Console Wars

by Blake J. Harris

  “My thoughts exactly,” Nilsen said, sporting a feisty smile. “And for what it’s worth, no amount of bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo can change the fact that when a kid walks into a store and sees a Genesis and a Super Nintendo sitting right next to each other, they’ll know exactly what to do. You know what I mean?”

  Kalinske knew exactly what he meant but failed to reply because his mind was busy replaying the scenario Nilsen had just mentioned. A kid walks into a store . . .

  Week 11: Spy vs. Spy

  A kid walks into a store.

  No, Kalinske thought, that’s not right. We’re going after teens and adults, the kids are just a bonus. Okay, so someone walks into a store. Someone? Really? That’s so vague. Who, then? A teen wearing a leather jacket? A jock wearing a sweaty uniform? A curvy college coed wearing . . . not that much? Don’t want to alienate any segment of the market, so maybe all of them should walk into the store? Nah, too crowded, too rehearsed, too diversity-for-the-sake-of-television. Kalinske felt like he had the commercial on the tip of his tongue, but every time he opened his mouth to try to let it out, the idea slid down his throat and hid. Okay, let’s try this again: Someone walks into a store. Wait, what kind of store is this anyway?

  A tap on the frame of his already open door dragged Kalinske out of his head. It was Toyoda, standing in the doorway with what was meant to be a blank expression. Over the past year, however, Kalinske had grown familiar with the nuances of Toyoda’s seemingly empty expressions and had grown adept at filling in the blanks. This one, for example, said: good news. Not great news, but better than bad news, no?

  “What is it?” Kalinske asked with a hint of concern in his voice. Though Kalinske believed he had decoded Toyoda’s expressions, he made sure to keep this to himself. Perhaps it was due to his Japanese heritage, or perhaps it was meant to serve as an ode to the furtive nature of an idealized businessman, but Toyoda seemed to place a premium on ambiguity, and Kalinske was happy to play along. “Is everything okay?”

  Toyoda stepped forward, and broke into an unambiguous smile. “Nintendo has made the price official. It shall be $199.”

  Kalinske matched his smile. “Just as we had expected.”

  “Just as we had hoped,” Toyoda said. Kalinske was unsure if Toyoda’s words were meant to echo enthusiasm or remove any insinuation of overconfidence, but they managed to accomplish both goals.

  Kalinske nodded humbly. “You are absolutely correct. This is great news.” Kalinske thought once again of his teenager, jock, or curvy coed walking into a store. They would see a Genesis and a Super Nintendo and have to make a choice. The Genesis would be cheaper and faster, and it would feature a much bigger library of games. No, Kalinske thought, with a subtle shake of the head. The library didn’t matter, at least not at the moment; all that mattered was the single game that came with the console. “Hey, did Nintendo announce which game would be bundled with the system?”

  Toyoda lightly shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Thanks for the update,” Kalinske said. “Why don’t you go fill Paul in?”

  As Toyoda moved toward Rioux’s office, Kalinske dialed up Nilsen. “Good news, pal. As expected, Nintendo’s pricing their machine at $199, though there’s been no decision on which game yet.”

  In his own office, Nilsen nodded as he listened to Kalinske. A price of $199 was perfecto! Dear Nintendo, thank you for digging your own grave. But as quickly as Nilsen’s mind swelled with excitement, it just as quickly filled with a strange flavor of disappointment. The high price point was good news, but it wasn’t anything that he had earned. It was Nintendo’s decision, pure and simple, and would have been just the same in a Nilsen-less universe. This prompted Nilsen to decide that he would take action. What kind of action he didn’t yet know, but he was committed to giving his colleagues something to be more excited about than just the expected. He thanked Kalinske for the intel, hung up the phone, and walked out of his office like a man on a mission.

  Not knowing where to go, Nilsen followed his feet as they led the way. Eventually, after wandering through the building in a nebulous quest for the unexpected, he found himself inside the office of Richard Burns.

  “Um, Al?” Burns asked. “Do you need something?”

  Nilsen’s mind whirred as he looked around the office, playing a light-speed game of I Spy (stapler, family photo, Wite-Out), which evolved to thoughts of Spy vs. Spy. Like an actor onstage who remembers his line just in time, Nilsen asked Burns if he knew of any retailers who were especially loyal to Nintendo, “guys who you think would pass along to the other side any information you give them.”

