Game in Mind

Going Through the Motions

As you probably know, Microsoft's Project Natal and Sony's Arc (rumored name) face inevitable launch this Fall.  Given the Wii's extraordinary success bringing affordable motion controls into the family market (using cheap airbag-style accelerometers, no less), it's easy to see why Microsoft and Sony are putting so much time and money into creating the "next generation" of 1:1 motion controls.

But did either company ever stop to think whether these peripherals are really going to change the way consumers view their products?  And have consumers figured out what exactly motion controls add to the gaming experience?

Followers of my blog (poor souls) will recall my criticism of Atari's ill-fated and wasteful development of a VR peripheral for its Jaguar console:

Even worse was the idea of an extremely complex, motion-tracking VR headset, much publicized at trade shows but which never surfaced save for incomplete prototypes.  Again, the idea itself was novel--in the same way Sega's ill-fated hologram arcade titles seemed novel--but the demand for VR technology wasn't strong enough to account for Atari's research and development focus.

Again, the demand for seemingly "immersive" motion controls is now much higher thanks to the Wii, but that doesn't mean that such demand will transfer accordingly to the 360 and PS3.  In fact, I'm rather surprised Sony hasn't learned a lesson from their own under-utilized Six Axis controller technology, which was a hasty attempt at beating the 360 to Nintendo's newly broadened market.  Remember Lair, the game that was nigh-unplayable until a patch added analog controls?  Or Uncharted's use of motion controls for aiming grenade tosses, a mechanic that was wisely replaced in the sequel?

In fact, the PS3's Flower may be the one truly successful use of the technology, but I fail to see how the game could not be done equally well with regular controls.  At the very least, the motion control interface is hardly an integral part of what makes Flower such a wondrous experience.  It's the visual and aural sense of flight... not the fact that the player is waving his/her controller all over the place.

Sony and Microsoft obviously have the budget to bring these tools to fruition and even hook a few early adopters in on their way to store shelves.  But keeping in mind Atari's VR helmet, I wonder if Natal and Arc are going to be similarly misguided exercises in catering to consumer whimsy and adoration for fads.

Let's look back at some motion-style controls and unique interfaces that failed to fully deliver on promises of exceptional game experiences.  Then, perhaps, we can come to some determination as to how successful Natal and Arc can be, and what Sony and Microsoft need to do to create truly useful peripherals.

Nintendo Zapper

Sure, the NES Zapper wasn't the first light gun for use with console games or home computers (Magnovox Odyssey, for any trivia buffs), and light guns had been used for years in arcades and shooting galleries.  But Nintendo's Zapper is by far the peripheral most synonymous with this particular brand of motion technology, with Namco's GunCon perhaps a distant second.  I'm guessing many a video game player feels pangs of nostalgia whenever the Zapper is mentioned, recalling fond memories of playing Duck Hunt in the family den, but here are some things you may not recall:  1. It was horribly inaccurate, relying on simplistic light-difference detection; and 2. out of the hundreds and hundreds of NES games, only seventeen supported it.  I dare you to name three or more (not counting Duck Hunt) without consulting an internet resource.

Since the release of the Zapper, other, more powerful light gun peripherals have been released, some quite sleek (the aforementioned GunCon, the Dreamcast Gun released in Europe and Asia), and others less so (Nintendo's Super Scope, the Atari XG-1, anything made by Mad Catz).  The question, however, is whether this particular form of motion control has added anything to gaming that couldn't have been achieved with a mouse.  I'd like to think that for all the minor successes of console light gun gaming (particularly Time Crisis 1-3 and House of the Dead 2), the latest light gun games have pretty much solidified the marginal status of this technology.  Wii light gun games use the Wiimote as a mouse substitute, complete with free-moving cursor, and Namco's Time Crisis 4 for the PS3 is a horribly botched experiment in bringing light gun peripherals into the LCD TV era (too bad they made the sensor tethers usable only with 36'' TVs and smaller).  What's more, these games have been slow sellers; the light gun is no longer a mechanic that captivates the masses.

Frankly, the act of holding a gun-like object, though initially quite stimulating for some, is an awkward way of controlling a game.  What's worse, the same set of controls can be achieved more simply and ergonomically with simple pointing devices like cathode-ray light pens.  Once that visceral thrill of "Cool! I'm holding a plastic gun without any of the real-world menace or societal implications!" wears off, the user is left with an unwieldy piece of plastic that is more gimmick than innovation.  In fact, I'd argue that the more immersive quality featured in many of these products--particularly the arcade light guns--is tactile vibration and feedback.  Yet that, too, has been made commonplace in all other sorts of controllers (and even some headphones and seat cushions).

Power Pad

The spiritual progenitor to Konami's Dance Dance Revolution home games and Nintendo's Wii Fit Balance Board, Bandai's Family Fun Fitness pad, otherwise known as the Power Pad, was the first major commercial attempt to combine console video gaming with fitness.  Not a terrible idea, although if you're like me, what you remember most about the Power Pad was how many kids would cheat their way through games by kneeling down and pounding on the numbers with their fists.

Unlike some of the other peripherals on this list, the Power Pad was actually pretty functional, and it added something to gaming that couldn't be easily emulated by other controllers.  On the other hand, it was meant to be used primarily for full-body activity, which is not always a practical method of control for video games that have little to do with fitness.  As with the Wii Balance Board, this sort of peripheral is really best used in the hands of first party developers armed with inventive ideas as to how it will be implemented across different genres.  Anything else is relegated to one-off gimmickry, which is sadly how most people remember the Power Pad: as a goofy '80s relic.  At the very least, it saw more use than the various third party spin-offs of Namco's arcade game Prop Cycle.

Power Glove

Mattel's Power Glove for the NES was a tremendous failure.  100,000 of them were sold in the US, and while that may sound like a significant number, that's a rather poor attach rate given the NES's installed base in 1989.  Only two games were made for use with the peripheral, neither one very good, due primarily to the fact that the glove could only detect roll motion (no pitch or yaw).  Poor idea, although Nintendo can't be credited with this stinker.

