As the crowd swooned with anticipation, the Sega gang was all smiles. But their upbeat spirits had nothing to do with the incoming mystery guest and everything to do with the fact that tonight officially marked the beginning of Sega’s elaborate plans to finally slay Nintendo.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Perry concluded, “it’s Fartman!”
Amidst sounds of flatulence splatting from the speakers, radio shock jock Howard Stern descended to the stage as his alter ego Fartman. Dressed in a red cape, golden leotard, and protruding plastic ass, Stern showed off his alleged superpowers, causing a smoky explosion that nearly wiped out Perry. The crowd absolutely loved this. If Perry’s cool appearance and casual cadence epitomized the look and feel of the MTV generation, then Stern’s superheroics captured its sound and smell. It wasn’t just about being gross—fart jokes had always been funny (or unfunny) ever since cavemen first discovered green beans. Rather, this was about subverting the system. It was about being outrageous at the most unlikely time, and because there was a level of self-awareness to the act, seemingly unsophisticated actions were upgraded to highly sophisticated comments on society. It was the new coda to the American dream: not only can you grow up to be anything you want, but you can do whatever you want as well, as long as you can look cool or clever doing it.
As Kalinske watched Perry and Stern announce the candidates for Best Metal Hard Rock Video, he didn’t waste any neurons on whether this cultural shift signified the downfall of humanity. That was the obvious thing that someone his age was supposed to think, the same thing his father had thought once upon a time. When you turned forty, louder music and shorter attention spans were supposed to indicate the coming apocalypse. But Kalinske had young employees, younger kids, and a forever young marketing mind that was more interested in accepting and understanding than in criticizing and demanding. The world wasn’t going to hell; it was just headed to the next level of cool, and Kalinske wanted Sega to be the ones welcoming everyone to that ethereal place.
“What do you think?” Nilsen asked, leaning over to Kalinske as Metallica rushed onto the stage to accept their award from Perry and Stern.
“Not exactly my cup of tea,” Kalinske said. “But I get it, and I feel as though we have pretty good seats for whatever happens next.”
Tom Kalinske was often right, but his comment at the show was terribly wrong. He and Nilsen had good seats when it came to enjoying host Dana Carvey’s finely tuned shenanigans, but there was one thing that being there prevented them from seeing: the official premiere of Sega’s commercials for the “Welcome to the Next Level” campaign, which aired during the MTV Awards.
Jeff Goodby, however, got to see them all. After work, he, Silverstein, Sogard, and a few other guys from the agency went down to a dive bar on Union Street called the Bus Stop, where they got to experience the inaugural batch of ads with an unsuspecting focus group of drunken peers. For a crowd that loved music and loved even more what MTV had encouraged music to become, the bar blasted the Video Music Awards on a dozen televisions as if it were the Super Bowl.
“It’s rather amazing, isn’t it?” Goodby mused as the televisions depicted Howard Stern’s persona flying up, up and away from the stage. “We spend our entire lives trying to find poetry or comedy in every place imaginable, but no matter what we accomplish, the truth is that nothing can beat a good fart joke.”
“Shame on us,” Silverstein commented, “trying to reinvent the wheel.”
“All these years,” Sogard added, “and it’s been staring us right in the nose.”
The riff session came to an abrupt end when a new Sega commercial popped up on the television sets. “Hey, man,” Goodby shouted to the bartender, “turn it up.” An hour ago the bartender might have laughed off such a request, but now he immediately complied. Although the patrons had started out arguing passionately about whether Van Halen’s “Right Now” or Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” deserved to win Video of the Year (with some side consideration of the supposed backstage feud between Axl Rose and Kurt Cobain), at some point the conversation had shifted to the Sega ads. Whether it was an ad for Taz-Mania, a teaser for Sonic 2, or a preview of the upcoming Sega CD, the spots were just electric; they didn’t feel like commercials at all, but rather another part of the performance. Some of the commercials were only a heretical fifteen seconds long, but because there were so many quick cuts and because they spoke this audience’s language so well, fifteen seconds was more than enough time.
