Console Wars Read online

  To name something is to make it real, so ideas for the magazine’s title were immediately tossed around. The leading candidate was Power Player (inspired by the “Now You’re Playing with Power” slogan), but that trademark had already been taken, and besides, Arakawa wanted the name Nintendo to be used. The brainstorming continued—Nintendo Now? Or maybe Playing with Nintendo?—until they finally settled on one that felt just right: Nintendo Power. From there, Tilden and Phillips began generating column ideas, and coming up with sections such as “Pak Watch” (which provided previews of upcoming games) and “Classified Information” (which revealed top-secret tips, tricks, and codes). They were pleased with what this was turning into, but agreed that something was missing: a more direct way to connect with their players, a way that said, We may be making a magazine, but we love these games as much as you do. They couldn’t quite figure out how to accomplish this yet, but they didn’t have time to chase their tails. They needed to keep moving and define the look, layout, and feel of Nintendo Power. To do so, they flew out to Japan and met with Work House, a small design company in Tokyo, who could help create a cross-cultural aesthetic that would please the parent company and appeal to kids from every country in the world.

  Unsurprisingly, it was no cinch to sync up the cultural stylings of East and West. Work House liked ostentatious headlines, but Tilden liked understated. She wanted bright, sunny layouts, but they preferred pale, cloudy ones. It was hard to find common ground, but Tilden wouldn’t relent. This wasn’t about ego; it was about giving kids a reason to run to their mailbox each month and hide a flashlight under the bed so they could stay up late reading under the covers. To defuse the growing tension, Phillips jokingly suggested that it was no use arguing with Tilden because she was NOA’s “dragon lady.” His quip failed to lighten the mood at the time, but the nickname for Tilden stuck.

  As Phillips was hard at work playing through games in order to rate them for the magazine, the Dragon Lady was struck by the fact that in a way, Phillips played videogames for a living. That was every child’s fantasy, wasn’t it? At that point she realized that Phillips was the key to building a bridge between Nintendo and its players. She approached Phillips with this vision, leading them to the creation of a comic strip called “Howard & Nester,” which featured a professorial version of Howard Phillips finding subtle ways to give game hints to Nester, a kid who needed advice but was too much of a know-it-all to ever ask. After fleshing it out, they loved the comic idea but felt it was still missing one thing. The two-dimensional Phillips character needed a telltale trait, something iconic like Superman’s S or Popeye’s pipe. The answer turned out to be rather easy. At the request of his wife, Phillips always wore a bow tie on special occasions, so it was decided that cartoon Howard would always wear one as well.

  In July 1988, Nintendo of America shipped out the first issue of Nintendo Power to the 3.4 million members of the Nintendo Fun Club. Over 30 percent of the recipients immediately bought an annual subscription, marking the fastest that a magazine had ever reached one million paid subscribers. And as the magazine’s audience grew, so did the influence of Howard Phillips. If Nintendo Power gave kids a chance to step inside the candy factory, then he was their Willy Wonka, magically and eccentrically showing them how the sweets were made. Though Mario was Nintendo’s mascot, Phillips became the face of Nintendo. Peter Main took advantage of this, sending Phillips all over the country for press events and on-camera interviews. This miffed Bill White, who had been working so hard to present Nintendo as a royal kingdom, not the Magic Kingdom. After all, it was Michael Eisner who did Disney’s press interviews, not someone in a Mickey Mouse costume. It wasn’t that White wanted to stop exploiting Phillips—the guy was pure gold—but they needed some way to present him as Nintendo’s jester and not as the king. Main agreed, and found an elegant solution by turning to the beer industry. Ever since producing its first ale in 1759, Guinness has always appointed a spokesman called the Master of Brew, who supposedly inspects all aspects of the brewing process, from the purchase of barley to the experimental work conducted in the brewery’s lab. Following in that tradition, Main appointed Phillips Nintendo’s first Game Master. Shortly thereafter, Howard Phillips became a national celebrity, boasting a Q score higher than Madonna, Pee-wee Herman, and the Incredible Hulk.

