|
It
was in the early fall of 1989, I believe, when I got
a call from a man who said he was the Project Manager
for one of Nintendo’s licensee companies. In fact, he
was from one of the four largest licensee companies—a
Japanese juggernaut that was actually a larger company
than Nintendo (as they made games not only for the NES,
but for a number of other platforms, and particularly
for the arcade market, all on a global scale).
He
introduced himself and asked if I would be interested
in coming to work for the company (that just happened,
also, to be Japanese-based) in the capacity of Senior
Product Evaluator. A product evaluator is a fancy title
for game tester/developer. The senior product evaluator
manages the testing team and has signature/sign-off
approval for all games.
I
told him that was an interesting notion. I liked the
idea of having impact on the development of a game.
He explained that in the upcoming year, the company
was about to produce some high-profile projects with
which, as Senior Product Evaluator, I’d be very involved.
He proceeded to invite me for an interview with the
Vice President of Engineering (who was the man that
headed up the American operation of this Japanese company).
On
the day I arrived, I was politely and punctually met
by the Project Manager with whom I’d conversed on the
phone. He showed me around the facility and discussed
upcoming projects and those in development. He explained
that the company was in a hiring phase to staff the
American operation. Someone at the company (back in
Japan) thought it might be a good idea to have American
developers and evaluators develop the product that was
intended for the American market. This was actually
forward thinking and, historically, quite the converse
of what, to that point, has been “conventional (translated:
arrogant) Japanese wisdom” (which was that the Japanese
knew American markets far better than we ignorant Americans).
I would find out later that there were still many Japanese
developers and evaluators who did not share this confidence
in the ability of Americans, and felt as though (because
these responsibilities were being transferred from their
hands to ours) they had “lost face,” causing automatic
resentment toward us. My experience with the Japanese
is that “losing face” is a big deal in their culture,
and they are extremely sensitive to any opportunity
where that might happen. So there was a faction of the
company that did not believe in us and hoped we’d fail.
Of course, I didn’t know all this yet.
After
the 25-cent tour, the Project Manager led me to the
Vice-President of Engineering’s office. Though the VP
(we’ll call him Barney—to protect the innocent) was
on the phone, we were summoned inside. He was talking
to the parent company heads back in Japan. He was somewhat
crude and coarse compared to how I’ve witnessed employees
talking to their Japanese bosses, and I was kind of
surprised that he’d take that tone with them. I would
find out later, this was the rule, rather than the exception,
as he talked that way to everybody. Most of the employees
at the American facility believe it was this lack of
“demonstrative respect for Japanese superiors” that
eventually led to the closing of the American operation,
despite record sales.
Barney
was a big blustery man from New Zealand who’d apparently
produced some software prior to his current position.
He was usually belligerent and his favorite words generally
contained four letters. I would soon learn that his
management style relied on intimidation and name-calling.
I don’t recall a time when he didn’t actually believe
that he was the smartest and most informed person in
the room. I also don’t recall a time when he actually
was.
But,
as the Project Manager introduced him to me, he was
still a relative blank slate. I shook hands with Barney
and the Project Manager said, “I’ll drop back by after
your interview and we’ll go to my office and talk some
more.” I affirmed the plan as the Project Manager departed
the office. I then turned my attention to Barney who
said, “Have a seat.” I thanked him and began to sit
in the chair toward which he’d motioned. Before my butt
even touched the seat, Barney semi-snarled, “Well, I
really don’t think you’ll fit in here!”
Now,
I don’t fluster easily. And I wasn’t flustered then.
Many things bombarded my mind at this, however, and
I went to yellow alert. . First was, “What a jerk!”
“He just met me and this is the first thing he says!?”
“Hmmm. Maybe this is a test!” “Still, it’s a stupid
test. Nope, he’s a jerk.” Etc.
I
quickly composed myself internally and replied, “Well,
that’s an interesting statement. Why would you think
that?”
Not
getting the adversarial response he was apparently used
to, he back-pedaled, “Welllll, it’s just that I’ve had
a lot of dealings with your mah-sters over the years
and I’ve found them to be rigid, inflexible, hard-to-get-along-with,
and arrogant. And I’m afraid that, having worked there
for so long, you’ve picked up those same traits.” (Barney
always referred to Nintendo management as my “mah-sters”
or my “former mah-sters.” And his hatred for Nintendo
was so great that he resented me until the day the American
facility was shut down simply because Nintendo was my
source of origin. “Guilt by past association.” Beyond
that, Barney didn’t have the capacity to like or be
civil to anyone that wasn’t exactly like he was, i.e.
engineering oriented, e.g. programmers.)