When the commercial ended and the bartender lowered the TV to its regular volume, the guys from Goodby goofily high-fived each other. They were a little tipsy, and their collective coordination could use some work, but you know what? Fuck that. They had pulled it off, and they deserved to high-five however badly they pleased. It had been less than six weeks since the Crowne Plaza pitch, and since then they had won the account, shot a shitload of footage, and gotten five commercials ready to air. They now had proof that even without Andy Berlin, everything was going to be all right. And this revelation, in some random dive bar on a fateful Tuesday evening, meant the world to the guys from what would soon be called Goodby, Silverstein & Partners. Through thick and thin they hadn’t lost their mojo, and that was a big deal because Kalinske wanted thirty more commercials by Christmas.
“Before we acknowledge how much work we have ahead of us,” Goody said, “who’s ready to start placing bets on how long it takes Nintendo to respond?”
“Quicker cuts?” Silverstein guessed. “More close-ups? Mario in a leather jacket?”
“The level after the Next Level?” Sogard threw out.
“Hey, as long as they don’t resort to flatulence,” Goodby said. “Although I do think we ought to address their newest spots. The ones with that Mode 7 thing, or whatever they’re calling it.” Ever since the release of Super Mario Kart in late August, Nintendo’s ads, promotions, and PR had been touting this Mode 7. Obviously, no sane person fully understood what the hell it actually did, but the implication of Nintendo’s technological superiority was obvious to anyone. “Sega needs to own that mind-share. When it comes to tech, we ought to be as synonymous with the future as The Jetsons is.”
“So maybe we get ‘his boy Elroy’ to be a spokesman?” Silverstein joked.
“Or dare I say,” Sogard ventured, “Jane, his wife?”
Goodby cackled. “Cut to some neon-lit crack den of the future where Judy Jetson is now suddenly feeling left out?”
“But back to reality,” Silverstein said, “or at least our version of it. Does Sega have anything like Mode 7? Ideally, a Mode 8?”
“I have to believe that the CD is miles ahead of this,” Sogard theorized.
For over a year now, both Sega and Nintendo had been making numerous announcements about their plans to soon release a CD-based videogame system. But as of September 1992, only Sega had actually unveiled concrete plans to move forward. In October, Sega would be cohosting a launch party in New York with new ally Sony Electronic Publishing, and then a month later, in mid-November, the Sega CD would hit stores just in time for the holiday season. Until that unveiling in New York, nobody knew exactly what to expect from the Sega CD, but Harold Sogard figured that whatever it could do, it would inevitably put this Mode 7 to shame.
“I’m inclined to believe the same,” Goodby said. “But even so, the CD is a different kind of beast—more than just a console, I mean—and we still need a way to show everyone that our car is faster than theirs. Let’s touch base with Sega’s marketing and see what’s there. If the Genesis has some gizmo that we haven’t yet heard about, then we’re golden; if not, then we’ll just make something up.”
The guys laughed, sipped their beers, and then returned their eyes to the 1992 MTV Video Music Awards, anxiously awaiting the next commercial break.
The scattershot commercials were unlike anything else on television, but that didn’t necessarily make them effective. Since the MTV Awards, Kalinske had been receiving lots of congra
tulatory phone calls, which was promising, but it’s not as though people were going to call and tell him how much the ads sucked. He was dying to get his hands on some new sales figures, sell-through numbers, or any other kind of unbiased consumer data, but that type of information was still a few weeks away. Until then, he’d have to keep relying on his gut instincts, Sega’s incredible marketing team, and, to his surprise, a bunch of random eight-year-olds.
As taking Sega to the Next Level continued to take Kalinske further away from his family, he tried to make up for any lost moments by doing the little things whenever he had the time: caring for the baby, bringing home dinner, making it to his daughters’ soccer matches. It wasn’t much, not compared to the work Karen put into raising four kids, but it was critical to his well-being that he find small ways to show them he cared. It was in this spirit that one afternoon in early October, right before an upcoming business trip to New York, he broke away from the office to pick up his daughters from school.
He waited for them just outside the school building, where a sea of little faces swam past him on their way to meet their friends, greet their mothers, or hop on a bus. He was busily scanning the flood of students for Ashley and Nicole until he was distracted by something strange yet familiar.
“Sega!”
