Console Wars

by Blake J. Harris

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Fornasier said, trying unsuccessfully to quiet the cacophony. This is exactly why she couldn’t go to the bathroom: leave for just a second and alliances would be formed, favors called in, and everyone would channel their inner bully. “Come on, let’s all settle down.”

  “Quiet!” Paul Rioux grunted, instantly shutting up the room.

  “How about we try a different approach?” Fornasier suggested. “Let’s talk about Star Fox for a moment.” Nintendo’s Star Fox would be coming out in March, and they were putting more behind this game than any they had ever released before. Not only would the folks in Redmond be shipping out a million units to more than 18,000 retailers, but they were also holding special citywide events in Atlanta, Cleveland, Dallas, Houston, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, and Tampa. To disrupt the success of Nintendo’s Star Fox, Sega had scheduled the release of several top titles for around this time. Games like X-Men, Toejam & Earl 2, and Ecco the Dolphin, the gorgeous end result of Ed Annunziata’s dolphin fantasy from a couple years earlier. At this point, there was nothing more that Sega could do from a product standpoint, but Fornasier was curious if anything else could be done on the marketing front. “We all know Star Fox is going to be big, but there’s still time for us to shrink the size.”

  “Thank God Nintendo didn’t get this out for Christmas,” someone from the marketing team said. “Could you imagine?”

  “You know,” Richard Burns said, interrupting everyone’s imaginations, “I’m not so sure that’s correct. There’s a solid chance it would have gotten lost in Sonic 2sday and, to be perfectly honest, the retailers I’ve spoken with aren’t too upset about having a mini-Christmas in March. It’s actually something we ought to consider.”

  “It’s too late,” someone from the product development team replied. “We can’t get anything else out by March, let alone anything big.”

  “Yes we can!” Fornasier declared, her mind noticeably whirring. “Well, not literally, of course, but Richard’s got a great point. Of course the retailers are thrilled to get a bonus Christmas, so that’s exactly what we should give them. A Christmas-like launch every month of the year!”

  “Boom!” said Tom Abramson, slapping the table. “Like it, love it, done deal. Just like the greeting card industry: every month will have something big going on.”

  Okay, every month was a little too aggressive, but every six to eight weeks should do the trick. Why didn’t we come up with this sooner, Fornasier wondered, especially since this resembled a similarly staggered promotional strategy from the consumer packaged goods industry? But it didn’t really matter that the idea had never come up before; all that mattered was that it worked like gangbusters when she was at Del Monte, and it should be just as effective now at Sega.

  And as the jockeying began for whose games should receive the full holiday treatment of promotion, marketing, and sales, Fornasier couldn’t help but continue to ignore her bladder and be thankful that she hadn’t gotten up to use the bathroom. If she had, she might have very well missed out on the gift of having Christmas all year round.

  Not long after that meeting, a man named Bob Knapp was on his way from Osaka to Newark. During the long trip from Japan to New Jersey, he had a layover in San Francisco, where he was greeted with some disturbing news at Gate 81.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the airline attendant explained. “But that’s what my system says.”

  “That can’t be accurate,” Knapp said. “My inbound flight was first-class.”

  “Yup, it says that too,” the attendant said. “But your final leg is economy.”

  “Hmmm, I see,” Knapp replied. “Are there any upgrades available?”

  “Yup, there’s one,” the lady beside him said. It was Ellen Beth Van Buskirk, headed east for Toy Fair, and with the millions of miles she’d accumulated, there was no way she wasn’t getting that seat. “And it’s about to be mine.”

  Knapp took a half step backward to fully observe this woman and then a half step forward to plead his case. “I think it makes more sense for me to take the seat. I’ve just flown in from Osaka. I’m sure you understand.”

  “What?” Van Buskirk asked. “Are you crazy?”

