This, however, was not the case in England, where Nintendo-mania had never happened in the 1980s and, therefore, the computer industry had never taken a backseat to consoles. And because England had not been the petri dish for Nintendo’s experiment to globalize videogames, by the time the NES finally invaded Britain (Nintendo of Europe was established in June 1990) the personal computer revolution was far enough along to temper the console’s initial reception. It sold well, very well around the holiday season, but it never set the country ablaze as it had in Japan and America. And as a result of all this, the kids in England tended not to argue about Sega vs. Nintendo, but rather debate the merits of consoles vs. computers.
Although this was a hot-button issue in classrooms around Great Britain, consoles vs. computers was never much of a battle amongst the country’s top game publishers. With the exception of Rare (who created NES classics like Battletoads and R.C. Pro-Am), most British developers had missed the 8-bit wave and, by default, remained committed to making computer games. Where EA had been forced to abandon making heady games like M.U.L.E. and The Bard’s Tale and do things like reverse-engineer the Genesis and develop a subbrand called EA Sports, companies like Psygnosis had never faced this type of identity crisis. As a result, while Electronic Arts was making games like Lakers Versus Celtics, Psygnosis continued publishing titles like Shadow of the Beast, a groundbreaking side-scrolling action game renowned for its cutting-edge graphics, parallax scrolling backdrops, and an incredible score composed by David Whittaker. Creatively, this type of work was likely more fulfilling, but financially the downside was that Psygnosis made significantly less money than Electronic Arts. Still, beneath this lost opportunity, there was a hidden financial upside, one that wouldn’t be realized until a few years from now. And that was precisely what had brought Olaf Olafsson to Liverpool.
“Thank you for inviting me out here,” Olafsson said, sitting down with Ellis and Hetherington to further discuss the reason for his visit. “I’m rather impressed by what I’ve seen today. It confirms my greatest hopes and expectations.”
“We appreciate your saying so,” Ellis replied.
“We do try our best,” Hetherington added.
“It shows,” Olafsson said, his mind quickly flashing back to everything he had seen: Lemmings, Shadow of the Beast, and the company’s latest creation, Microcosm, a satirical action game centered around a bloody, futuristic corporate rivalry between Cybertech and Axiom, the galaxy’s two largest conglomerates. Like the Sony game Sewer Shark and the Sony-turned-Sega game Night Trap, Microcosm was built with FMV animation, but it blew away those other titles because Psygnosis had rendered the graphics on workstations similar to those Hollywood used for special effects. When Microcosm was finished, Psygnosis was hoping that it would become one of the first games to bridge the gap between computers and consoles, with releases scheduled for both MS-DOS and the Amiga CD32, as well as Sega-CD and the 3DO system. This convergence between computer games and videogames was what really appealed to Olafsson. Now that the console world was catching up on the capabilities offered by computers, companies like Psygnosis were suddenly at the forefront of this next generation of gaming, particularly the kinds of games that Sony imagined for its PlayStation. “I think that Psygnosis would make a wonderful addition to the Sony brand,” Olafsson said, “and I very much hope you feel the same.”
They did, and on May 23, 1993, Sony Electronic Publishing acquired Psygnosis. To do so, they paid $48 million, which was an exorbitant sum that sounded even more astronomical when those hearing the news instinctively replied: Who the hell is Psygnosis? Why would Sony pay that much? Nearly fifty million bucks for a bunch of dopey little lemmings? Derision and mockery ensued, but Olafsson was deaf to these, because this deal had never been about the past, but exclusively about the future. And whereas in the past, the so-called future of videogames had looked at Europe as an afterthought, Sony wished to plant a flag in this market, which was primed for the convergence. Olafsson hinted at this in a press release issued that day, saying, “Psygnosis and its management will play an integral role in the development of industry-leading interactive entertainment, as well as our expansion into Europe.” But that explanation didn’t seem like nearly enough to adequately answer the lingering question of who the hell Psygnosis was.
“But why, oh why, would Sony pay that much?” Olafsson mockingly asked over lunch with Schulhof. Both smiled and laughed before moving on to the next order of business. It had little to do with the game Lemmings, and much more to do with the popular misconception. There was no truth to the myth that lemmings commit mass suicide, but like most great lies, this one was based on a figment of truth. Although they don’t march off cliffs together, they do have a rare talent for marching in unison and obediently following the leader during times of migration. And with the next generation of videogames right around the corner, Psygnosis had an important asset that Sony considered much more valuable than just games. Psygnosis had something that Sony believed would induce lemming-like behavior among other game developers and steer them to the Sony PlayStation when that great migration finally took place.
49.
SWITCHING SIDES
“Come on, Bill, tell us already,” a retailer pleaded between sips of beer. His request was followed by a chorus of boozy agreement from his industry brethren.
“You owe us,” another shouted. “And we want to hear the story.”
It was a cool June evening in Chicago, and several veteran retailers had stopped by the Sheraton Hotel for a couple of drinks at the bar with Bill White and a handful of employees from Sega. It had been a couple of months since White suddenly exited Nintendo for Sega, and the industry still had no idea what had happened. The lack of information eventually bred gossip, and the guys who had watched Nintendo grow (and profited from that growth) wanted to know which rumor was true. Had he really just snapped? Punched a coworker in the face? Slept with someone’s wife? Or was the truth even more fascinating than all these presumptive fictions?