He looked around and found the voice. Some kid wearing a Dream Team T-shirt yelped the word again, this time louder. “Sega!”
His friends responded to his outburst with their own versions:
“Sega!”
“Se-gaaaa!”
“Sayyyyyyyyyyyyy-ga!”
Kalinske couldn’t believe his ears; it was one of those rare moments in life where there is no choice but to actually do a double take. The kids were imitating Jimbo Mathison’s Sega scream, and they were doing a pretty darn good job. This was way better than new sales figures and sell-through numbers. This was pop culture popping before his eyes, kernels thrown into the cultural microwave and coming out as fluffy popcorn. Even more remarkable was that these kids couldn’t be more than ten years old, which was younger than Sega’s intended audience. That was Mario’s territory, and while Sega was more than happy to convert anyone ready to graduate to Sonic, this demographic was more of a long-term hope than a short-term goal. But evidently Sega’s message had reached the teenagers loud and clear, and now it was trickling down to their younger Nintendo-aged siblings who wanted to be cool like their older brothers. If the ads were originally supposed to act as a dog whistle that signaled directly to the mutts of the world (teens, rebels, hard-core gamers), apparently there also was a large population of puppies out there whose ears could pick up this frequency—or, at the very least, puppies who didn’t fully understand the noise but cared enough to fake it.
As Kalinske’s daughters came into focus, a smile naturally came across his lips. He couldn’t wait to smother each with a giant hug, but before setting aside the big ideas of corporate dad for the smaller moments in life, he allowed himself one last look at the herd of Sega screamers.
It was a beautiful thing, to unexpectedly hear his company’s name shouted by kids no more than four feet tall, but that was nothing compared to the thrill of watching others do the same at a whopping forty feet tall. This was an unusual comparison to make, but one that Kalinske couldn’t avoid while staring at Sony’s gigantic Jumbotron in the heart of Times Square as it broadcasted Sega promos at larger than life size.
“I’m speechless,” Nilsen admitted, standing beside his boss in a similar stupor. They were looking out the window of the Marriot Marquis’s Broadway lounge, momentarily oblivious to the hundreds of bodies busily moving around them.
“Me too,” Kalinske said with a single nod of agreement. And then for a few long seconds they continued to stare ahead, enjoying parallel moments of whatever it was they couldn’t quite verbalize.
Kalinske and Nilsen had come to New York with a handful of colleagues to officially unveil the Sega CD at an event jointly hosted with Olaf Olafsson and the guys from Sony Electronic Publishing. It was October 15, 1992, and although the system and its games (six from Sega, five from Sony) wouldn’t go on sale until next month, this was the public’s first chance to see what Kalinske was hailing as the formal wedding between Hollywood and Silicon Valley. To back up this bold claim, he wished to create a spectacle worthy of the product itself, and called in a favor with Sony’s Olaf Olafsson to borrow their Jumbotron for the day in order to showcase Sega’s breakthrough CD-ROM technology. Or, to put it more poetically, as per the one-liner that Van Buskirk had given Kalinske to feed the journalists in attendance: “It takes a video screen the size of more than five hundred home televisions to indicate how big an idea we think Sega CD and interactive cinema will be to videogame players.”
Using the Jumbotron to boast giant-sized game footage was a clever touch, but ultimately it wasn’t all that different from how movie studios promoted big films, or how fast-food companies boasted about their latest burger creations. That was fine, but it wasn’t groundbreaking enough for Sega. So instead of simply broadcasting footage, they rigged the Jumbotron so that it would become the (gigantic) screen for a Sega CD system set up in the Broadway lounge. This way guests at the launch party would leave with a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and those watching the big screen from below in Times Square would vicariously enjoy the experience of the Sega CD’s videogames. This was Sega-worthy. This was Sonic-worthy. This was the Next Level.
For Kalinske and his employees at Sega of America, the Next Level was not just a marketing catchphrase but a full-fledged philosophy of how to tackle life. Personally and professionally, it was a challenge to work the hardest, think the fastest, and always find the fun in whatever needed to get done. It was a perpetual dare to dream like Walt Disney (who was dedicated to “plussing” everything that he and his Imagineers ever touched), innovate like Steve Jobs (who was always searching for new ways to put a dent in the universe), and take risks like the mythological trickster Prometheus (who stole fire from the gods and gave it to humanity—although if Prometheus had been a Sega employee, Kalinske would have expected not just fire but also a stylish fireworks ceremony too). That was the Next Level, or at least an approximation of the attitude, but the phrase and the values behind it were about more than just flowery words. In fact, those words would have been all but moot if not for the actions they inspired.