Sega Activator

How many of you actually remember the Activator?  Very few Genesis games were designed to use Sega's poorly conceived Activator peripheral, which utilized a "cage" of infrared beams to detect movement that broke each infrared plane.  In theory, this would make playing fighting games more immersive, as nimble players could stretch out to hit one plane as a punch, another as a kick, and so on.  Unfortunately, not only was the setup overly simplistic, with each plane representing a button on a controller, it was also inaccurate.  Sadly, those infrared beams were startlingly easy to interrupt, with just about any conceivable movement or ceiling surface setting off an unintended move.  Worse yet, the player had to recalibrate the ring before each game.  Add this to a prohibitive price ($80 in 1993), and you have one of the worst peripheral releases in gaming history.

Conceptually, the Activator was trying to do something new, but it just didn't go the right way about it.  It was the home console version of the infamous VR ring used in arcade setups like Virtuality Group's Dactyl Nightmare.  Again, the question is whether we really need to flail our body parts in order to experience the feeling of forward motion.  I'll return to this question at the end of this post.

EyeToy/Eye

It is important to recall Sony/Logitech's EyeToy peripheral here, not because it was revolutionary (PCs had been using webcams for casual games for years), but because the PS3's Eye is literally one half of the forthcoming "Arc" setup.  Obviously, whatever the EyeToy was previously will have a lot to do with what the Arc is in the future.

And that should set off some warning sirens for Sony, because the EyeToy was never exactly a big hit.  True, packages of the EyeToy bundled with a EyeToy: Kinetic game are still going for a lot of money on Ebay (at least compared to the average Playstation 2 game), but that speaks more to the relative quality of the Kinetic games than it does the EyeToy.  This is a lesson that I hope both Microsoft and Sony have learned:  There is only so much a developer can do using an image of the player.  And not every player really wants that kind of 1:1 connection with the game world; sometimes immersion is about hiding our contrived relationship to the escapist fantasy, not exploiting it.

The other problem with this form of motion control is that there is little in the way of visceral feedback for controls other than simply looking at the screen and seeing if what you did worked.  And anyone who has played the aforementioned Kinetic games will attest that it is difficult to arrange enough lighting and space for the camera to recognize even the most forceful movements accurately.

Nintendo Wiimote

In and of itself, the Wiimote + nunchuck setup isn't a failure... neither of imagination nor technology.  It's a simple tool that can be used in a large number of contexts and game genres.  It has also been a massive financial success, causing the miserable Wii Play to outsell just about any other game this past decade.

But if you take a hard look, and I mean a really hard look, at how exactly this form of infrared motion technology has influenced game design in the past few years, you might struggle to come up with successful examples.  The Wiimote is used to great success with Capcom's port of Resident Evil 4, but again, a mouse could perform the same functions admirably.  Light gun games?  Mouse again.  And every so often there's a game that makes you shake the controller or fling it in one direction or another, but this is typically either: 1. inaccurate, or 2. gimmicky and an extraneous touch on an otherwise standard game.  Even the best games on the system don't really benefit from motion controls.  Case in point: Reviewer consensus on the Wii version of Okami determined that the PS2 version actually controlled more accurately.

The main selling point for the system was always something like Wii Sports, but behind the shiny, "Even Grandma can play!" veneer hides the awful truth that boxing, tennis, and pretty much everything other than bowling can be "skillfully" controlled by flicking your wrist about 1 cm forward.

Of course, there's Nintendo's Wii MotionPlus add-on, which provides the sort of precision that should have been tacked onto the controller to begin with, but the arrival of this peripheral has been met with little consumer enthusiasm.  Lesson learned: When it comes to motion controls, consumers are more attracted to clever implications of what is possible using the controller (e.g., uniting the family), not what is plausible.

Let's Do the Twist

Is this what motion controls have come to?  A floating mouse?

It used to be that sitting on a plastic bike in the arcade was enough to emulate motion.  Nowadays, it's all about waving your arms or tilting your body.  But in terms of control scheme, is Flower any more immersive in 2010 than Hang On's bike was in 1985?

It's a rather relative question; one that demands a subjective answer.  Immersion, like beauty, is often in the eye of the beholder.  With regard to innovation, no one person has the answer and it's doubtful that anyone will invent a peripheral that knocks off everyone's socks equally.  Immersion generally means "I feel like I'm really there."  For some, this has to do with crafting a believable world.  For others, it's about intuitive control schemes and methods of interacting with that world.  But I've never seen it argued that World of Warcraft, Shadow of the Colossus, and Half-Life 2 are sorely lacking a Wiimote interface.

In terms of financial success, however, the motion market is a different story.  Nintendo's Wii is in new territory here; none of the peripherals (not even the packed-in NES Zapper) mentioned above achieved the kind of cultural saturation that the Wii has.  Something about the motion controls of the Wii has spoken to people like nothing before it, although this could be attributed more to savvy marketing than true gaming innovation.

What kind of future awaits Project Natal and the Arc?  On one hand, if Microsoft and Sony are even half as quick-witted in the marketing department as Nintendo, both peripherals should see at least initial market success.  On the other hand, that, too, says nothing for gaming innovation.

I would think that the best and most clever uses of such devices are not simple emulations of the kind of inputs humans do all the time with a gamepad or mouse, but rather things that we haven't yet thought of.

Here's another quick, related history lesson:  Back in 1988, Nintendo announced the release of a "Hands Free Controller" for use with the NES.  It was a chest-strapped device that would allow the physically disabled to play games using sipping and puffing motions and a chin-controlled joystick.  I'm willing to bet that prior to that time, few physically disabled children would have been able to conceive of a method to interact with games, much less become immersed in game worlds.  This was a controller that, while not aimed at the mass market, used innovative controls to make the impossible possible.