“I
see,” I responded. “It’s interesting that you say that.
It’s actually part of my motivation for being here.
You see, I’m not one for just jumping to greener pastures.
And you’re right. I HAVE worked there a while and I
also have found Nintendo management to be rigid, inflexible,
hard-to-get-along-with, and, at times, arrogant. Which
is why I’m looking for a better environment. Now tell
me, am I wrong in thinking I’ll find that better environment
here?”
“Hmmm.
All right. Then what do you see as your purpose for
being here?”
“Now
THAT’S a great question. Because my purpose for being
here is going to be different than anyone else that’s
walked through that door and to whom you’ve asked that
question. Because anyone to whom you’ve asked that question
has told you that the reason they are here is because
they ‘want to make the very best video game that have
ever been made anywhere anytime!’ And that’s not me!!!
I am not here because I want to make the very best video
game that have ever been made anywhere anytime! No sir!”
Barney looked like I’d hit him square in the forehead
with a shovel.
“Well,
now I AM intrigued. All right then, what would YOUR
purpose be here?”
I
said, “I want to be here because I want to make the
very best video game that have ever been made anywhere
anytime—THAT SELL.”
Barney
stuck out his hand, “Welcome aboard.” And I was hired.
A little bit of history here. Back in the early days
of video games, most games were designed, drawn, programmed,
and produced by programmers. When someone has to wear
that many hats, usually something will suffer. Most
often, it was creativity. It was not unusual for a programmer
to come up with a game that HE would like to play or
perhaps OTHER PROGRAMMERS might like to play, but not
particularly all that much fun. But, often, it was the
only game in town. Literally. The video game landscape
was not filled with the selection there is today and
people were so hungry for this new artform that just
about any game could be promoted.
Many
companies still follow this same business model: have
the programmer act as designer and producer. If you
learn anything from any of my musings, Grasshopper,
learn this: Placing programmers in the role of designer
and producer has been the cause of video game companies
going bankrupt more often than any other reason. There
is so much more to this business than making “great
video games.” You can possess the greatest video game
ever, but if it isn’t marketable, all you’ve got is
an expensive disk. The first ingredient or feature that
a truly “great game” must have is that it must be marketable.
If a video game company knows what it’s doing, it will
incorporate marketing into the game design itself. To
truly explain this, I would need several more chapters—maybe
even a book, but I am continually amazed at how few
companies do this. Consequently, you are left with an
industry that is afraid to produce new content. All
of the biggest sellers in the last few years are either
sequels to established hits or licensed product trying
to capitalize on some pop culture piece of the moment
and piggyback onto existing promotion efforts. Similar
situation in Hollywood. That’s why you see sooo many
sequels. Did we reeeeally need Freddy to fight Jason?
I heard there was a Police Academy 6! Gee, I wonder
what THAT was about. Aren’t you just on pins and needles
waiting for American Pie 47? Even so-called new movies
are just variations on practiced tried-and-true standard
fare. That’s why when someone says “slasher film” or
“buddy movie” or “Woody Allen movie,” you instantly
know what they’re talking about.
The
economics of “pop” culture is all about risk. That is
because what is “pop”ular is fragile. The audience that
determines pop culture is fickle. About some things.
And Hollywood, like the video game industry, is all
about not reinventing the wheel. Play it safe. We have
sacrificed content for technology—both industries.
But
what Hollywood has forgotten is that risk has rewards--proportionately.
Occasionally, a few brilliant people color outside the
lines and you get blockbusters involving droids a long
time ago in a galaxy far, far away or a masterpiece
like Schindler’s List. And, yes, I am aware that there
were many space movies before Star Wars and lots of
WWII films prior to Schlindler’s List, but there weren’t
that many in 1977 and 1993 respectively. Both of these
films were financial risks. Both received Oscars (Schindler’s
List receiving the Best Picture nod). And both made
money. It was once speculated that George Lucas could
ask a billion dollars for the merchandising rights to
Star Wars – just the rights!—and probably get it. High
risk can garner high rewards.
Okay,
back on track. See, so many of the people who populated
the video game business were hardcore game players.
And that was there bottom line. They loved to play games.