“There’s no story,” White claimed. “It was just time to move on.”
“Bullshit!”
“Double bullshit!”
“Hey,” White said, cutting off the cacophony, “every day kids go into your stores and choose Sega over Nintendo. So I just figured that it was time I did the same.”
This comment earned a premium smile from Kalinske. The kid had a point, and it showed that he certainly knew how to think on his feet. Seeing him in action for the first time made Kalinske even more pleased that he’d been able to recruit White to Sega. Plus there was that wonderful added bonus of sticking it to Nintendo. And the timing couldn’t have been better. A few weeks earlier, Ken Griffey Jr. had been in the Bay Area to play the Oakland Athletics. Kalinske was supposed to meet with him and his agent again and hopefully finalize a deal, but days before their tentative meeting Nintendo had managed to sign the slugger to a videogame deal of their own. It appeared Nintendo was finally waking up and acting like the market leader. This worried Kalinske, but not as much after he was able to steal White over to Sega.
As the night wore on, the retailers looked for any possible opening to try to get White to come clean. Eventually, when Sega’s Richard Burns forced White into committing a so-called rite of passage (i.e. hazing of new employees), White was ready to give them a story. But it was not the one they had been requesting.
“We deserve to know!” one of the retailers exclaimed. “The guy was at Nintendo for six years. He ate, slept, and shat Mario. Then all of the sudden he’s out of there? How do we know he isn’t just some spy for Redmond? That this isn’t all part of some ruse?”
Kalinske looked to White. The guy kind of had a point.
It generally takes a lot of creativity to disprove the idea you’re a double agent, but White was up to the challenge. “You want to know how you can trust me?” White asked, climbing on top of the table. “Here’s how,” he said, unbuttoning his pants.
“Um
, Bill,” Kalinske asked, “what are you doing there?”
White smirked at Kalinske and the others around the table, then dropped his pants and shorts and pointed his pale rump in the direction of Nintendo’s office in Redmond, Washington. Hey, they wanted a story, didn’t they?
Nilsen was less amused with White’s “story” than others were, but he knew that likely had less to do with the moon over Chicago and more to do with the crippling fatigue that he’d been feeling as of late. This new job as global marketing director was crushing him, so much so that he actually looked forward to the typically stressful Consumer Electronics Show as a chance to relax. Or, at the least, as a chance to stay in one place for more than forty-eight hours. The travel was killing him, all that time spent up in the air, and the worst part was that he was never able to sleep on planes. So his new job had basically induced a case of self-inflicted insomnia.
“I cannot express how nice it is to be having dinner here with you,” Nilsen said to the licensing and media folks from Viacom. Between Nickelodeon and MTV, these folks had been great partners with Sega over the years, and the relationship had grown beyond the superficial. It was genuinely nice to see them.
“We feel the same way,” said the president of Viacom’s new media group. “We really enjoy working with you.” The words put a smile on Nilsen’s face, but it wasn’t until midway through the meal that he realized how true the statement really was. “In fact,” he continued, “so much so, that we want you to come work for us.”
The question felt surreal, or maybe it was the concept of actually leaving Sega. Had he been asked six months ago, he would have laughed at the suggestion, but now he couldn’t help but entertain it. The job was in New York, which was less than ideal, but at least it was in one place. And it was with fun people and fun properties. But still, could he really, truly leave Sega? The company he had helped build, the family there that sometimes felt closer than blood relatives?
“I’m flattered,” Nilsen finally said. “I’ll need to think about it.”
“Of course, of course.”
As Nilsen finished his meal he still couldn’t believe that he was considering the offer, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that, Viacom or not, he couldn’t keep doing what he’d been doing these past six months.
50.
THE TIPPING POINT
The main attraction of Summer CES was, by far, Acclaim’s Mortal Kombat. In just a few months, the game would be released for both the Genesis and SNES on a day the software publisher was calling “Mortal Monday,” September 13, 1993.
“Have you taken a close look at this game?” asked Takuya Kozuki, Konami of America’s president, as he and Emil Heidkamp neared Acclaim’s booth at the show.
“No, but I have already seen enough,” Heidkamp replied, ignoring the game footage playing on the nearby assortment of large, larger, and largest televisions.
“Come, let us see,” Kozuki requested.
Heidkamp followed his boss to one of the large televisions, where a demo was playing Sega’s bloody version of Mortal Kombat. A yellow ninja callously harpoons an opponent. A blue ninja shoots ice and then decks his frozen rival with an uppercut. A mercenary with a metal plate on his face throws daggers and then does something called a “psycho kick.”
“Oh, wow,” Kozuki remarked. “Did you see that one?”