Again, the lesson is not that these sorts of control schemes are best left to marginalized or niche audiences, or that they require deep moral justification.  Rather, it's that the best control schemes are the ones that broaden the concept of interaction itself.  I think part of the reason music games have become so popular (save for this past holiday season) is that their peripherals are extremely attractive to a general audience that never thought they'd be able to access the kind of interactions required to, say, shake out a samba beat with maracas or play "Stairway to Heaven" on guitar.

Otherwise, gimmicky control schemes go against the inherent appeal of the regular controller: a portable, handy device designed to make all of these complex interactions as simple and intuitive as possible.  And there's something to be said for the satisfaction of pressing buttons and moving around the joy/analog stick.  It's a satisfaction that has become culturally ingrained in us, conjuring the comfort of the arcade in older gamers and the livingroom in younger ones.  Take note, game companies:  We actually like buttons.

So when I look at Project Natal and Arc, I don't think to myself, "Is this going to make playing digital tennis easier for Grandma?"  Instead, I ask, "What new sorts of games and interactions will these devices yield?"  This isn't simply a matter of designing new software around new control schemes.  Developers have unleashed a slew of Wii games designed around the system's motion controls, and few impress.

It's a matter of integrating technology and gameplay in a meaningful, carefully considered way.  There has to be a cogent design philosophy underlying every bit of hardware and first party software.  I don't think Nintendo did this well enough with the Wii; imagine how hard it will be for Sony and Microsoft if their peripherals come off as also-rans.

Linking the Past, Present, and Future: The Atari Jaguar as Console Artifact

It's no secret that the Atari Jaguar was a terrible failure--one of gaming's worst.  The last dud in the sordid history of Atari's Tramiel family ownership, the Jaguar followed the Lynx's underrated hardware debut in the late 1980s with an early '90s abomination of poorly designed hardware and software that barely competed against its 16-bit forebears, much less the higher-tech NeoGeo, 3DO, CD-I, 32-X, and Sega Saturn technologies against which the system was supposedly targeted.

Whereas those systems also underperformed in an increasingly crowded home console market, the Jaguar's true achilles heel was its total lack of support... support from consumers, 3rd parties, and even 1st party games that were consistently delayed (some to the point of such obscurity and derision that they easily could have been seen as the predecessors of vaporware like Phantom console games and Duke Nukem Forever).  While a handful of titles (namely Tempest 2000, Battlemorph, Wolfenstein 3D, Doom, Iron Soldier, and Aliens vs. Predator) rose to relative critical acclaim, the system itself never became so much as a blip on most gamers' radar.  According to Gamepro, the Jaguar ended up selling less than 250,000 units.  To put that number in perspective, that's less than half the number of CD-I consoles sold, around one-tenth the amount of 3DO and N-Gage consoles sold, and even one half the number of original Xbox consoles sold... in Japan.  The system is infamous among critics and game historians and is well known for its cult homebrew following, but for the average gamer, the Jaguar hardware is obscure to say the least.

So why bring up this sore spot in 2009, roughly 16 years after the Jaguar's ill-fated launch?  Because as an artifact of video game history, the Jaguar speaks volumes about where we've been, where we are, and where we're going.

That Controller!


Depending on your age and tolerance for design whimsy, the sight of the overly complicated Jaguar controller either conjures fond memories or churns your stomach.  On the one hand, the part of the controller that was utilized in almost every game is nicely set apart from the phone pad and resembles the simplicity of Sega's original Genesis controller.  Moreover, those unfortunate enough to have owned a Jaguar will recall that despite its plasticky appearance, the Jag controller was a sturdy and extremely comfortable piece of hardware.  So comfortable, in fact, that I have yet to hold another controller to equal the Jaguar's in terms of weight, shape, and ergonomics.  Gamers tend to shy away from large controllers--the original Xbox's "Duke" controller was perhaps the last of a now dead breed--but it is undeniable that human hands hold up best when they are able to grip a molded, fairly sized controller... rather than, say, struggle to maintain an awkward and unnatural grip such as that needed for Nintendo's various DS models.  (I continue to marvel at the fact that two of gaming's most comfortable controllers, those of the Jaguar and Virtual Boy consoles, belonged to two of its least successful systems; and that some of the most successful systems have had some of the least comfortable controllers.)  Surely, modern console designers could stand to learn a thing or two from the Jaguar's gamepad.

On the other hand, there's that hideous phone pad, complete with space for the various cheap-looking (and often useless) overlays packaged with Jaguar games.  While the phone pad and overlays represented an interesting throwback to the button arrangement of consoles like the Intellivision and Colecovision, it was also aesthetically unpleasant, distracting, and relatively impractical.  The last part was evidenced by the sheer number of Jaguar games that barely utilized this part of the controller.  Did Tempest 2000, for example, really need twelve additional buttons?

We've learned now from Sony's Playstation and Nintendo's DS and Wii that a system's controllers should be designed around its preeminent first-party software.  Sony's shoulder-buttoned and, later, dual-sticked Playstation controllers functioned perfectly for movement in the kinds of 3D environments its PSOne was pushing (e.g., Jumping Flash, Warhawk, and Ace Combat).  The Wii's wiimote and nunchuck don't work perfectly for every game type, but they work for the games that best demonstrate the system's design sensibilities.  By comparison, the Jaguar's controller worked for... nothing.  A cute yet completely extraneous anachronism.

Thus, the Jaguar controller itself is a bridge between gaming past and history.  It borrowed novel ideas from both successful and bizarre design antecedents, blended them together in a controller as comfortable as it was unappealing, and continues to serve as one of gaming's most unfortunate symbols of form over function.  (Take note, PSP Go!)

The Add-Ons


As represented by its complicated controller, Atari's Jaguar was a vehicle for a company trying to do too much.  Instead of focusing on quality control for its games, pushing design teams to meet release dates, and proper advertising, the Tramiel family focused it attention on bridging gaps with future technologies.  The most famous of these were the Jaguar CD add-on, released far too late in the system's brief stay on the market, and the proposed $250 VR helmet.

