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Toward
the end of completing Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
and Power Blade, I had written a game proposal for a
two-game crossover simultaneous release based on the
Flintstones and the Jetsons for which the company had
paid Hanna-Barbera handsomely to acquire the rights
to produce. Nothing quite like it had ever been done
before and there were layers and dimensions of complementary
marketing inherent. Barney was desperate for a game
proposal to submit to Hanna-Barbera for approval and
no one else had stepped forward.
So,
I wrote a lengthy proposal that would tie the two storylines
together and utilize virtually all of Hanna-Barbera’s
massive library of world-famous characters (including
some that, up to that point, I hadn’t realized they
owned the rights to like Scooby Doo, Popeye, Tom &
Jerry, and the Smurfs, as well as their regular stable
which included Yogi Bear, Quick Draw McGraw, Huckleberry
Hound, Magilla Gorilla, Johnny Quest, Atom Ant, Secret
Squirrel, Space Ghost!, and a great many others.). Since
my company had paid a pretty hefty sum in order to use
the library of H-B characters, it made sense to try
to utilize as many as possible (if it helped the story).
Barney hated the fact that I was the one that created
the proposal since his resentment of me had only grown
more intense over the months, but he was under pressure
to produce a game proposal of some kind to meet the
H-B deadline, and, in order to save his considerable
posterior, he submitted my proposal.
Reportedly,
the Hanna-Barbera company liked the proposal and we
were a go. After a little more than a year at this company,
things seemed to be humming along. Indiana Jones and
the Last Crusade was doing well. Power Blade was a bonafied
hit. Several other successful titles were out the door
and making money. Over 35 titles, actually--for several
platforms. The company I worked for was making more
money than ever before.
So
the company closed the American facility.
I
know. Ultimately, it doesn’t make any sense. But there
were a couple of factors that prompted that decision.
I can never say for sure, but it was the common consensus
that our success had caused our Japanese counterparts
to lose face. We had proved that we DID know our market
better and we DID produce quality entertainment software.
Understand, even in the face of what it would ultimately
cost them monetarily, it was more important to terminate
the goose that laid 35 golden eggs in order to justify
the denial they had created for themselves. Add to that,
the Japanese disdain for the games we were being successful
with. [Sidebar: I promised that I would explain the
chief reason that existing games in Japan are altered
for American audiences. Games are made easier for American
audiences. I was told by the Japanese management that
games must be made easier for American audiences for
a couple of reasons. “American game players do not have
the skills to defeat a game at the difficulty level
set for Japanese game players. American game players
also do not have the patience. They insist that the
game is at least defeatable at some point. Japanese
game players do NOT require this. Many games released
in Japan cannot be defeated. Japanese game players love
that!” There was no attempt by the Japanese management
to hide their contempt at having to make games easier
for American audiences. To me, that just implies: “Since
we don’t have the design skills to incorporate longevity
into the game through creative design and gameplay,
we just increase the difficulty level so that the player
must take longer to finish it. If he never finishes
it, that is the greatest longevity of all.” It’s not
the inadequacy of us “spoiled” American gameplayers;
it is the inadequacy of the designer to design properly
for his audience. People make all kinds of excuses when
they are found inadequate. So the Japanese equated difficulty
with quality. While this may just be a cultural difference,
I can never support the idea that a game cannot be defeated.
If all you can do is “show up and take damage,” you
are not playing a game. You are marking time. BIG difference.
You cannot measure progress. You cannot feel a sense
of accomplishment. Likely, you cannot feel a sense of
satisfaction. If the Japanese game players don’t mind
plunking down their $60 for this, God love them. Taking
the liberty of speaking on behalf of my fellow American
game players: We want—check that—we DEMAND more for
our mom’s hard-earned money.] So the Japanese side of
the company could never reconcile the (in their minds)
“bad quality” of games we produced with the successful
dollars they were bringing in.
However,
even this alone was not enough to justify shutting down
the American facility.