  The rise of the Game Master was just the latest sign of Nintendo’s unprecedented success. By 1990, Nintendo of America had sold nearly thirty million consoles, resulting in an NES in one out of every three homes. Videogames were now a $5 billion industry, and Nintendo owned at least 90 percent of that. The numbers were astounding, but Nintendo’s triumph went beyond that. Arakawa had proven that he was more than just the son-in-law, Lincoln had proven that he could take on anyone, and Main had proven that he could swim with the sharks.

  Although Arakawa, Lincoln, and Main were at the top of the ladder, the unlikely triumph of NOA was a team effort from top to bottom. There was John Sakaley, the wild and crazy renegade who fought for every inch of retail space as if his life depended on it. He pioneered the industry’s first store-within-a-store by transforming ordinary retail spaces into magical, snow globe–like areas called the World of Nintendo. So mesmerizing were these interactive displays that kids couldn’t help but fantasize about accidentally getting locked in these stores overnight and staying awake to play Nintendo’s games. Sakaley also developed the Nintendo Fun Center, a mobile entertainment gaming kiosk that was popular with patients in childrens’ hospitals.

  Then there was Don Coyner, the man behind Nintendo’s happy-go-lucky, game-footage-fueled commercials. Previously he had been an account director at Foote, Cone & Belding, where he created the famous slogan for Kraft’s macaroni and cheese, “It’s the Cheesiest!” He brought that same gift for innocent, well-crafted cheesiness to Nintendo, overseeing dozens of commercials for games like Dr. Mario and Metroid, as well as other products like Game Boy and the Power Pad.

  There was also Lance Barr, who designed the iconic look of the NES and the feel of its heaven-in-your-hands controllers, and Don James, the product development guru who helped Barr with the design. (James, along with Arakawa, also named Nintendo’s pixelated plumber, Mario, after Mario Segale, the company’s mysterious landlord whom nobody had ever met.) There were hundreds of others at NOA whose unseen efforts backstage helped define and then refine the Nintendo experience.

  Together, they had single-handedly resurrected an industry. And they did it all with only 8 bits. Imagine what they could do with 16 . . .

  6.

  THE NAME OF THE GAME

  “There you are!” Sega’s plucky product manager, Madeline Schroeder, said as she sidled into the office’s tiny kitchen and found Tom Kalinske standing in front of the coffee machine with a cup of joe in his hand.

  Although she felt certain that he had heard her exclamation, her new boss did not look up from the papers in his other hand. She thought this odd (and rather rude), until a split-second forensic analysis of the situation revealed the following: the cup in his hand was empty and upside down, the coffee machine wasn’t even turned on, and the dazed look on Kalinske’s face was symptomatic of one who’d just seen a ghost. Either Tom Kalinske didn’t know how to use a coffee machine or whatever he was reading had made him catatonic. “My, oh my,” Schroeder said, settling upon the latter. “That must be some compelling literature right there.”

  In a flash, the pale expression on his face became an a-okay smile. “Oh hey there, Madeline,” Kalinske replied. He was good like that, with names, only needing to hear them once to remember them forever. “You’ve probably seen this already, but as you suspected I found it to be particularly engrossing.”

  He handed her an article that he had been reading as part of his crash-course on all things Nintendo. It was a piece written by Anthony Gonzalez that had appeared in the New York Times the previous year, titled “The Games Played for Nintendo’s Sales.” This is what Kalinske had been reading when his cof
fee craving suddenly disappeared:

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1989

  SEATTLE – Meet the man behind Nintendo, the video game maker that is the talk of America three Christmases running.

  To his admirers, Peter Main, vice president of marketing for Nintendo of America, is a master seller of children’s entertainment. They say he is a skilled businessman who has learned lessons from the unhappy history of the video game business and helped revive it into a $3.4 billion industry in only three years.

  To his critics, however, he is an aspiring monopolist, squeezing supply and jacking up prices. Charging monopoly, a competitor has sued and a Congressman has called for a Justice Department investigation.