The CD add-on, of course, was far less risky than the VR helmet, but that didn't make it any better a strategic decision for an already obscure console.  While the system was always designed with the CD expansion in mind (represented by the grooves in the middle of the console itself), the fact that the CD player was not present at launch, added little in terms of gameplay advancement, was far too expensive at $150 (over the already inflated launch price of $250), made the system look bulky, and had very little in the way of software support, all contributed to the appearance of the Jaguar CD as an excessive afterthought.  By the time the CD player arrived in 1995, the Jaguar was on its last legs, and an expensive piece of technology didn't help matters at all.

I'm sure trying to tap into the early '90s fascination with CD-based technology seemed like a safe bet to the Tramiels.  After all, computer CD games and the Sega CD had already paved the way into the gaming mainstream.  Competitors 3DO and CD-I both made the technology readily available in their products (albeit at a much higher price).  Even Nintendo looked eager to introduce CD technology into its home console market, partnering with Sony on a SNES CD add-on project prior to a breakup that would result in the Playstation a few years later.  CD was all the rage.

Unfortunately, at the time, CD just wasn't the right decision.  Despite widespread marketing, Sega's CD unit sold very few units relative to the installed base of the Genesis console.  Nintendo decided not to go with an add-on, instead focusing on upping the size of its SNES cartridges and pushing 16-bit to its limits (the products of which were the highly successful Star Fox polygonal game and CGI-based Donkey Kong Country).  Plus, Atari simply did not have the manufacturing know-how of a Sony, whose Playstation would be the first truly successful introduction to CD-based console gaming.

Even worse was the idea of an extremely complex, motion-tracking VR headset, much publicized at trade shows but which never surfaced save for incomplete prototypes.  Again, the idea itself was novel--in the same way Sega's ill-fated hologram arcade titles seemed novel--but the demand for VR technology wasn't strong enough to account for Atari's research and development focus.

Atari's doomed love affair with relatively high-tech upgrades should have signaled to all companies then and there that risky moves rarely pay off.  Still, game companies continued to introduce all sorts of wacky and unnecessary add-ons and gimmicks to the market.  Sega's 32X add-on for the Genesis was a tragedy of brand mismanagement and stillborn technology.  Nintendo's Virtual Boy was an overpriced and headache-inducing experiment in 3D monochrome graphics.  NeoGeo experimented with the release of two CD versions of its console (in single-speed and double-speed drive forms) so as to push its exorbitant software prices down.  Microsoft made a deal with Toshiba to introduce the now-defunct HD-DVD technology to the gaming market in the form of an expensive add-on drive.  And so on.

Sometimes, almost by serendipity, these experiments turn out well.  Most recently, perhaps motivated by the enormous success of the DS's stylus-based controls, Nintendo has made a hit out of its Wii's motion controls, combining inexpensive gyroscopic technology with an inclusive, family-friendly design concept.  If the price for the Wii hadn't been just right, it's a technological experiment that could have just as well ended up in a heap next to the unappreciated Gamecube.

Nevertheless, Atari's Jaguar serves as a reminder that while safe bets don't always break the bank, they rarely break a company.  In the case of Atari, unnecessary risks in technology resulted in an inattention to key problems the company had suffered since the decline of the 2600.

Bits, Bytes, Whatever

The Jaguar's infamous claim to 64-bits worth of processing power is not only laughable; it's perhaps the key reason why we no longer care about "bits" or even the necessity of power in modern gaming.

Whereas the previous 16-bit generation had built its success upon rival claims to hardware power--illusory "blast processing" on the side of Sega and true hardware superiority on the side of Nintendo--and seemingly arbitrary boasts of large cartridge sizes (16mb, 32mb, or even whopping sizes in the hundreds of mbs in the case of NeoGeo games), the Jaguar helped to usher in an era of processing irrelevance.

No one cared that the Jaguar had 64-bits of processing power (which it didn't; it used two 32-bit RISC processors, codenamed "Tom" and "Jerry," concurrently and arguably delivered 64-bits worth of graphics processing), just as no one cared about the 3DO's then-mindblowing 32-bit power or the CD-I's crystal clear delivery of full motion video.

Why?  Because 1.) these systems were priced so highly that no one could afford them, and 2.) they simply didn't have the gameplay or exclusive licenses to back up the technological claims.  True, the Jaguar featured one of the best and most technologically proficient ports of Doom at the time, but by the time Doom arrived on the Jaguar, it had already run its course of fame and media obsession on the PC, long before PC-centric gamers began to move to consoles.

Unlike the 3DO and CD-I, however, the Jaguar emphasized its processing power in every way it could.  Atari commercials asked gamers to "Do the Math," comparing the 16-bit processors of the SNES and Genesis with the Jaguar's supposedly mighty hardware.  Once again, Atari put all the emphasis on all the wrong things, and the gaming market's mass rejection of Atari's claims would serve as a harbinger for console wars to come.

Nintendo's N64 marked the last system to make explicit reference to the number of "bits" powering a console, and no evidence shows that the "64" moniker resulted in any distinct preference for Nintendo's cartridge-based system over Sony's 32-bit Playstation, a console that outsold the N64 over 3:1.

But Nintendo learned its lesson.  Today, a relatively underpowered Wii handily outsells Xbox 360 and Playstaiton 3 hardware.  Nintendo's DS stomps the PSP in sales 2:1.  When it comes to processing power, David steadily trumps Goliath in 2009... because David tends to be more affordable and better marketed.

Pre-Xbox: The Death of the American Game Console

Even though America is the originator of Computer Space and Pong, and game companies regularly look to Europe and America for their most profitable sales territories, game players and critics alike have a tendency to look to Japan when discussing the roots of modern gaming.

And rightfully so.  While the Atari 2600 was the first truly successful home console, it was Japanese companies Nintendo and Sega who revolutionized the business, introducing new technology, game genres, and some of gaming's most hallowed and venerable properties--including Mario, Sonic, Donkey Kong, and Tetris--to households the world over.  America invented the RPG; Japan made it a viable game category.  America started the arcade and multiplayer crazes; Japan turned gaming into an entire way of life.