  “Hardly,” Knapp said, and he and Van Buskirk then proceeded to argue over who most deserved the seat in question. Not long after, the bickering turned to banter and then it evolved into flirtation. By the time the flight departed, Knapp had gotten the seat, but neither of them could wait to land in New Jersey, where they could continue to flirt with each other.

  In the following weeks, while Van Buskirk was busy falling in love at first argument, Tony Harman finished writing his manifesto and came to the conclusion that a developer must have at least three things to make a great game. The first was a big budget, somewhere in the range of $3 million to $4 million, to ensure that corners were not cut. The second was coin-op experience, to truly understand the value of capturing a player’s interest immediately. And the last was an iconic character, ideally one that has already been established (like Mario) or one steeped in its own captivating mythology (like Star Fox). Of course it took much more than just these three things, but this was the basis behind why company’s like Capcom, Konami, and even Sega had a knack for making hits.

  Not long after Harman finished the paper, Arakawa approached him with some unexpected travel plans. “Tomorrow,” he said, “you will be going to Japan.”

  “Okay,” Harman said, making it a point to never appear caught off guard in front of his boss. “Any particular reason?”

  “I sent your paper to Mr. Yamauchi, and he would like to see you.”

  And so, after a silent gulp, Harman hopped on a flight with Arakawa and his wife, and twenty-four hours later the three of them wound up inside Yamauchi’s office.

  “He is pleased that you could fit in this visit on such short notice,” Yoko Arakawa explained to Harman, translating for her father. Although Yamauchi’s office was small, it was as intimidating as one would expect from Nintendo’s quietly ruthless leader. It was really warm in there, somewhere around eighty degrees, and Yamauchi sat there in a white undershirt, his lower half hidden behind a large wooden desk. In front of him was a pristine coffee table, a small television, and a pair of couches on either side of the room. Some of the employees at NCL referred to his office as the “realm of the Mother Brain,” making a reference to the giant, cranium-shaped, energy-sucking villain who appears at the end of Metroid. Yamauchi often had guests in and out of his office, and today was no different. In addition to hosting his daughter, his son-in-law, and Tony Harman, there as well, on either side of the desk, were Miyamoto, Yokoi, Takeda, and Sakamoto (each nobly standing upright and reluctantly sweating due to the room’s toasty temperature).

  “I have read your report and found it interesting enough to pass along to Nintendo’s greatest experts,” Yamauchi said, gesturing to the videogame legends surrounding Harman. “It is their opinion that you are wrong, and that only the Japanese can make a great game.”

  “With all due respect,” Harman countered, with a noticeable amount of gall in his voice, “your experts, these men here, account for most of the best developers in the world. Most, but not all, and I truly believe that with the right resources a great game could be made outside Japan.”

  After the words were translated, peals of laughter permeated the room. Harman continued to make his case, highlighting key points from his paper and trying to appeal to Mr. Y.’s love of innovation, but ultimately it appeared to be no use. “Face it,” Yoko Arakawa finally said, “you’re not going to win.”

  Harman was prepared to leave with his tail between his legs (smiling, though, as his idea had made it all the way to the top), but he decided to try one more approach. “Let me just ask one more question,” he said, taking a step toward Yamauchi. “How many bad television commercials do we make each year?”

  This was not a particularly tactful inquiry, but Harman knew that and thought he knew Yamauchi well
enough to believe this might make a dent. Everyone in the office tried to extrapolate the meaning of this question, but before any further clarification was requested, Yamauchi burst out in laughter. “The answer: many.”

  Harman nodded. “And how much does each one of these commercials cost you?”

  Yamauchi quickly discussed this with the experts on his couches and then came back with an answer. “They say around $3 million.”

  Harman nodded once again. “Then why don’t you give me $3 million and one year to make a great game? Maybe I’m wrong and won’t succeed with this, but the worst-case scenario is that you’ll just make one less bad commercial.”

  At this, Yamauchi smiled, the finest and most silvery smile Harman had ever seen, and then the legendary president of NCL stood up and accepted the deal, provided that this young American kept Miyamoto apprised of his progress.