  Burns thought a moment, then said he did.

  Nilsen’s eyes lit up. “Here’s what I want you to do. Call them up and tell them that we are desperately worried that they will pack the new Mario game with the Super Nintendo. And then make it sound like you just slipped up and told them something you shouldn’t have.” Burns chuckled and agreed to put on his best dramatic performance.

  A few weeks later, Nintendo announced that Super Mario World would be bundled with the $199 SNES. Nilsen realized it was unlikely that his ruse had been the reason for this, but at least there was a chance it was because of him. A war was coming, and he didn’t just want to be on the winning side—he wanted to be the reason for victory.

  And now that Nilsen knew for sure that everything would come down to Sonic vs. Mario, he had another idea: something big, something memorable, something unexpected. Across the office, Kalinske was having his own why-didn’t-I-think-of-that-earlier moment. Many years ago, during his Barbie days, a toy company named Topper began making dolls based on a character named Dawn. Like Barbie, Dawn was pretty and friendly-looking and had many outfits, but unlike Barbie, she sold for less. By 1972, the Dawn dolls started to sell pretty well—until Kalinske intervened. He created a promotion where, for only two bucks, customers could swap their cheap Dawn dolls for a luxurious Barbie. One year later, Topper went out of business. Now Kalinske had an idea to do something similar to Nintendo, but he needed Steve Race to help him pull it off.

  Week 12: The Haves and the Have-Nots

  There are only two occasions when it is perfectly acceptable for a grown man to yelp like a little boy: on New Year’s Eve and when watching sports. Tom Kalinske and Steve Race took advantage of the latter when a harshly hit line drive drove in two runs and gave the San Francisco Giants a late-inning lead. They were not alone in momentarily unleashing their inner children, as everyone in the forgettable bar they’d found after work seemed to hoot, holler, and high-five like they were ten years old and had just learned how to make s’mores. Ravenous excitement filled the room until a strikeout by the next batter led to a commercial break and, in unison, all the buzzed businessmen snapped back to their real age.

  “Did you ever play?” Kalinske asked Race as they sat back down at a small table with a pair of nearly empty beer bottles between them.

  “Damn straight. I was very nearly going to play center field for the New York Yankees,” Race said wistfully. “Except of course they had no idea about this.”

  Kalinske laughed. “Reminds me of the time I almost dated Kathy Ireland.”

  “Well put,” Race said, and then leaned back in his chair with a smile that seemed to say, This is what life’s all about: beer, broads, and baseball. “So, what’s on your mind? You’re looking rather exhausted these days. Exuberant, but exhausted.”

  “You think so?” Kalinske asked, trying to shield any hint of vulnerability.

  “You hide it well, but it’s there to see at certain angles.”

  Kalinske shrugged. Maybe he was more exhausted than he realized, but he had a job to do. “I have a wife and three daughters. I’m fairly certain that my days of not looking exhausted are long gone.”

  “Fair enough,” Race said. “So have you brought me out tonight to play marriage therapist? I’m okay with that role, but if that’s the case, then expect a hefty invoice.”

  “Ha,”
Kalinske said. “Not quite. But I did want to discuss your role. I obviously appreciate having you here as a consultant, but I think it’s time for you to officially come in-house and take control of marketing. We’re on the cusp of doing something extraordinary, and I want you leading the charge.” It was Kalinske’s job to always believe that Sega was on the cusp and to make others believe it too, but for the first time the facts were starting to look like they warranted his confidence.

  Ever since Sega of America had dropped the price of the Genesis and put Sonic in the box, units had been flying off the shelves. Sales of the console skyrocketed throughout July: 20,000 sold one week, 25,000 the next, 30,000 the week after that. Sega of America was on pace to sell more consoles in the summer of 1991 (500,000 units) than they had sold in all of 1990 (400,000 units). And the best part was that with each Genesis sold, the consumer would typically buy more than three games per year. No, strike that—the best part was that each sale of the Genesis likely meant one less sale of the Super Nintendo. You were either a Sega person or a Nintendo person; you couldn’t choose both. Videogames were quickly becoming a religion, and luckily for Sega, the company was offering a 16-bit console that could be worshipped today, while Nintendo’s system wouldn’t be accepting prayers until early September. “This year is going to be good,” Kalinske said, “next year is going to be great, and I don’t know what adjective will describe the year after that, but I’m honestly thrilled to find out.”