  Of all the pieces that Kalinske had recently read about Nintendo, the beginning of this one seemed to perfectly sum up his competitor: they were either heroes or villains, and the truth was entirely a matter of perspective. Unlike other companies obsessed with the facade of political correctness, Nintendo made no effort to hide its obsession with control (the article goes on to say “By design, the company does not fill all of a retailer’s order and keeps half or more of its video cartridge library inactive”), nor did the company worry about alienating other developers (“But far more in dispute is the company’s other tactic: building the hardware system in its games with a special ‘lockout’ computer chip”).

  When Kalinske first began to investigate what lay at the heart of Nintendo, their controlling, our-way-or-the-highway philosophy scared the hell out of him, mostly because it made sense. Although Nintendo didn’t always act with the best bedside manner, their tactics generally tended to benefit the industry. They had just resurrected the videogame business from a terrible crash, and they had taken it upon themselves to put in safeguards to prevent such a thing from happening again. So retailers might complain that orders weren’t being filled, or developers might grumble about being locked out, but this was all Nintendo’s way of avoiding an Atari-like glut of bad games. Nintendo, in many ways, really did know best.

  Although this realization had indeed petrified Kalinske after he stopped asking himself what the hell he had gotten into, he began to wonder if this might actually be Sega’s greatest advantage. Maybe Nintendo really did know best, but if there was one thing Kalinske had learned about consumers throughout his career, it was this: the only thing they valued more than making the right decision was making their own decision. So if Nintendo represented control, Sega would represent freedom, and this cornerstone of choice would be the foundation of Kalinske’s plan to reboot, rebuild, and rebrand Sega. He was in the midst of this mini-epiphany when Schroeder entered the kitchen, hence the dazed look on his face. He had seen a ghost all right, but it wasn’t anything malevolent—no, it was the alluring ghost of Sega’s Christmas Future.

  “You have to hand it to Nintendo,” Schroeder said, finishing the article. “Like them or not, everything those guys touch turns to gold.”

  “You’re right,” Kalinske replied, turning on the coffee machine. “So I guess we’ll just have to make sure everything we touch turns to silver. And, you know, while we’re doing that, we’ll find a way to convince the world that silver is more valuable than gold.”

  “Count me in,” Schroeder said and then smiled, a Cheshire grin through and through. For weeks prior to Kalinske’s arrival, she had been hearing how great things would be with him in charge and how everything would turn around after he took over. At the time, she thought it was just false hope for the hopeless. Now, while that skepticism still persisted, she couldn’t deny there was a whole lot more hope.

  “But enough pontificating,” Kalinske said. “I vaguely recall your entering with the words ‘There you are.’ So what can I help you with?”

  “Right,” Schroeder said, quickly rewinding her mind. “I had wanted to ask you about your trip to Japan. Was there anything new on the mascot front?”

  “I’m not sure, but Nakayama-san assured me that he’d get us a Mario-killer sooner rather than later.”

  Schroeder eyed Kalinske as if trying to somehow conduct a telepathic polygraph test. “And how much do you trust Nakayama’s assurances?”

  Kalinske thought about this for a moment. “I’m from the innocent-until-proven-guilty school of thought. I have no reason not to trust him . . . at this point.”

  “Okay, just curious,” Schroeder said. “Did he at least show you the hedgehog?”

  “What hedgehog?”

  “That freak from the mascot contest,” she said. Kalinske had no idea what she was talking about, so Schroeder filled him in. Prior to Kalinske’s arrival, Sega had held an internal mascot contest, encouraging employees to come up with a new face for the company (which would supplant the current face of the company: Alex Kidd, a disappointing rip-off of Mario). The Japanese programmers submitted a host of diverse entries, including an armadillo (later developed into Mighty the Armadillo), a dog, a cat, a cheetah, a Theodore Roosevelt look-alike in pajamas, and a peppy rabbit that could use his extendable ears to collect objects. The top two choices, however, were an anime-inspired egg and a teal hedgehog with red shoes created by Naoto Oshima that he called Mr. Needlemouse. Nakayama had presented these two finalists to Katz, who quickly declared that they both sucked. He thought the egg was absurd and the hedgehog just didn’t make any sense; nobody even knew what a hedgehog was, so how could anyone ever possibly care about one? Despite the vote of no confidence from Katz, Nakayama forged ahead with Mr. Needlemouse and asked Oshima to explore what kind of a game would best suit his character. Oshima partnered up with Yuji Naka, a brilliant hothead in the programming department who was responsible for one of Sega’s most popular series: Phantasy Star, a sci-fi role-playing game (RPG) about a resilient young female warrior bent on galactic revenge with the help of a muskrat named Myau and a wizard named Noah. Oshima and Naka worked together to build a game around Sega’s new mascot, and it would fall onto Schroeder’s shoulders to whip the game into shape and introduce it to the world. “I can’t believe the always-transparent Nakayama failed to mention all this. Curious,” she said lightheartedly. “So basically our entire jobs, careers, and livelihoods depend on this hedgehog guy.”

