty that night, Williams was the last performer on the bill, and did he wake the place up. The astounding routine he went into would defy description even if I could remember it word for word. 
 
 He took on different characters with different accents, roamed to all kinds of locations, both physical and metaphysical, made lightning-fast comic connections in time and space that were at once hysterically funny and like nothing I had ever experienced before. It was no surprise people in the know were buzzing about Robin Williams, no surprise at all. 
 
 After the show Williams and I had a quick bite in a bustling place on the Strip called the Copper Kettle. It was jammed with people, and absolutely no one cared or even looked up when he walked into the room. How are you going to handle it, I asked him, when your show airs and everyone knows your name, when you won't be able to walk into a place like this without causing a firestorm. 
 
 Oh no, Williams insisted, stubbornly — or perhaps nervously, at this point I can't be sure — refusing to acknowledge the tsunami everyone around him knew was headed his way. That's not going to happen, he said, confidently shaking his head, nothing like that is ever going to happen. 
 
 Cut to several months later. "Mork & Mindy" is the hottest show on television, and Williams is the talk of the town. I was covering the AFI Life Achievement Award for the Washington Post and, by pure chance, walked into the hotel entrance right behind Robin and his date. 
 
 I tapped him on the shoulder, he turned around and gave me a big surprised grin. So, I asked him, as the line to the ballroom snaked forward, how has this celebrity business turned out for you? He was about to say something when we turned a corner and the mass phalanx of photographers caught sight of him. 
 
 "Robin, Robin, look this way, Robin, over here," they screamed in a "Day of the Locust" frenzy as waves of flashbulbs flashed in unison. Robin smiled, waved and mugged and then all of a sudden turned back to me. With the brilliant improvisational mind that defined him, he said something in a stage whisper that was immediately recognizable as a riff on the terrifying plea for help that closes the 1950s science fiction classic "The Fly." 
 
 "Help me, Ken," he said in a perfect imitation of the film's tiny, doomed fly voice. "Help me." Then he turned back to the photographers and was gone. 
 
 Because it was as stand-up of genius that I first encounter Williams, that's how I always thought of him, even when he transformed into a formidable actor Oscar-nominated for "Good Morning, Vietnam," "Dead Poets Society" and "The Fisher King" before his "Good Will Hunting" triumph. 
 
 It always seemed to me that the restlessness, the search for experience and knowledge that characterized his comedy as well as his very physical presence compelled him to go into drama, to take on not only comic roles but also dark ones. Roles that in some ways seemed out of character with his stand-up voice but from another point of view fit right in. 
 
 I ran into Williams one more time, several years later at a press lunch at the Cannes Film Festival where he was in full performance mode, keeping a table full of journalists roaring with laughter at the frenzied nimbleness of his attack. But even at those high-octane moments, even when he won his Oscar, I could never get that "Help me" moment out of my mind. When word came in Monday about his death, the thought of it made me shudder, it really did.
– After Robin Williams' sudden death, the tributes are rolling in, with many recalling a comic genius grappling with private challenges. A sampling: When it comes to comedy, "there wasn't a faster brain on the planet," writes Tony Hicks in the Contra Costa Times. We'll be hearing "a litany of tributes about one of the great comedians who ever lived. Much of it will be some of the same adjectives used when any great performer dies—especially before their time. But in Williams' case, most of it will be true." Early in his career, "it was clear that Mr. Williams was one of the most explosively, exhaustingly, prodigiously verbal comedians who ever lived," AO Scott writes in the New York Times. And beyond that, "his essential persona as an entertainer combined neediness and generosity, intelligence and kindness, in ways that were charming and often unexpectedly moving." Williams may have gotten his start long before Aladdin, but he gave a "generous and humble" gift to the millennial generation, writes Daniel D'Addario at Salon. "Williams will be remembered for his edgy comedy and for dramatic turns, but for people my age, Williams was our childhood," from Mrs. Doubtfire to Jumanji to Flubber. In the Los Angeles Times, Kenneth Turan recalls a moment when, facing an onslaught of photographers, Williams asked him—in the voice of a fly from a 1950s sci-fi flick—to "help me, Ken. Help me." The experience stuck with him and seems particularly resonant today, he writes.