And everybody and his dog has a “game idea.” And I mean
EVERYBODY. Groannnnnn. Well, that’s great and all, but
that doesn’t mean that everybody and his dog knows anything
about making a game that will sell. Typically, it means
that everybody has a game idea that would be fun…for
him. The guy with the idea. Most likely his dog wouldn’t
even like it. More often than not, the dog probably
has the better idea. I’m sorry to be the one to tell
you this, Grasshopper, but your game idea is not exactly
a hot commodity. The industry is filled—bursting—overflowing
with ideas. Most of them very bad. I know, I know. YOURS
is great! YOURS is different! YOURS could really be
fun! YOURS could be a million seller! Uh-huh. Tell you
what. Go chart 5 and a half million consumer responses.
Then come back and tell me your idea, if by that time,
you are not too embarrassed. It’s not your fault. And
you are not alone. I just can’t stress enough that it
takes more than just an idea—or even a fertile imagination—to
create marketable entertainment software. It takes an
understanding of the industry. A comprehensive understanding.
AND. AND. It takes an understanding of programming and
medium capabilities and limitations. It wouldn’t hurt
to have a real good grasp of software life cycle. But
more than anything, you first have to approach any game
idea from the single standpoint of “Will it sell?” This
was foreign to most video game programmers of the day.
If they could be honest with themselves, it is just
as foreign to programmers of this day.
That
is NOT to say that you have to sacrifice creativity
or quality for the all mighty buck by catering to the
lowest common denominator. I am one of those people
who believe that you can create product (films, as well
as video games) of tremendous quality that will be popular
with the masses. I am also one of those people that
knows that it is extremely difficult for most people
to do.
So
when I communicated to Barney that this was at the forefront
of my approach to video game development, I touched
on exactly what he was looking for. He saw that I wasn’t
one of the hardcore, hypertestosterone-driven ubergamers
that was typical in the industry. My vision was much
larger than the monitor on which the game is played.
While
I was continually excited at the prospect of developing
games, I found that my expectations of the process were
not accurate. It sounds like awesome fun day in and
day out, doesn’t it? Playing games. Developing games.
Testing games. Getting paid for it. Yeah, I thought
so, too. In fact, the only job that I thought could
possibly me MORE fun would be that of gynecologist,
but I didn’t have the necessary degree (and I’ve heard
that even his day can become a little repetitious. Wow.
You just never know till you walk in someone else’s
shoes, do you?) But, remember, this is a Japanese company.
And I wasn’t Japanese. Which meant that I wasn’t going
to be paid like a Japanese employee either. And yes,
there is a certain degree of personal satisfaction (or
fun) for me in developing a project and seeing to fruition,
but percentage-wise, comparatively little time is spent
in that part of the process as opposed to testing. So
much time is spent in testing and refining the product.
This means that you’re playing the same game—sometimes
the same level!—over and over and over and over and
over. For several hours straight. For days. Sometimes
weeks. Trust me, once you been through the same level
a few thousand times, your idea of what is fun changes.
A lot.
As
we played and tested these games (and tried to break
them. That was our job. Make the game mess up. Break
it.), we had to reserve a portion of our day to write
the sacred
”bug reports.” These were detailed accounts of where,
why, and how the game did not meet expectations. For
PC-based games, the greatest portion of bugs came in
the installation because that’s where most bugs have
the highest likelihood of occurring. By the way, there
are times when, for several days in a row, your day
is composed of installing and re-installing games. Trying
new parameters and combinations of settings, etc. Not
playing anything. Just installing. Oh, the fun we haaaad…….
One
of the high profile projects we produced at this licensee
company was “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” for
the 8-bit NES. I am particularly proud of this one as
I had a great deal of impact on its design. For several
reasons. It was one of the first non-linear games for
the old NES. It contained several different types of
gameplay in one cartridge, which was very unusual for
the time and the platform. And before all you critics
respond with how YOU personally hated the game (and
you are in the minority), there was one more reason
I was especially proud. After we completed the game,
one of our producers talking with George Lucas over
the phone during a team meeting relayed that he said,
“It was the best conversion of one of his films into
a video game he’d ever seen. In any format.” For about
five minutes, I didn’t care if we ever sold one cartridge.
We had managed to please (someone who I consider to
be) one of the most creative geniuses of our time. This
was a guy who has gone back and remade and remade his
own films. Adding. Editing. Polishing. Always striving
for perfection. One more thing that will make it better.
And we had prompted that kind of praise. I know I spent
a large paragraph talking about this, but indulge me
a second. That was a big moment for me personally.
I
am also proud of it because we made deadline despite
severe delays. Due to the different types of game play,
it started to run past deadline milestones, which pushed
back testing. We were delayed in getting the game to
test and were forced to work long hours to meet the
Nintendo-required submission date (as all games had
to be submitted to Nintendo for “approval.” Approval
meant that the Game Counselor would play it and submit
a rating and an evaluation as to how successful the
game would probably be.) When I say long hours, I’m
talking about bringing a sleeping bag to work and catching
just a few hours of shuteye between testing sessions.