  “Progress?” Nilsen asked, over lunch with Kalinske. “I don’t have any progress to report. That’s the problem.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Kalinske replied. He’d known Nilsen for several years, but never seen him quite like this. The hustle and bustle of his new job was wearing him down. Kalinske wanted to cheer up his old friend, remind him that all those frequent flier miles were for the good of this company they had built together, but he could tell from the haggard expression on Nilsen’s face that he wasn’t in the mood for remember-whens. “It’ll get better before you know it. Just watch.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?” Nilsen asked, more sincerely than rhetorically.

  Kalinske assumed by this tone that he was fishing to see if getting back his old job was a possibility. Not that he necessarily wanted this, but Kalinske knew that Nilsen was the kind of guy who found power and pleasure in possibility. Kalinske also knew that if the conversation continued down this road, Nilsen probably wouldn’t like where it went. The fact was that Fornasier was doing an excellent job, and whatever she lacked when it came to wild what-if ideas, she more than made up for with her strong management and communication skills. Make no mistake, Nilsen was a star, but with so many cooks now in Sega’s kitchen, they needed a team player. That being said, Sega still needed Nilsen’s star power, possibly now more than ever, but they needed it in different galaxies as the company expanded around the globe.

  “Al,” Kalinske said, trying to help his friend shine, “you’re the guy who made Buster Douglas a bigger star after he lost the title. If anybody can make this work, it’s you.”

  Nilsen nodded slowly—processing, not accepting. “But what if it doesn’t?”

  “But why?” Arakawa asked Tilden, looking at the April 1993 issue of GamePro magazine. On the cover, right there in front of them, was artwork from Nintendo’s Star Fox. Not only had this artwork been intended for Nintendo Power, but White had specifically met with Arakawa, Tilden, and Harman to discuss sharing it with outside magazines and had explicitly been told not to do so.

  “I don’t know,” Tilden said. “I’m just as surprised as you are.” She was indeed incredibly surprised by this act of defiance, but her incredulity could not be compared to Arakawa’s. To him, such a gesture was just unfathomable.

  “But why?” Arakawa asked again, still stunned by the insubordination.

  Following this discovery, Arakawa tasked Peter Main with firing Bill White, making him the first executive to be let go since the NES launched in America. Main, however, did not want to dismiss White. Not only did he consider White an invaluable asset, but he admitted to Arakawa that he had given his protégé permission to do what he had done. “You should fire me, if anything,” Main offered, but Arakawa was not persuaded. This was not about chain of command, but about looking into someone’s eye and telling them no, only to find out that a direct instruction had been ignored and trust violated. His mind was made up. It was time for Bill White to leave Nintendo, and Peter Main would have to play the role of executioner.

  45.

  UNACCEPTABLE

  Hayao Nakayama looked closer at the final prototype of the Sega Pico. As he turned it over in his hands, inspecting it with a piercing look that was half glare and half stare, the R&D team members who had gathered in the conference room anxiously awaited his response. This portable edutainment device was scheduled to be released in Japan by early summer, so by this point in the process gaining Nakayama-san’s approval was more formality than necessity. The parts had already been ordered and the molds had already been made; the Pico was happening whether the president of Sega liked it or not.

  But oh, how much they wanted him to like it, to see Nakayama-san give them a smile. He was stingy with those smiles, that was just his way, but when they came, it was well worth the wait. And as he put down the prototype the room filled with a collective surge of hope.

  Nakayama-san, however, was not yet ready to deliver either a smile or a frown. Clearly the R&D team had done well, for the device looked impressive. This was a very important thing, because Tom Kalinske believed this product would be a winner. But the product also looked expensive, and he wanted to know how much it would cost to make. Better yet, he wanted to know what the retail price would be. A sequence of stares around the table finally led to an answer. Someone suggested 15,000 yen, maybe 20,000—somewhere in that range (about $150 to $200).