Someone
in Barney’s “inner circle” indicated to me that the
Japanese bosses were increasingly unhappy with their
interactions with Barney. Apparently, according to the
confidant, Barney continued to be abrupt and abusive
with the Japanese like he was with the rest of us, and
they finally decided he wasn’t worth it. Unfortunate,
if understandable. While it was only said in whispers,
everyone certainly thought it: Barney had lost us our
jobs. [Sidebar: Of all the programmers, testers, artists,
musicians, producers, outsourced people, and support
personnel, the ONLY two people that were asked to remain
on board with the company was the Japanese secretary
and myself.
Barney begrudgingly related this offer to me. The Japanese
bosses wanted me to go to Chicago and open up a one-man
office and perform the same service that I performed
at the American facility, while also taking up the slack
for the now-absent programmers, testers, artists, musicians,
producers, outsourced people, and support personnel—with
NO increase in salary. Hmmm. Let me think a minute on
that reeealll har—no. I DID respond with a counter offer,
however. I told Barney that I would consider performing
a modified version of that role for an increase and
then I named my price (nothing outlandish, but very
reasonable). Barney refused to deliver the message.
He said, “Take it or leave it.” So, I left it. I like
easy decisions.]
Then,
Barney asked if I would remain on board to complete
the testing of one last game that he had committed to
complete. Barney had called me to his office to ask
if I would test his game because, since I no longer
officially worked there, he couldn’t order me to do
it. The phone rang and unbeknownst to Barney, I overheard
him give a negative reference about me to a video game
company who’d inquired about hiring me (since the American
facility was now going to close and I’d be available).
It was just serendipity (and poetic justice) that the
timing of my presence in his office coincided with the
phone call. However, beyond the fact that Barney loathed
me, if I went to work for another outfit, I wouldn’t
be available to test the game he desperately needed
me for. So he nipped any chance I’d had with this new
company (on the phone) in the bud and hung up. He returned
his attention to me and tried to keep an innocent expression.
It
would mean a few more weeks worth of work and he would
pay hourly, implying that HE was really doing ME some
big favor. I told him that I needed to begin the process
of looking for a new job and that I doubted he could
afford my hourly price, which was quite different than
my salary rate. He inquired as to my hourly price and
I told him some ridiculous figure that was about 5 times
what had been my original rate. I thought he was going
to swallow his gum. He cursed at me and grumbled that
he’d just hire some high school kid to test it and that
he didn’t need me or the other testers. He’d threatened
to do this pretty much daily ever since the day of my
hire. I invited him to do just that and discover the
quality of testing he will get for minimum wage. I knew
I was leaving him in a terrible bind. I imagined that
he would probably lose a considerable amount of money
on the deal if he couldn’t produce the game by deadline.
I also knew that it couldn’t happen to a more deserving…individual.
I’d saved his considerable ass on at least two occasions.
I’d made him look good to the Japanese bosses time and
time again. If he’d ever once just acknowledged my contribution…If
he’d ever just once said a kind word…hell, a CIVIL word,
to me, I probably would have tested his lousy game for
what he wanted to pay and saved his ass once again,
but the negative reference clinched it.
So
I bid Barney a fond farewell and a few days later I
was on a plane to the east coast to interview with a
prominent entertainment software company known for flight
simulators and military strategy games. It was headed
by a former major in the U.S. Air Force who’d gone into
the private sector to run this software company. I was
told by several of the individuals that worked there
that much of the code used in the commercial flight
simulators was identical to the ones used by the Air
Force. Made sense. The planes in the software were the
same as the ones used by our military. Though I was
a little concerned that such remarkably similar software
programs were being so casually made available to the
public at large, I just assumed that they had been altered
enough so as not to betray any classified information.
Still, it does seem place for concern.
In
any event, I met with several of the company’s key people
and went through a fairly typical interview process.
I had always been impressed by their product and the
thought of working with this team appealed to me. All
seemed to be going along well. And, then, I met the
major. We’ll call him Major Dick. He was called Major
along with his real first name “affectionately” by the
staff, but I’ve changed all the names in my writings
here to protect the innocent. And he just struck me
as a “Major Dick.”