So I look back on the death of the Jaguar with a bit of sadness, not just because it represented the death of an American icon, Atari, but because Atari itself represented America's last best chance to be relevant in the video game market.  After all, the Jaguar and Lynx featured mostly Western-designed first and third party games from primarily American publishers.  Art styles and gameplay types, while often off-kilter (anyone remember Kung Food on the Lynx?  Ultra Vortek on the Jaguar?), stood apart from their Japanese counterparts in a way that made one feel like there was still such a thing as an American influence in gaming outside of the PC market.

Today, Microsoft represents the major American presence in gaming, yet it's hardly the same.  Game development and publishing has become such a global, ubiquitous enterprise--and Microsoft itself is such a globally diversified force--that you can hardly call the Xbox 360 and its products the mark of a distinctly American viewpoint.  It all meshes together... Halo reflects the American tradition of first-person shooters, yes, but the 360 equally relies on Japanese-style platformers, European role-playing games like Fable, and third party titles like Ninja Gaiden II, Resident Evil 5, Dead Rising, and Soul Calibur IV.

If Atari had gone on to survive as a hardware designer, who knows what different sorts of art styles and design viewpoints we would have inherited prior to the true globalizing of the video game?

Of course, such sentiment runs the risk of coming off as too nationalistic or myopic.  Let me be clear, however:  I am all for multiculturalism and thinking outside one's cultural box.  I certainly enjoy the current state of the video game.  I simply wonder what kind of intra-cultural sensibilities we have lost along the way.

And... there's nothing wrong with a smidgen of home-team pride.

Going to Pasture in the Most Unpleasant Way Imaginable

The death of Atari and its Jaguar console was unbearable to watch.  In its final days, the only mention of the Jaguar was made on late-night television infomercials about as silly and repellent as the console they advertised.  Atari knew it was doomed, and the Tramiels spared no dignity in the fire sale of what remained.

(Photo of the Atari Jaguar infomercial... is that the Bat Cave?)

By comparison, Nokia re-strategized (and continues to strategize) its place in a cell phone market that now includes the iPhone.  Sega faded away into a smaller role as concentrated software developer (of Sonic titles for the most part) and outstanding publisher along with partner Sammy.  SNK, which failed in the home market with its overpriced cartridge-based NeoGeo console, poorly made CD spin-off, and undervalued portable console, relied on its expertise in Japanese arcades to remain a player in the game development and publishing markets.

All three companies continue to hit bumps in the road, and none of them faces the extraordinary collapse suffered by Atari before merging with JTS, Time Warner, and becoming part of Hasbro (a long line of mergers and sales moves that have resulted in the current Atari publisher, a combination of former GT Interactive and Infogrames entities).  Still, the Tramiels had millions of dollars to spare before they wisely fled the game market, and the Atari property which so many had fondly remembered from the consoles of the previous two decades deserved much better.

Sony, Microsoft, and Nintendo all appear to be on relatively firm footing.  Apple's iPhone continues to be a successful hybrid communications/entertainment tool with over 40 million units sold.  However, I'd like to think that if a smaller company looked to stake out territory in the extremely competitive and economically shaky gaming market and did not succeed--which is remarkably likely given the forthcoming launches of unproven Otoy, OnLive, and Gakai streaming game "consoles" and lines of PC software--they'd take a stark lesson from the Jaguar's more respectable successors and learn to either quickly improvise or die with dignity.

The reason?  Because I'm all in the interest of competition, and I'm not so sure that Nintendo, Apple, Sony, and Microsoft have all the answers where hardware is concerned.  After all, SNK's Neo Geo Pocket Color was a remarkably graceful little system, featuring the absolute best joystick control I've ever experienced.  The Dreamcast had some truly unique ideas, such as the VMU, that I'd like to see re-attempted.  But if more companies go the way of Atari and its Jaguar, the video game market, tumultuous as it is in this economy, will become less of a dream for burgeoning business and more of a horror story.  Strange as it may sound, dying with dignity is an important part of the business process:  It signals financial ruin, true, but it also represents the possibility of corporate rebirth and learning from one's mistakes.  It leaves the door open for others to succeed where you have failed.

And in an extremely ironic way, Atari didn't leave the door open... but its Jaguar, a striking juxtaposition of ideas both terrific and terrifying, continues to pry that business door open a little... if only by showing precisely what NOT to do.

Game Changers: Atari's Polygonal Masterpieces, STUN Runner and Tempest 2000

(Pictured: Gameplay from Jeff Minter's famed Tempest 2000)

S.T.U.N. Runner (1989)

Long before the age of pixel-perfect arcade ports to home consoles, one of the main reasons to visit the local arcade was to experience the latest, state-of-the-art video games in a setting that could not be replicated by a small cartridge and a couch.  For example, one of my fondest arcade memories was riding the fake plastic motorbike while playing Sega's Super Hang-On.

Unfortunately, the mechanics of the video game itself rarely matched the realism or vividness promised by the paratext of the arcade.  Super Hang-On was a great bike game for its time, but it was still rather cartoony and its animations were stilted.  Interactions consisted of avoiding obstacles and turning.  It was Outrun on a plastic bike, essentially.

Atari's S.T.U.N. Runner (Spread Tunnel Underground Network Runner) was a rare exception to the banality of the '80s arcade racer.  Fondly remembered by Atari retro-chic fans and collectors, the futuristic S.T.U.N. Runner was in many ways an innovative yet overlooked title that brought high-speed polygonal graphics (based on an advanced Hard Drivin' engine) and genuinely interesting controls to a tired genre.

 

More importantly, it was arguably the first so-called "tunnel racer," and though its remarkably cheap and ugly ride-style arcade cabinet couldn't physically move or shock the player, it scorched a fluidity and sense of speed into one's mind that is equaled only by rare moments in modern Wipeout and Mario Kart entries.  It could be argued that these titles and many other contemporary racing games owe some of their finest moments to S.T.U.N. Runner, a game which very few players know by name, but which features stunts and mechanics so familiar and ubiquitous in today's racing games that it might as well have been the only combat racing game to ever have been released.