  As Nakayama-san processed this information, he picked up the Pico once again. Fifteen thousand yen? For this? But why? Tom Kalinske had said that it needed to sell for $100, for at that price he could make it into a sensation. Tom had said that very clearly, and these employees had been there when he said it. There was no excuse to be made, none.

  Suddenly Nakayama-san smashed the device against the table. This was unacceptable. He lifted it up and smashed it again. Unacceptable. Another smash, louder this time. Unacceptable!

  Over and over, until the silly blue thing was busted to pieces. And still he continued, smashing the machine until the message was made abundantly clear.

  46.

  BLOOD, SWEAT, AND TIERS

  “Come on,” Kalinske said with disbelief, leaning over his desk with the phone to his ear. “You must be exaggerating.”

  “If anything, I’m doing the opposite,” Fischer claimed. “What’s the opposite of exaggerate? Deexaggerate? Unexaggerate?”

  “I don’t think those are real words,” Kalinske said.

  “Fine,” Fischer replied. “Then you’ll just have to trust me. By the time he finished smashing the thing, there were pieces of it all over the room.”

  “I know it’s the truth, but I just can’t believe it,” Kalinske said. For a brief moment he imagined what the reaction would be if he did something similar at SOA. Nilsen would probably start cracking up, and then everyone would scramble for the pieces as if it were a scavenger hunt. “I think the thing we need to do is get you a camcorder and somehow find a way for you to start secretly recording these things.”

  Fischer had a good laugh over that. “It’s a good idea, but I worry it’s not an original one. I’m pretty sure SOJ is already doing that to you guys.”

  “You better be kidding.”

  “I am, don’t worry. But would you honestly be surprised?”

  “At this point,” Kalinske said, “I’m not sure there’s anything that Sega of Japan could do that would truly take me by surprise. And yet I remain hopeful.”

  “Such is the nature of an optimist,” Fischer suggested.

  “Optimist on the outside,” Kalinske revised, “pragmatist on the inside.”

  “And not a trace of pessimism to be found?”

  “I wish that were the case,” Kalinske said with a chuckle. “But you just told me that the head of SOJ, the man who signs my paychecks, had another temper tantrum. And this outburst was directed at the very same people who I’m hoping would follow our advice and work with Sony. So it’s probably time to start looking for a backup plan. Speaking of which, there’s someone I need to see about that.”

  Although Kalinske was the undisputed king of the Ro
lodex, when it came to contacts in the technology and advertising industries, then Doug Glen had to be crowned some kind of prince at least. His contacts had been an asset to Sega in a variety of areas over the years (Sega CD and Goodby, Berlin & Silverstein were good examples), and most recently with Sega Channel, as Glen had been instrumental in striking deals with TCI and Time Warner Cable to implement this revolutionary on-demand videogame service. These deals and the company’s groundbreaking plans for the Sega Channel would be announced to the industry at this summer’s Consumer Electronics Show, and then begin national testing in June. Ideally, if all went according to plan, it would be available to millions of subscribers nationwide in time for the 1993 holiday season.

  “Did you want to discuss the Sega Channel?” Glen asked, entering Kalinske’s office. “Or is this about the ratings? Either is fine, but knowing in advance helps me switch gears.”

  By ratings, Glen was referring to the videogame ratings system that Sega was currently trying to create. Following the courtesy call that Kalinske received from CARU’s Arthur Pober, Sega had quickly become very interested in establishing a council that rated videogames in much the same way that the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) rated movies. In fact, one of the first things Sega did was approach MPAA president Jack Valenti, but he and other movie industry folks looked down on videogames and didn’t want them to sully the organization’s reputation. With the MPAA no longer an option, Sega set out to create a new entity. It was a noble idea, and one that would certainly cover Sega’s ass (and cleanse Kalinske’s conscience), but it presented a host of challenges, like figuring out who should rate the games, what criteria should be used, and, most important, how to spearhead this endeavor without giving the impression that the ratings council just did whatever Sega said.