Being
former military, he wasn’t big on chitchat and got straight
to the point, which was fine with me. He said, “We’ve
already conquered the PC market with our flight simulators
and military strategy games, and the reason we’re talking
to YOU is that we are now getting ready to enter the
Nintendo market and we think you’d be valuable since
you have a strong Nintendo background.”
I
was honestly flabbergasted by this news, and I told
him that. I said, “Wow. That is amazing news. Your company
is going to begin making character-driven action and
adventure games! That is exciting. And I think you’re
right. I think I could be quite useful to you…” I was
truly getting excited.
He
interrupted, “No, no. We make flight simulators and
military strategy games. We don’t make character games
or adventure games.”
I
replied, “Well, then, I’m confused. You said you wanted
to enter the Nintendo market…”
“Yes,”
he insisted. “With flight simulators and military strategy
games. See, we believe that there are a large number
of adults that play the Nintendo and we think we could
capture that market.”
“Ah,
I see,” I said. “Well, let me clarify a little bit for
you.” And I recalled the consumer responses I’d charted.
“Approximately 40% of all the people who play Nintendo
are over the age of 24.” (Now this is actually a staggering
figure for that time and not many people knew it.) “But
they are NOT adult Nintendo players. They are adult-AGED
Nintendo players. They are drawn to play the NES because
of the little bouncy characters and the pretty colors
and the lighthearted adventures—the same way the 10-to-14-year-olds
are. They are not interested in flight simulators or
your type of military strategy games. If they were,
they’d be playing on PCs, not 8-bit consoles.”
Now,
of course, I’m making some generalizations here. Obviously,
there is always going to be at least SOMEbody that likes
flight simulators and military strategy games and plays
the NES. But when you discuss markets intelligently,
you are talking about large amounts of people and generalizations
are not just reasonable, but essential. But, my stats
and facts were accurate.
“That
is why you have been able to corner the PC market.”
I continued. “That is the platform for your market because
PCs have the capability required to handle that kind
of software. Flight simulators and military strategy
games have been tried on the NES and they really don’t
sell well. That is why there is a warehouse full of
copies of a particular submarine simulation game. Because
it just didn’t sell well.” And I mentioned the game
by name. Major Dick’s attitude changed and he seemed
to be a little more withdrawn.
I
found out later that the submarine game I’d mentioned
had been a cooperative effort between Major Dick’s company
and one of the Nintendo licensee companies. And I had
unknowingly touched a sore nerve.
Major
Dick had not wanted to hear the bad news about the potential
of the Nintendo market and he tried to change the subject.
“Well perhaps you could help us in our arcade division.”
A
red flag had gone up. The interview had failed. Major
Dick was not interested in hearing the truth or wanting
my expertise. He wanted to hear me confirm that it was
all right for him to make another business error like
the submarine game. And, obviously, I wasn’t going to
do that. I didn’t create the bad news; I was just the
messenger. And you know what they do with messengers
of bad news. So he implied that I was likely NOT going
to be helping his company in the new Nintendo division.
Well, obviously, that is the most likely spot to use
me, so if you don’t use there, you are basically not
going to be using me. Okay, I got it. The writing was
on the wall. But, I’d worked on some arcade product
for my most recent company, so I played along.
“Follow
me,” said the major. And I followed him into a large
warehouse room. This room was not carpeted like the
offices, nor particularly organized. It was a typical
warehouse, apparently used for a combination of research,
product development, and miscellaneous storage. Conspicuously,
in the middle, sat a very large sit-down arcade console
with a larger-than-usual screen.
Major
Dick began to talk about his pride and joy. “This is
something that we’ve had in development for two years.
It is the arcade version of our flagship commercial
product.” The flagship commercial product was a flight
simulator based on an actual aircraft used by the Air
Force. I drew closer and stood beside the machine. I
could see that it was a much more elaborate arcade console
than the usual fare. The dashboard had been recreated
to match the actual aircraft and the cockpit was pretty
close to what I imagined the real deal would be. Then
Major Dick confirmed it.