Coming off the heels of Boca, Sega’s defensive mentality at CES had made sense. But Nintendo’s very aggressive price drop signified that they were waking up, so to try to put his competitor back to sleep, Kalinske recommitted himself to staying on the offensive. And one of the best ways to take a bite out of Nintendo was to befriend those that Nintendo had bitten. In this manner, just as they had done with Sony and Tengen, Sega set out to form a cartel of enemies, headlined by alliances with the following:
1. Galoob: For nearly two years, Nintendo had been legally hammering Galoob, a California-based toy company, with plans to distribute a peripheral device called the Game Genie. This device, when attached to game cartridges, allowed players to enter codes that offered a multitude of perks, like unlimited health, an infinite number of lives, and even the ability to skip levels. Nintendo believed that this product ruined the integrity of their games and vigorously fought to keep the Game Genie out of stores. Kalinske and his troops, on the other hand, thought this was absurd. So instead of taking Galoob to court, they took them to dinner. And after the appeals and injunctions finally came to an end in December 1991, Sega became a full endorser of the product, giving it their official seal of approval and even throwing some marketing muscle behind the Game Genie.
2. Video Software Dealers Association (VSDA): Ever since it had sued Blockbuster Video in 1987 for renting out their videogames, it was no secret that Nintendo did not like the rental companies and that this feeling was mutual. While Nintendo believed that rentals prevented sales, Sega believed that this practice only served to whet a consumer’s appetite. As a result, Sega forged a
symbiotic relationship that began with Blockbuster (during the pivotal “Sixteen Weeks of Summer” campaign) and expanded to the entire rental community, highlighted by Nilsen’s speech at the 1992 VSDA show, which ended not only with wild applause but promises from rental houses to bury Nintendo in any way possible. From big chains to tiny mom-and-pop outfits, Sega’s relationship with the rental community proved to be a hidden competitive advantage, especially during an era when the rental industry flourished due to quicker releases of movies on VHS.
3. Disney: Although Nintendo liked to think of themselves as the Disney of videogames, their relationship with the actual House of Mouse was less than ideal. This appeared to change in early 1992 when Disney bought the distribution rights to the movie Super Mario Bros., but the possibility of happily-ever-after vanished as the movie’s hellish production got worse and worse. Nintendo’s loss was Kalinske’s gain, as Sega was able to obtain the videogame licensing rights to the 1992 hit Aladdin, as well as a collaboration deal with Disney’s animation studios. This would mark the first time that Disney’s hallowed animators would create a videogame, providing even more evidence that Hollywood and Silicon Valley were overlapping with Sega at the center.
While palling around with Nintendo’s foes provided an immediate short-term benefit, Kalinske also initiated a series of long-term strategies designed to position Sega as a cutting-edge entertainment company and Nintendo as nothing more than “just a videogame company.” In some cases, these plans were about identifying Nintendo’s weaknesses and planting a flag where their competitor had not yet broken ground, while in other cases it was simply a matter of taking something that Nintendo already did well and doing it better. Regardless of the motivation, the goal was always to continually provide a Next Level experience, accomplished by some of the following:
1. Animation: Nintendo had a hit animated series, so Sega wanted to have two: one for Saturday mornings, and another for daily syndication. Pulling this off would take a miracle, so Toyoda recruited Michealene Christini, an outspoken, strong-willed miracle-maker with a background in producing cartoons (Marvel) and negotiating multimillion-dollar licensing deals (Mattel). Under her leadership, Sega set out to launch a pair of Sonic-based cartoons in 1993, one that aired Saturday mornings on ABC (Sonic The Hedgehog) and another that aired every day of the week after school (The Adventures of Sonic The Hedgehog). Both shows would feature the vocal talents of Jaleel White, who starred as Urkel on the hit sitcom Family Matters.
Console Wars Page 40