The concept is breathtakingly simple:  You're not actually racing against anyone; rather, you're simply trying to get to the end of the track before the time limit expires.  Unlike "open-air" racing titles like Outrun and Hang-On, there is no exotic landscape floating serenely in the background, distracting the player from the linearity of narrow tracks.  Rather, the player is forced quickly down a complex, branching network of tubes, much in the way one imagines sewage shooting down a sewer or the Millennium Falcon powering towards the Death Star's core in Return of the Jedi (the combination of which most likely inspired the notorious FMV Sega CD game Sewer Shark). 

Armed with aimable lasers and the ability to rotate a full 360 degrees around the walls of the track, avid S.T.U.N. Runner players sought out the quickest routes and memorized the location of requisite "speed-boost" pads on their quest for record times.  But it's not just these elements which can be found in your average combat racer these days, it's the tunnel atmosphere itself.

I'm not sure what it is about the idea of the tunnel that humans find so fascinating--maybe it's sublimated claustrophobia or the heightened feeling of speed--but what S.T.U.N. Runner capitalized upon as its primary gameplay component is now par for the course in a racing title.  Seriously, go out and find your favorite arcade-style racing game and start counting the sheer number of appearances of fast-moving tunnel/tube pathways.  I can name several off the top of my head with regard to Wipeout HD and Mario Kart Wii... and I can place similar visuals in classic games like Amplitude, Star Fox, and Panzer Dragoon.

Some of the continuing fascination with tunnel-based gameplay can be attributed to our real-life fascination with underground roadways, and some of it can be found in older games like the aforementioned Hard Drivin' and below-mentioned Tempest (or even films like the deliciously cheesy The Running Man).  The core mechanic in S.T.U.N. Runner--shooting and avoiding obstacles before a time limit runs out--is itself a warmed-over take on Atari's earlier Road Blasters.

Yet S.T.U.N. Runner, like many of the best games, is not a genre creator, but rather a genre innovator.  It takes tried-and-true gameplay and refines it using idiosyncratic imagery that still captivates the imagination of gamers today.  The speed with which one traverses these gorgeous polygonal tunnels is conceptually, not just aesthetically, sublime: flying and jumping through the chasm and at last being delivered unto the light before time runs out like a cathartic rebirth.  It reinvented the way we see movement in video games.  (Insert "tunnel vision" joke here.)

And no matter how few people ever experienced the various console ports (the best of which, a surprisingly accurate conversion for Atari's Lynx, proves that it is the concept of the game, not the graphics, which accounts for its success as an innovator) or picked up Midway's Arcade Treasures Vol. 3, S.T.U.N. Runner stands out as a landmark polygon-based title in long line of remarkable polygonal games.

Tempest 2000 (1994)

Another such game is Jeff Minter's reimagining of Atari's 1980 hit arcade title Tempest.  Tempest 2000 arrived amidst a dearth of quality games for the oft-maligned Jaguar console (a span which would unfortunately continue until the system's demise roughly a year and a half later) and would quickly prove to be one of the few original Jaguar games to earn widespread critical acclaim (the others being Alien vs. Predator, Iron Soldier, and to a lesser extent, Battlemorph).

Unlike S.T.U.N. Runner, this success had very little to do with the game's polygonal aesthetic.  Though lauded for its psychedelic blend of color and surreal polygonal models, Tempest 2000 employed polygonal technology mainly in service to the celebration of its namesake.  It's a game that could just has easily been done using sprite scaling; it simply wouldn't be Tempest.

Rather, the impetus for Tempest 2000's success and Jeff Minter's subsequent rise to fame among game geeks was the manner in which it launched a classic game renaissance.

Tempest 2000's cartridge included a version of its inspiration, the original Tempest game, but this was mostly for the sake of comparison:  A few hours of play of Minter's remake was enough to erase even the most sparkling memories of the original from a gamer's mind.

The original Tempest's gameplay was extremely simple.  You rotated along the outside of a vector-generated polygonal shape and shot various enemies which would travel "up" the 3D tube towards you.  That's it.  The only strategy involved was the order in which one dealt with approaching adversaries.

Minter's remake added one extremely crucial gameplay mechanic, a mechanic which seemingly changed the way the entire game could be played: the ability to jump.  Jumping--earned by catching power-up waves that traveled up the tubes like enemies--allowed the player to escape enemies and traps that had traveled to the outer-most shell of the tube.  As the levels progressed, however, the implementation of the jump mechanic became more nuanced and complicated:  Certain enemies could only be defeated by jumping "over" them and shooting them, and learning when and where to jump on certain shapes meant the difference between life and death on some of the harder, more cramped stages.

The ability to jump in Tempest may not sound like much, but when you think about it, it's astounding to think how one simple addition to the core gameplay can so thoroughly change the way a player approaches it.

What's more, Tempest 2000 wasn't simply a love-ode to an older game with an added feature and new enemies; it was stylish.  Again, it wasn't just the polygonal graphics--sharp as they were--that lent to Tempest 2000's tremendous polish.  It simply looked compelling... more compelling than the original game (which looked pretty damn impressive for its time), and had a sense of remarkable fluidity that enhanced the game's responsive controls.  It also sounded compelling, accompanied by vibrant digitized sound effects and a catchy, hyperactive techno soundtrack.  Everything the player did led to such a resounding visual and aural flourish that the ultimate combination of all the experiential factors--visuals, sounds, and controls--made one think that each level was less an obstacle course than an artistic masterwork in progress.  Only through the kaleidoscopic blending of controlled destruction and aesthetic creation could one arrive at the potential for the sublime video game experience at which the original Tempest had merely hinted.

Publishers at the time seemed to realize that Tempest 2000 was a project too big for the dreary confines of the Jaguar, and while subsequent PC and Playstation adaptations failed to catch on with critics in the same way the original had, it was clear that Tempest 2000's retro-gameplay shimmer resonated with a much larger audience than Atari's roughly 125,000 sold Jaguar consoles.