“We’ve
spent two million dollars to reproduce—with great accuracy—the
cockpit of [the aircraft]. The cockpit dashboard is
to scale and is an exact representation. The graphics
are near-photographic quality.” The major turned on
the screen in demo mode. He was as right as he could
be. The graphics were better than anything I’d ever
seen in a game to that point.
“It
controls and handles exactly like the actual aircraft.
I know. I’ve flown them and it is perfect.” Well, almost.
I
complemented him on how impressive the machine appeared
and I marveled aloud at the graphics and I congratulated
him on his engineering accomplishment. And I was sincere
on those points. I have always found it best to give
a spoonful of sugar when I have to deliver bad news.
This was the second time within an hour that I was having
to do so. I stood for about 30 seconds looking the admittedly
impressive contraption over, but staring past it in
deep thought. And then, I began to nod. “You’ve already
tested this, haven’t you?”
“Yeesss…,”
he confessed. “We gave it a two-week trial run at a
mall arcade in town where we have a one-way mirror testing
room set up.” His enthusiasm has quickly been replaced
with quiet caution.
“And
it didn’t do to well, did it?” I guessed.
“Nooo,
it didn’t,” he admitted, starting to become visibly
uncomfortable. “We first set it up at a 50 cents per
play. After three days, no one had touched it. So, then,
we set it at 25 cents and after a day or so, one kid,
about 14, sat down and played it. Forty seconds later,
he got up and kicked it and cussed it and walked over
to his friends and told them to not waste their time.
After that, no one ever played it.”
Again
I nodded. “I could have saved you two million dollars.”
“Well,
what?!?!” he shouted, and threw some papers he had been
carrying onto the ground. “Please. Tell me what! There
isn’t a thing wrong with it. It is perfect! I’ve had
six engineers at six figures each go over this thing
with a fine tooth comb. It is flawless. I’ve operated
it. It handles exactly like the real thing. Exactly.
I know. I’ve flown the real thing. The dashboard is
to scale. It is exact! So, please explain to me why!!!
I would LOVE to KNOW!!!!
I
remained professional and calm. “When you trained pilots
to fly this aircraft in the Air Force, how long did
you train them on average before they would fly solo?”
I
seemed to recall that he answered “about 16 weeks.”
I do remember that it was an extended period of time.
“Then,
what makes you think a 14 year-old kid is going to be
able to operate it in 40 seconds?”
The
major looked like I hit him the face with a shovel.
I
continued, “The kid doesn’t know these controls. Moreover,
he doesn’t care. All he wants is a joystick that goes
up and down and left and right, maybe a simple throttle
to control speed and altitude, and a big red button
he can mash to fire missiles and blow stuff up. A dashboard
like that intimidates him. He wants a simple interface
that he doesn’t have to spend a lot of time learning.”
You’d
have thought I’d said something bad about Major Dick’s
mama. He got simultaneously defensive and disgusted
at the thought. “Well, then, it wouldn’t be an exact
replica of the {aircraft]!!”
“No,
it wouldn’t,” I agreed, “but it WOULD bring in quarters.
Now, what is your purpose here?”
He
was silent for a few minutes. He slowly realized that
he’d spent two million dollars making a video game…for
himself, like a lot of companies with programmer/engineers
in charge. [Sidebar: This is the single greatest reason
that causes video game companies to go bankrupt (and
many have.) People who think they know how to make commercial
software (when all they really know how to do is design
a game that THEY would like) are allowed to design product
for the masses. Programmers and engineers by their nature
are known for their narrow focus. This is what makes
them so gifted with code. It requires a narrow focus.
Designing for the general populous requires a different
skill set—one that most programmers and engineers don’t
possess. Allowing a programmer to design a video game
is like allowing the cameraman to write the movie. Carpenters
don’t design houses. Architects do. If you’re in a video
game company or you’re thinking about starting a video
game company, do yourself and your fellow employees
a favor and re-read this paragraph eight times and save
yourself a ton of money. End of sidebar.]