Was this game really so bad? These were cartoon characters, after all. Heidkamp took a step forward, close enough to see the actual pixels that created the violence. Was this the tipping point, or just another foot or two further down on the slippery slope? Heidkamp stared at the pixels—the blues, the greens, and all of those many reds. For a moment it was all a blur, and then instantly it wasn’t. On the screen, the yellow ninja spewed fire and charred his opponent to a crisp, the blue ninja ripped out a woman’s spine, and the man with the half-metal face tore out someone’s heart. There were more moves like these, and each earned the player extra points.
“Emil,” Kozuki said, attempting not to sound rehearsed, “we must do a game like this. Don’t you think?”
“Remember our deal?” Heidkamp asked, shaking his head. “Besides, Kozuki-san, we are already doing great.”
“Yes, but one can always do better.”
“No, not like this.”
“Now, now,” Kozuki said, turning to Heidkamp. “Think of them as fairy tales.”
“We have had a great run together,” Heidkamp replied. “What a great ride this has been. But if we’re going to do this type of game, then it is time for me to leave.”
Takuya Kozuki looked upward in thought, but there was a sense that the thoughts filtering through his mind had already been circling around in there for days. Kozuki and Heidkamp walked the floor a final time together before cordially shaking hands and going their separate ways.
When the Consumer Electronics Show ended, Nilsen flew out to London. Or was it France? Or was it actually Brazil? He couldn’t remember; they were all blurring together. And then after traveling to London (or France, or Brazil), the president of a third-party developer in Japan urgently requested his presence for a meeting. The company was thinking about expanding into the U.S. marketplace and wanted to sit down with Nilsen and learn the business—to see if this opportunity was worth the risk, and what kind of product and marketing support could be provided by Sega and its subsidiaries. So later that day Nilsen hopped on another plane (another chance to push the limits of insomnia), and he arrived in Tokyo the next morning.
Baggage claim. Restroom. Cab. Location change.
The this-and-then-that wasn’t usually the hard part; the real devil of it all was doing this-and-then-that with a smile. It was staying energetic, motivated, and with the desire to conquer the world. If the job had led to big changes, then maybe it would have been easier. But after six months in this new role Nilsen wasn’t sure that he was making any difference at all. In the room, everyone loved his ideas, the potential, the possibility, and the risk, but then he’d fly off and excitement would give way to bureaucratic inertia and business as usual.
Meanwhile, back in Redwood Shores, SOA continued to move at a million miles per hour. But from afar, Nilsen wasn’t so sure that everyone was moving in the same direction. Sega was emerging as the leader of the videogame industry, but what kind of leader did the company plan to be? What would be its hallmark? The gimmicky Blast Processor? The bloody game Mortal Kombat? The athletes behind Sega Sports? And what happened to being the good old-fashioned blue dudes with attitude? Or maybe those things all meshed together nicely, Nilsen thought; maybe he was just upset not to be at the center of it all. He wanted to be there in Redwood Shores, but instead he was walking into an unmemorable silver building for the meeting that had brought him to Japan.
Show ID. Speak broken Japanese. Sign in. Tiny elevator upward.
Even though Nilsen had some concerns about what was happening back at Sega of America, he had no doubt that Kalinske would find a way to make everything magically work out. That’s what he did, over and over. Tom was a magician, always pulling Barbies and He-Men and hedgehogs out of his hat, but what if someone was tampering with his magic wand? It wasn’t really Redwood Shores that Nilsen was worried about, but quiet, unspoken friction between SOA and SOJ. Having spent more time in Japan recently, he saw it firsthand: the glances, the subtle comments, the references to “those guys over there.” Was this kind of thing normal, or was it a cause for concern? More important, if it did turn out to be the latter, what could actually be done to remedy the situation? How could peace be found during an invisible war?
Elevator dings. Arrive on floor. Speak broken Japanese. Wait.
And wait.
And wait some more.
Then someone came over to let him know the meeting had been canceled. Apologies. Smiles. Let’s reschedule. Then more waiting, more flying, and more hours spent not sleeping through the night on his way back to London. Or France. Or Brazil.
“Is this a jok
e?” Kalinske asked as Nilsen paced around his office.
“No, Tom, I’m very serious,” Nilsen replied. “I wasn’t actively looking for something else, but the more I think about Viacom’s offer, the more sense it’s beginning to make.” Viacom’s offer, as it turned out, was actually three offers: he could choose between vice president of Viacom’s new media division, vice president of consumer products marketing for Nickelodeon, or a hybrid job to oscillate between the two (with some MTV work thrown in from time to time). The main takeaway was that Viacom was flexible; they didn’t care exactly what Nilsen did as long as he was doing it for them.
“Are you feeling unappreciated?” Kalinske asked. “Is that it?”
“Me? No, not at all. I don’t need a pat on the back whenever I come up with a good idea. It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it’s really like.”
“I’m trying, Tom,” Nilsen replied, taking a deep breath. “It’s a combination of things, really, but it starts with all the traveling.”
“But you love to travel!”
“I thought so too. But not like this. Nobody could like to travel like this.”
“You’re right,” Kalinske said. “And I imagine it can’t be good for your health.”
“Exactly!” Nilsen replied. “And you know I can’t sleep on planes.”
“That’s right,” Kalinske said. “Well, then, why don’t we take a closer look at your schedule and see where we can cut?”
Console Wars Page 52