Atari was similarly inspired by Minter's redux, as the success of Tempest 2000 led to a string of less successful remakes for the Jaguar and Lynx based on Breakout, Missile Command, and Defender properties, with the latter being tackled by Minter himself.  While these titles aimed for a similar level of visual and aural panache, they were each missing the key mechanic that extended the gameplay's attraction beyond that of the progenitor.

Minter, still notable for his oddball, surreal development style and love of all things llama, has had trouble finding a worthy successor to the jump mechanic.  He recently revisited the Tempest template and tried to completely overhaul the core mechanics and colorful effects that made Tempest 2000 a classic.  The result was the critical bomb Space Giraffe (Xbox Live Arcade), whose poor sales Minter took rather personally.

Luckily, other developers have had more success trying to recapture the minimalistic, old-school bliss revolutionized by Minter's Tempest.  Geometry Wars, Space Invaders Extreme, Galaga Legions, and especially Pac-Man Championship Edition illustrate the point first proven by Tempest 2000:  It doesn't take much to build upon the success of past hits... perhaps a single key game mechanic wrapped in an artistic spin on a classic design.

Game Changers: Final Fantasy VII

Final Fantasy VII's recent breakthrough success on PSN brings to mind what a truly monumental achievement this game was for Squaresoft back in the '90s.  It's somewhat fashionable nowadays to deride the game for things that are easy to nitpick roughly 12 years later: the graphics, wonky (albeit heavily celebrated) storyline, and Cloud Strife himself.

But would as many Americans even KNOW about Squaresoft and their other RPGs if not for Final Fantasy VII?  Sure, Final Fantasy IV and VI (II and III in the U.S.) were considered moderate successes on the Super Famicom/SNES, and Chrono Trigger still has a raving group of fanatics behind it.

Final Fantasy VII was something else entirely... a phenomenom.  It sold millions within days after its release in Japan, and the hype spread like a virus until the game's success exploded into North America, making it the first Japanese RPG to reach cultural icon status on a global level.  How else can one account for the game's continued success?  10 million sales as of 2005 easily place it as the highest-grossing Final Fantasy game... and the story was selected among the many other Final Fantasy tales to be continued in spinoff games and a film.

I remember Final Fantasy VII in the way many American teenagers do:  It was the first real epic game we sat through.  It took me around fifty-two hours to complete (obviously, I wasted a great deal of time playing in the cutesy casino and looking for the legendary Knights of Round summon), but the payoff was a spectacular, bittersweet finale in which our heroes experienced both enormous loss and salvation.

No matter what you think about Final Fantasy VII as a game, it's hard to deny that for many gamers, and particularly many Western gamers who were previously only minimally familiar with JRPGs, it was a momentous experience.  One we're still trying to find in the other Final Fantasies, I think.

Even if the stories have improved in subsequent Final Fantasy titles (and they have!), there will never be the perfect storm of factors that played into Final Fantasy VII's success.

You had Aeris, a truly wonderful and sympathetic characterization that took the best of Squaresoft's other "innocent girlteen" creations and made her into a martyr for the ages.

The score by famed composer Nobuo Uematsu was equal turns haunting, poetic, and catchy... a feat I'm not sure he has ever repeated.

Most importantly, it was one of the first games that really combined epic fantasy cinema with gameplay successfully.  The Playstation itself was a remarkable product in that way:  It took a kid's medium--the video game--and for the first time truly legitimized it as a platform capable of satisfying mature intellects in a way that Mortal Kombat and Night Trap couldn't.  And if that is the legacy of the PSOne, then Final Fantasy VII still stands as its crowning achievement (even more so than the arguably superior Castlevania: Symphony of the Night).

Surely, we've all heard friends and other gamers recount the tears shed during Aeris' death cinema.  It wasn't a particularly good LOOKING full-motion cinematic, even for the mid-'90s.  But the spectacle of it all... the shimmering lighting of the caverns, the ninja-like stillness with which Sephiroth pierces Aeris with his blade, the heartbreaking Uematsu score that followed.  Even today, the cinematics and in-game cutscenes stand out as something of an anomoly:  They move poorly, but they move us. 

For a generation of gamers who were fresh off of the cheap, detached gameplay of supposedly cinematic titles like Battle Arena Toshinden, Loaded, Ace Combat, and Warhawk, I'm not sure any of us were prepared to be moved.  We all knew Squaresoft could pull off an epic, but an emotionally-involving and cinematic fantasy that actually made good on the Playstation's promise to usher in a new era of advanced gameplay?

It was damn good timing.  And it changed the way we look at RPGs forever.

The Best Game Architecture

Today, my beloved Kotaku RSS feed pointed me to an article in the Architects Journal in which the editors select the ten "finest" examples of architecture that video game worlds have to offer.  Their picks:

10. Marioland
9. Castle Wolfenstein, Return to Castle Wolfenstein
8. Tetris
7. Architecture Island, Second Life
6. The House, Jet Set Willy
5. Scumm Bar, Secret of Monkey Island
4. Halo I, II
3. Liberty City, GTAIV
2. The City, Sim City
1. Azeroth, World of Warcraft

A close reading of the descriptions reveals that some of these picks are serious and some--for reasons unknown--have seemingly been made in jest.  I mean, on a technical level, Tetris makes sense... but it's not really what most people would consider to be architecture.

So what is game architecture?  Is it the overarching level design?  The shaping and texturing of buildings within the game worlds?  It's probably a mixture of the two, and I don't think an actual architect is any better a judge of what "works" in a video game than the average gamer.  Quality game designers and environmental artists work together to make sure that game architecture functions in a way that normal architecture cannot:  It must be aesthetically pleasing while also functionally inspiring exploration.  Low on the list of qualities for these imagined buildings would probably be "structurally rigid," "economically spaced," or "sustainable."  You know, qualities that go into real-world building design.