The
major was not used to being spoken to this way and certainly
not by anyone on his staff. He quietly ushered me to
the man who had originally contacted my about the job
and told me “they’d be in touch,” and left the room.
Well, I knew what that meant. My original contact and
I exchanged some pleasantries and I hopped the next
plane back to Seattle.
On
the way back, I thought back over the experience. Should
I have just kept my mouth shut and agreed with him that
he was on target regarding the Nintendo market and stand
silently by and watch him lose money? Should I have
played along and marveled at his baby (the arcade extravaganza)
and encouraged him down a financial pit? I could have
and probably could have gotten the job. But that wasn’t
the environment I wanted. I’d just spent a lengthy period
of time with a boss who didn’t want to hear from me.
It made no sense to enter in to a similar environment
again. Moreover, if I had to keep silent and be a Yes
Man, I wouldn’t be giving him my best. If I was forced
to do that, I wouldn’t like him very much. More than
that, I wouldn’t like me very much.
[Quick
sidebar: About eight months later, I happened into an
arcade and saw the final commercial version of Major
Dick’s pride and joy. However, there had been a few
modifications. The control panel dashboard had been
replaced by a silk-screened version. The only controls
were a joystick that went up and down and left and right
and a simple throttle for speed and altitude. And there
was a big red button which a kid could mash to fire
missiles and blow stuff up. And the biggest modification
of all?: kids were now finally playing it.]
I
returned home from the cross-country interview and decided
that I was dissatisfied with the video game industry.
The tight-fisted grip with which the narrow-minded Japanese
(that controlled it) ruled, had left a bitter taste
in my mouth, and I reluctantly opted for something equally
challenging and more lucrative. In a few days, I accepted
a position as an Instructional Designer with a company
that made training software programs for client companies.
It allowed me to utilize my education-methodology skills
and my software development skills, and, eventually,
I became a Technical Writer. Now, a “technical writer”
encompasses many types of documentation tasks and responsibilities,
but it usually entails writing very dry and boring documentation
to support the rules and business requirements of some
company’s internal programs. For the most part, I’ve
worked in the telecom industry in recent years. It is
good, honest, worthwhile work and it has its own merits,
but it is a far cry from writing about lasers and magic
potions and superpowers and the like. Truth to be told,
I do miss it.
However,
on a happy note: As I write this, the corporation I
currently work for is contemplating the acquisition
of an up-and-coming progressive company. A video game
company! This is not my corporation’s traditional industry,
but there is a great deal of potential that they recognize
with this video game company, and knowing my background
as my corporation does, there is a real strong chance
that I will once again be in the thick of things with
regard to video game development. Keep a good thought.
One
last thing: I regretted that I wouldn’t get to work
with such a talented team of individuals like the ones
at Major Dick’s company, but however I end up, I sleep
soundly at night, and I don’t regret for an instant
anything I did at that interview. Doing the right thing
(for no other reason than that it is the right thing
to do) can cost you. And does. Often. But, you can’t
beat yourself up for doing the right thing. AND you
get to sleep nights. I learned a long time ago that
living in integrity is the most important thing you
can do. Professionally. Privately. Personally. That’s
my biggest life lesson for you, People. At the end of
the day, if being able to look yourself in the mirror
is important to you, then integrity is what it is all
about.
I
can’t take credit for that one though. Despite being
mesmerized by all his incredible powers, the overshadowing
message I got from Superman (those many years ago) was
that the most important thing a person (superpowered
or not) can do is to live in integrity. The people at
DC Comics can afford to be mighty proud. When a guy
can fly and shoot heat beams from his eyes, and integrity
is the thing you go away with, that’s good writing by
any standard. Extraordinary writing actually. I certainly
didn’t invent that notion, but it certainly impacted
my life, and because of that, I impacted others. I just
pass it on. In the end, passing it on and impacting
others is the one superpower we are all given. All of
us. You, too. And remember, true believers: “With great
power comes great responsibility.”
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