  “I think you’re absolutely right,” Race said. “And I’d like to be at Sega for a while, but every time I start to think this is the right place for me, I run into some bullshit with the Japanese that makes me want to quit on the spot.”

  “Don’t let that stuff get to you, Steve. I can help with SOJ.”

  “Believe me, I already know how much shit you shield us from. I don’t know how you put up with Nakayama and his cohorts, but I tip my cap to you.”

  “Come on, I can’t really believe that your dislike of the Japanese—”

  “It’s not like that. I’m not racist or anything,” Race broke in. “It’s the whole culture. It’s the passive way they do things. It’s the fact that when I come into work in the morning, it’s not uncommon to discover that they’ve made a decision in the middle of the night that cancels out everything I did yesterday.”

  Kalinske shook his head, disappointed but unable to fully disagree. Nakayama had certainly given him the leeway to do things his way, but many of his decisions still led to unnecessary battles, even if they did work out in Sega of America’s favor. “I admit that it can be tough at times, but when push comes to shove we’ve always been allowed to do things our way. Just look at the Genesis. They let us drop the price, they let us put Sonic in the box, and you see how well that’s going.”

  “I do see that and I think it’s great,” Race said, unconvinced. “But did you ever wonder what they think when they see Sega of America doing so well? In my experience, stories about the haves and the have-nots don’t end too well.”

  The situation between Sega of America and Sega of Japan was hardly as dire as Race insinuated, but there was certainly noticeable difference in recent sales results. Sega of Japan had chosen to give Yuji Naka, Sonic The Hedgehog’s chief designer, a few additional weeks to fix any kinks and then launched the game in Japan in late July 1991, one month after Sega of America. In addition to the delay, the other notable difference was that in Japan Sonic did not come included for free with the hardware. The game was sold separately for 6,000 yen, and though it quickly became Sega of Japan’s best-selling software title, it paled in comparison to Sonic-mania in America. The first week Sonic The Hedgehog was released in Japan, it sold 7,178 copies. The next week it held steady at 7,062 copies until the following week sales dipped down to 6,086 units. By the end of the year, Sonic The Hedgehog would eventually become a hit in Japan, but not the mega-hit that it was in America. And because the game didn’t come with the hardware, it didn’t dynamically increase the installed base. Though it was rare to hear anyone at SOJ acknowledge the sales disparity, when they did they attributed the weaker results to Nintendo’s iron grip over retailers, a lack of third-party support, and the subtle ways that SOA had altered Sonic to work in America and not in Japan.

  “It’s not a matter of haves and have-nots,” Kalinske said. “We’re one company, and the better we do, the better they do. Besides, Nakayama is thrilled by how we’re doing, and his is the voice that counts. Trust me, Steve, this is going to work. And when the roads get rocky, we can lean on Shinobu for help.”

  “Shinobu? Their spy? Don’t get me started on him.”

  “Fine, fine,” Kalinske said. “Why don’t we table the issue for a little while and focus on less abstract matters.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Race said. “What’s next?”

  “Do you remember a doll named Dawn?” Kalinske began, though he could immediately feel Race’s interest slipping. “Anyway, I think we should run a promotion where customers can turn in their old NES and get a brand-new Genesis.”

  “I love it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely. But I’m fairly certain that’s illegal these days, pal. And I’d go to war for you Tom, I really mean it, but not jail.”

  “Damn,” Kalinske replied, and then tried not to appear too deflated. “Then let’s talk about this Sega World Tour,” he quickly suggested with an optimistic smile. This was Nilsen’s big idea.

  To convince anybody still waiting for the SNES that it was time to stop that nonsense and buy a Genesis, he’d dreamed up a nationwide thirty-city mall tour. Much like at CES, the goal was to set up a side-by-side comparison between Sonic and Mario and let players decide which game was better.

  “The Sega World Tour?” Race echoed, rolling his eyes. “Maybe we should go back to discussing the many merits of working for the Japanese.”