I’m talking about no shower for about three days. I’m
talking about ugly and unshaven and smelly and foul-tempered,
hungry testers who, after three straight 24-hour days,
are still so focused on the game that they are able
to still find the most minute bugs and can still turn
in letter-perfect bug reports. Oh the fun and glamour
of working in the video game industry. Remember, we
worked for a Japanese company, so we didn’t get any
overtime. But we took a great deal of pride in what
we did and we made deadline. There were no better testers
in the business than my team and they never failed to
produce top quality work despite the treatment they
were given by both Barney and the Japanese bosses. “Indiana
Jones and the Last Crusade” was a modest hit. Its numbers
were more than decent and quite pleasing to our Japanese
bosses.
One
of my duties was to play games in various stages of
development that the Japanese headquarters would send
us to evaluate (as to whether we should convert and/or
release the game in the United States). Some of these
were big sellers in Japan. Others were little more than
map artwork with a single character and an explanation
of how the game should work theoretically. The great
majority were ninja-based games. The ninja is an enormously
popular character in the Japanese culture (much like
superheroes are here) and it was thought that surely
the game would be just as popular in the U.S. I had
to diplomatically write evaluations that explained to
the Japanese bosses (who were sensitive to being embarrassed
since it was their judgment that selected the game for
me to evaluate) that while “this would have been an
immensely popular game for the U.S. market a few years
ago, but the popularity of the ninja hasn’t remained
consistent here like it has in Japan and it would not
be cost-effective for us to pursue the American-side
development of this game.” There were a few ninja games
out there (and even we eventually DID do Wrath of the
Black Manta), but the ninja character had long-since
seen its hay-day in America. I was always very polite
and respectful and extremely diplomatic in the way I’d
tell them that their judgment sucked. So much for the
idea that the Japanese knew our market better than we
did.
During
one of these evaluations, I received a series of background
maps and a squatty little character that I could make
run around. I think there might have even been a few
bad creatures to blow up with the squatty guy’s weapon.
It was a boomerang. Sort of odd for a video game, but
I liked the logic of having a weapon that would never
run out. Having unlimited ammunition in any gun or unlimited
energy from a laser cannon always left a bad taste in
my mouth, yet it was important to a lot of gameplay.
Here was a weapon that would always return to you so
you’d have it to throw again. But that was it. There
was no story. No plot. No mission. Not really any defined
obstacles. But the artwork had a style that I liked
and I thought the squatty guy could be redrawn to make
him cooler and this could actually be a lot of fun.
So
I set about writing a story and defining villains, the
other characters, and the plot. And I described how
the hero should look. No more squatty little guy, but
a more realistic, proportioned character. And just for
kicks, I named him after by brother, Nova. And sent
it all back to the development team in Japan. They were
so pleased that I’d taken a shine to one of their submissions
that they put the project on the schedule. And that’s
how Power Blade was born. I never requested that the
splash page representation of the character look like
Arnold Schwartzenegger. That was the Japanese artist’s
idea.
The
development of Power Blade went along smoothly. There
were very few bugs and I provided a few tweaks and enhancements
(adjusting the enemy numbers, adding a few mechanical
monsters, and a timer for a harder difficulty level,
adding to the longevity of the game). I also incorporated
the idea of having multiple paths to the boss room so
that the player had options as to how to get there.
I don’t like sending a message to a kid that there is
only one way to do something (despite what the Republicans
say). Also, the character had to find a friendly agent
with an access card that would permit the hero access
to the boss area once he got there. This forced the
player to explore paths that he might otherwise have
missed and added significant depth to the game.
This
was the first game that I’d developed almost from scratch
and I was personally proud of it. All that communication
from all those consumers that I received while at Nintendo
had not gone to waste. It was all there in the game.
There was no doubt in my mind that it was going to be
extremely popular and bring in a lot of revenue for
this company.
About
a week before we were to submit the game to Nintendo
for approval, I spoke through the Japanese secretary
to the bosses in Japan who were getting concerned about
exactly what we were going to be submitting this time
around (since a few of the intended projects had gotten
discarded for one reason or other—mostly budgeting,
I think). I told our interpreter (the lovely Japanese
secretary) to explain that we had things under control
and relay the status of each project, including Power
Blade. It was virtually done. I had about an afternoon’s
worth of testing on one minor part of it, but I was
pretty sure it was going to pass bug-free.