That said, some of the above picks are actually pretty good.  Azeroth is a tour-de-force of fictive architecture and environmental design.  The worlds of Halo 1 and 2 also strike the right mix of beauty, ugliness, strangeness, familiarity, and fun... and are unmatched by most first-person shooters.

Here are some other of my own choices for great video game architecture:

Jet Set Radio Future (Xbox) - I plugged 50 hours into the world of Jet Set Radio Future, far more than I spent in the world of its Dreamcast predecessor or any subsequent skate-based video game.  Smilebit did an extraordinary job of creating a city scape that was both cruel and colorful... hyper-surrealistic yet plausibly traversed on foot.  And the sheer amount of secrets nested among those beautiful cityscapes still boggles the mind.  It's a world that's distinctly Japanese--a hyperbolic version of Tokyo--but the architecture of JSRF would capture the imagination of any culture.  By no means should any real architect ever emulate these bizarre designs... but for a video game, they do just fine.

Mirror's Edge and Half-Life 2 (multiple platforms) - I lump these two games together, not because they are mechanically similar, but because the architecture present in these games represent two very different yet equally successful interpretations of "dystopia."  Mirror's Edge approach is aseptic to a fault:  You could imagine this city of Big Brother if he were an OCD neat-freak and every citizen was his unwilling cleaner.  Beautiful primary colors stand out among neat lines and lots of glass surfaces; it's almost a shame your pursuers have to destroy so much of it while they chase you.  In sharp contrast, Half-Life 2's dystopic City 17 steps away from the tech labs and alien worlds of its predecessor but creates a more compelling, lived-in cityscape than the barren wilderness of Fallout.  As with Mirror's Edge, Half-Life 2 portrays a city controlled by a militaristic regime (albeit an alien one), but for all the dilapidated apartment buildings there are gothic water towers, dense forests, and toxic beaches.  The diversity of the environments and the buildings housed within them is simply stunning, and is just one more element that makes Half-Life 2 one of the most authentic sci-fi experiences ever crafted.

The God of War series - It's typically pretty easy to throw together a bunch of classic Greek and Arab buildings and call it an "epic" landscape... but God of War outdoes the ambitions of your average Prince of Persia remake or Assassin's Creed by packing every ancient structure with a consistent sense of danger, as if any building could topple on top of you at any time (and sometimes it does!).  The last third of God of War I, which takes place almost exclusively on top of an enormous moving titan, is even more imaginatively and coherently constructed than anything seen in ICO or Shadow of the Colossus.  "Epic" is an overused term when applied to video games... but the architecture of God of War is exactly that: epic.

LittleBigPlanet - What makes for compelling game architecture?  Sometimes, it just comes down to sheer imagination and inventiveness.  Just tour a few of the best-rated structures created by avid LittleBigPlanet designers and you'll find more creativity and ingenuity on display than you may find in many an architecture firm.  Best of all:  You can invite your friends along.

Myst - I think this is a pretty obvious choice.  Myst was for the 3D adventure what Zork was for the text game.  What you had only previously imagined as compelling architecture came to life in the stills (and later, fully 3D models) of Myst's puzzle-based and almost Dr. Suessian structures.

There are so many more great examples I could name.  Off the top of my head: the eponymous castles of Dark Castle and Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, the sepia-stained huts and towers of Morrowind, and even the ultra-cubist playground of Q-Bert.

For anyone who may come across this post:  What are some of your picks?

From Past Files: 5 Great Green Games

I posted the following to my Facebook account on Earth Day... in part to convince myself that, even if we gamers spend the majority of our time playing Playstations that suck more juice than a refrigerator, we can do our part to reflect on our connection with nature.  Or, you know, make cool stuff grow.

Grandia II (Dreamcast, PC, PS2)

As long as there have been overly sentimental, sappy fantasy role-playing storylines in Japanese games, there have existed the requisite "save the planet from polluting civilization" storylines. Grandia II is a doozy: What seems at first like a very barebones and basic game in the Japanese RPG mold turns into a rather complex morality fable. God saves man, man gets bored in Heaven, man creates Devil to kill God, Devil wins... man lies about it ever since. And that's just the religious side. As the game progresses, the protagonists learn that while faith can be a boon to mankind, zealotry can leave a culture and nature in shambles. Slightly pantheistic themes of "do what you can to save the Earth and Nature while you're here" ensue.

Pixeljunk Eden (PS3)

New-agey indie platformer Pixeljunk Eden has you playing as a grub on a mission to grow, grow, GROW that garden to new heights! No joke. Placid, lovely atmosphere, stunningly fluid graphics, and addictive swing-climbing gameplay make this an accessible way to celebrate organic growth at its most unpretentious. And trust me... it beats playing Spore, Harvest Moon, or Sim Earth.

Flower (PS3)
 

Lauded indie sensation Flower was developed by a small group of USC grad students after an accidental animation flaw created an explosion of swirling petals on-screen. This turned into the core game mechanic, which has the player bring lush life back to sparse, sepia-toned fields. Meanwhile, one's progress in the game is represented by a cityscape that becomes leaner and greener over time. Huzzah! Navigating the game's levels is an indescribably wondrous experience.

Super Mario Sunshine (Gamecube)

Underrated entry in the Mario series of Nintendo game features the lovable plumber in a toxic-sludge cleanup role. First a plumber, now a janitor? Mario needs a better placement service. In any case, this makes for a fun, addictive pollution solution for all ages.

Shadow of the Colossus (PS2)

Team ICO's phenomenal Shadow of the Colossus can be examined on many levels, although one of the rarest critical approaches I've seen is simply taking the story at face value: You're an unnamed hero tasked with killing relatively peaceful, one-of-a-kind beasts in order to sacrifice them for the life of a loved one. This, of course, presents a terrific sort of moral quandry as the game goes on and the player witnesses the protagonist become increasingly sullied by a metaphysical darkness taking hold of him. Is the life of one human being worth the destruction of some of the world's most precious and magnificent lifeforms? How's THAT for environmental moralizing?