  “What? You don’t like Al’s idea?” Kalinske asked.

  “The idea is excellent, but the execution is a nightmare,” Race said. He was right. The dare-to-be-bold idea looked great on paper, but it was positively hellish to actually put together. Different cities, different mall managers, and different setups posed challenges, which were compounded by the fact that to truly steal Nintendo’s thunder the events of the tour should take place at multiple locations on the same day, which meant different crews and multiple equipment rentals. Nilsen had an undeniable talent for thinking big, but what Kalinske needed right now was for Race to take Nilsen’s oversized thought bubbles and transform them into something real.

  “Execution is certainly the issue,” Kalinske said. “So can you think of anyone that we can hire to be our, um, executioner?”

  “Let me think about that,” Race said, before suddenly becoming distracted by the baseball game on television. The Giants were still winning by a run, but now the Dodgers had a runner in scoring position and a hot hitter at the plate. Kalinske followed Race’s eyes to the television and eagerly watched the at-bat. Strike one, strike two, and then Race threw Kalinske for a loop when he said, “Let’s go, Dodgers. Come on now, a single here brings in a run.”

  “What? I thought you were a Giants fan?”

  “Nah,” Race said. “I root for whoever is losing.”

  “So if the Dodgers take the lead, then you’ll root for the Giants again?”

  “What can I say? I like comebacks and exciting endings,” Race said.

  Strike three. Like many in the bar, Kalinske emitted a tiny yelp. Race, however, just shrugged, his mind already spinning on something else entirely. “For the Sega World Tour, I have an idea about the job: EBVB.”

  “EBVB?” Kalinske asked. “Is that a person, place, or thing?”

  Week 13: EBVB

  Few people know that Lake Tahoe’s Squaw Valley was the site of the 1960 Winter Olympics. Even fewer know that it has a base elevation of 6,200 feet, a vertical rise of nearly half that, and an annual snowfall of 450 inches. Ellen Beth Van Buskirk, however, kne
w all of this and much more. She knew that there were twenty-six chairlifts and a state-of-the-art gondola, and that not only had it hosted the 1960 Winter Olympics, but also that those were the first Olympic events to be televised. She even knew that the broadcasters had freaked out because there was no snowfall until the week before the games began. When it came to Squaw Valley, EBVB knew it all.

  It wasn’t that she was a devout skier (her sports were basketball and distance running) or some kind of skiing-trivia savant. But as marketing services manager of the brand-new Resort at Squaw Creek, she felt compelled to memorize everything there was to know. A lesser manager, or a less neurotic individual, might have been content to know that many of these facts were safely tucked away inside a brochure somewhere, but Van Buskirk felt more secure when information was locked up in the vault inside her head. It was more challenging this way, more like a game, and that helped reduce the reality that her life had come down to filling 405 rooms at a ski lodge.

  She had grown up in an era where it was considered more adorable than ambitious for a woman to work. She always found that notion ridiculous and took pride in never just wanting a job, a place at the table, a spot on the team, but wanting the top job, the best seat at the table, the starring role on the team. True, she rarely got the the and often had to settle for an a, but the no-no-no of the status quo didn’t extinguish her fire. She developed a precocious talent for spinning negatives into positives, and interpreted her 5-foot 11-inch frame to be the Lord’s not-so-subtle way of telling her to keep thinking big. No matter how many times the world tried to teach her that she was lucky just to participate, she never stopped trying to teach the world that it was flat-out wrong.

  Until now, perhaps. Van Buskirk hadn’t quite given up, but there were signs: she heard her own voice quieting, saw her worldview blurring. To her, moving to Squaw Valley meant raising the white flag. Throughout 1990, she had been able to do her job from an office at the Rincon Center in downtown San Francisco, where they had a small, street-level retail storefront decorated by photos, sketches, and a massive architectural model of the resort (so large, in fact, that it had to be placed in the office before installing the windows because the doorway was too narrow). In 1991, however, the resort had opened to the public, and they wanted Van Buskirk to move out there permanently. She thought the mountain was beautiful but dreaded the move because she believed San Francisco to be the center of action. Unfortunately, however, there didn’t appear to be any other option besides occasionally staring at the phone and willing for it to ring.