She
said the bosses said to drop the project. I was stunned
and not certain I’d heard correctly. I said to tell
them that I just have to test it for a few hours and
it will be ready to submit. She told them. She said
they said, “That’s okay. Don’t worry about that one.
Spend your time on the other projects. They don’t want
to have to test it anymore. We can always come back
to Power Blade at another time.” Even for the Japanese,
this didn’t make any kind of economic sense since we’d
spent the effort and resources to create it, it was
virtually done, and was set to be a moneymaker. Maybe
I wasn’t making it clear. So I spoke carefully to the
secretary.
“Tell
them THEY don’t have to test anything or do anything.
I have a few hours left to test on it and it will be
ready to submit!”
She
relayed all that. Then, after a pause, she said, “They
said to just drop the project altogether. They don’t
want you to devote your time to it.” Again I was stunned,
visibly so. The secretary put her hand over the phone
mouthpiece and said, “They don’t want to submit the
game to Nintendo or release it. They think it is a bad
game and will embarrass them.”
That
was it. I had had my fill of Japanese arrogance and
this was the last straw. I told the secretary to say
the following and to use this tone. And I spoke firmly
and a little louder and I said, “We have asked Nintendo
for seven shelf spaces this year and they have reluctantly,
unbelievably, granted them to us. You’ve already cut
TWO projects intended for those spaces. This is the
only 8-bit game we have to submit this time around.
IF WE DON’T SUBMIT SOMETHING, NINTENDO WILL BE VERY
ANGRY AND WE WILL LOSE FACE!!!”
Without
going into a long explanation about shelf spacing, suffice
it to say that at that time, Nintendo (who was the manufacturer
of the game cartridges for all licensee companies) did
not want to saturate their own market, so they reserved
about 75 shelf spaces for all the Nintendo games for
that year. Large companies like DataEast or Konami or
Taito could request up to about four spaces for their
product (during an ambitious year) and smaller companies
could get one space or maybe two. Nintendo had granted
the request of seven spaces because my company had a
few high profile projects planned and promised to throw
a great deal of money behind the promotion of those
games. Still, seven spaces was unheard of. I had illustrated
the point that we put Nintendo (and ourselves) in a
bind by not having something to go on those shelf spaces.
Worse, we would be embarrassing ourselves professionally
and cause irreparable damage to our credibility.
So,
the secretary related the communication, and in just
the tone I’d instructed her to. Almost immediately they
came back with, “Okay. Finish the game and submit to
Nintendo. No problem.” Even though they were actually
a larger company than Nintendo, it was unthinkable to
anger the Big Red N and lose professional face in their
eyes.
And
that’s what I did. A few days after the phone conversation,
we submitted. About two weeks later, we received word
that Power Blade had not only passed approval, but had
the fourth-highest rating the GCs had ever given and
the highest-ever rating for a licensee product. The
only three to receive a higher rating were Nintendo’s
own Super Mario, Metroid, and Legend of Zelda. They
wanted to do a cover feature in Nintendo Power. Meaning
they intended to do a major article/review of the game
and feature it on the cover (which they did: April,
1991). Making the cover was a huge deal. Through the
secretary, I learned that the powers-that-be at Nintendo
had called my Japanese bosses and congratulated them
on producing such a great product. The secretary said
the Japanese bosses were now slapping each other on
the back, proclaiming how smart and savvy they were
to submit Power Blade to Nintendo. Big high-fives all
around. In Japan. I didn’t even get an “Arigato,” let
alone a bonus or a percentage of the pie. There is an
Aesop’s fable about killing a goose that laid golden
eggs that applies here. Apparently, the Japanese don’t
have an equivalent to Aesop. Their loss.
Power
Blade went on to sell out twice during its first year
of production and made just obscene amounts of money
for the company. It also spawned a couple of sequels,
I believe. Turns out, I have another superpower: I can
design successful video games. However, to me, this
is just a variation or derivative of the writing ability.
Still, it’s nice to know.
I
had signature approval for all product and I signed
off on 35 games during my tenure at this licensee company,
on several different platforms. PC, NES, Amiga, Apple
IIGS, GameBoy, and others. That’s a lot of product in
a year and a half or so. I don’t know that the company
has had a year quite that prolific or profitable since
that time.
If
you make it through to the end of Power Blade, you will
see the credits listed of the people involved. They
are all Japanese names (The company apparently had a
“policy” that there is no need to list non-Asians among
the credits.)
To
this day, I have no way of proving that I ever even
worked on this blockbuster. But, you can always ask
my brother. Nova.
Next chapter: The Last Adventure
|
|