  Kalinske realized the truth in her words. “Well, I can’t think of any animal I’d rather pin my hopes and dreams on than a good old-fashioned hedgehog,” he said.

  After hedging his way through the hedgehog conversation, Kalinske entered Nilsen’s office.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Kalinske!” Nilsen announced as his boss closed the door and sat down on the chair in front of his desk.

  “Hey, Al,” Kalinske said, jumping right in. “What the hell is a hedgehog?”

  “You mean, aside from the demise of Sega?” Nilsen joked. “According to one Mr. Michael Katz, at least.”

  “He wasn’t a fan?”

  “He authored a scathing multipage letter to Nakayama saying why it wouldn’t succeed in the U.S. and other assorted doom and gloom.”

  Kalinske was taken aback, feeling as if there were trapdoors hidden around every corner in this company. “That’s a tad disconcerting.”

  “Seriously, though, don’t worry about it . . . yet,” Nilsen reassured him. “We haven’t even seen any gameplay. And in this business, it could look like a duck and talk like a duck, but in the end nobody cares if it’s a duck, or even a neon-green wolverine, as long as it makes for a fun gaming experience.”

  His words worked, and Kalinske eased up. “Okay, that makes sense.”

  “There’s only one thing you need to know to survive in this world.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The name of the game is the game,” Nilsen said, with the bouncy, uplifting rhythm of a prayer worn into the soul by repetition. If Nilsen had known that the originator of the phrase was none other than Nintendo’s Peter Main, he likely would have washed his mouth out with soap. But with the bliss of quotational ignorance, Nilsen repeated the mantra and then pointed to a copy of Atari’s game E.T., which was
framed on his wall. “I keep this here as a reminder. Most consider it to be the worst game ever made.” Nilsen pressed his finger up against the glass. “Look at this thing: based on a blockbuster movie, blessed by none other than Steven Spielberg, and had more marketing money pumped into it than any other game.”

  “And still it failed?”

  “Miserably! You can still see the markdown stickers on the game,” Nilsen said, pointing to the tiny stickers showing its various price points. “It went from $49.95 to $34.95 then, ouch, $12.99, $3.99, and finally I became a proud owner of the worst videogame ever at $1.99.”

  “You really know this business, don’t you?”

  “On occasion.”

  “Maybe you should be the one in charge?”

  Nilsen waved him off. “Oh, stop it. We both know that you’re going to turn this company around.”

  “I am?”

  Nilsen looked at him strangely, as if he were genuinely surprised that Kalinske had no idea that this was going to happen. “Never been more sure of anything in my life. Truly.” Kalinske graciously nodded, and then the two of them sat in Nilsen’s office for about an hour, talking about everything from videogames and toys to their families and sports. As Kalinske spoke with Nilsen, the company started to feel more like a home. This was his opportunity, and he would find a way to make it work. “I think you’re right, Al,” Kalinske said, sitting up. “I think that things might actually work out pretty nice.”

  “Fantastic,” Nilsen replied. “Then I shall eagerly await the next senior staff meeting to see what you’ve got cooked up.”

  Kalinske looked across the long table, sizing up his troops. He felt ready to shoulder the responsibilities as president and CEO, ready to turn these guys into his guys, and ready to lead them into battle. In a couple of months he would go to Japan to meet with the board of directors, outline everything he had learned, and propose the changes that needed to be made to turn Sega into a household name. In the meantime, however, there was only one thing on his mind: distribution.