Console Wars (2015)

PART THREE

THE NEXT LEVEL

26.

ORIGIN STORIES

Kalinske didn’t mean to stare. It was against his nature to gawk at others, but he simply couldn’t help himself when glancing at Howard Phillips, whose neck was noticeably lacking a big, bright bow tie. The post-Nintendo Phillips looked older, wiser, and less two-dimensional. It was as if Charlie Brown had upgraded from his everyday yellow shirt with the black zigzag to a special-occasion navy sport coat. It was only a small change, perhaps, but it represented a redefinition of character. Howard Phillips was all grown up now, and the only thing that epitomized that maturation more than a revised fashion sense was the fact that he had come to San Francisco for a celebratory dinner with Kalinske and Toyoda.

“For the sake of decorum,” Phillips said, speaking with a delicate cadence that seemed to expertly bend the English language, “I would like to express right off the bat that I have nothing but the utmost respect for Nintendo and my former colleagues.”

From across the table, Kalinske and Toyoda nodded in unison. This was too fine a restaurant and too fine an occasion to let things devolve into a gossip session. Tonight was about one thing and one thing only: finalizing the deal for Nintendo’s former Game Master to come work at Sega.

“Of course,” Toyoda said. “We will not speak ill of our competitor.”

“The truth is that we have tremendous respect for Nintendo as well,” Kalinske said. “It’s just that, unlike you, we also despise them.”

Phillips chuckled. As he did, Kalinske couldn’t help but notice a slight disconnect between the simplicity of his bulging smile and the complexity in his eyes. Perhaps Phillips harbored more of a grudge than he let on.

“Speaking of the devil,” Kalinske said, “how’d you even wind up there?”

“It all began a long, long time ago,” he said, his eyes suddenly shining. It was undoubtedly a tale he’d told many times before, but also undoubtedly one that he loved even more with each retelling. When he spoke it was like a superhero revealing his origin story, the legend of how it all began. Over the next decade, there would be many tales filled with the pow! bam! zap! of success, but nothing would ever rival that initial experience. “At the time, I was just a student at the University of Washington. It was 1982, and one day my good friend—my roommate actually, Don James—got a job with this small, nondescript company that had set up shop in the southern district of Seattle.”

“Nintendo?” Toyoda asked.

“Bingo,” Phillips said. “They had been importing these giant, refrigerator-sized arcade cabinets from Japan until they realized it would be cheaper to simply send over the parts and have someone put the things together over here. So Don got hired on to do that job. And then after a couple months of him putting these things together, they decided they wanted someone to keep track of these things. So they asked me if I wanted a job, and just like that I became the warehouse manager.” Phillips shook his head. “There couldn’t have been more than ten of us back then. Myself, Don, Mr. Arakawa, and a few other helping hands. Who could have predicted what would happen next?”

As Phillips told the story, Kalinske couldn’t help but feel a sense of compassion for Nintendo. It was like hearing about Goliath’s early years, when he was just a skinny kid who liked skipping rocks and making macaroni art. The fact that Phillips had been there since the beginning made Kalinske feel even better about bringing him to Sega. It would hurt Nintendo that much more.

“Here am I,” Phillips went on, “just some kid working in the warehouse. And one day Mr. A. comes to me, shows me this game with a funny name, Donkey Kong, and says, ‘What do you think about this?’ He wants to know because the company isn’t doing so great and they want the next arcade game they bring in to be a big smash hit. So I turn it on and start playing the game, and a minute or so later I just blurt out, ‘Mr. Arakawa, we gotta bring this to the United States!’

“Now, obviously I’m not saying that I’m the reason that they chose to import Donkey Kong, but I will say that the version of the game I played that day was not the same one that we sent out for people to play. Through trial and error I made some tiny tweaks to adjust for difficulty, timing, number of lives; that sort of thing. From then on, Mr. A. would always come to me and ask if a new game was cool or if it sucked. What needed to be done to make it better? Why wasn’t this as fun as it should be? It was a dream come true—I was like a focus group of one.”

This was the real reason that Sega wanted Phillips. Yes, it would be satisfying to steal away Nintendo’s former mascot, but by this point Sega was past high school pranks and focused on going from good to great. Phillips, for whatever reason, had an unquantifiable, superhero-like ability to determine the anatomy of great, and Sega needed this now more than ever. That was why Toyoda had been wooing him for many months. For a long time, his overtures had been respectfully declined, but as Sega continued to trend upward, Phillips couldn’t help but seriously consider the opportunity.

After leaving Nintendo, Phillips did not find the grass to be any greener at Lucasfilm Games. Less than a year later, he moved on to THQ, whose grass also wasn’t tinted to his liking. By this time, Sega’s offer to lead a development team and produce games was looking pretty good. In fact, it looked great, but Phillips was trying his best not to see it that way. As wonderful as the opportunity appeared to be, he couldn’t wrap his brain around joining the dark side. The games that Nintendo made were treasures that could be enjoyed by the whole family. No sex, no gambling, no violence. But Sega did things differently. Although they hadn’t specifically set out to publish unsavory content, by transforming themselves into the anti-Nintendo, Sega had become the primary outlet for more mature content. Onslaught, Streets of Rage, Fatal Labyrinth—just look at the titles of these Genesis games! Even with Sonic The Hedgehog, a great game for sure, why did they have to give him such a naughty attitude? What kind of values did Sonic teach to kids? Rowdiness? Rebelliousness? Perpetual impatience? Now, with only 16 bits, perhaps this lack of censorship was no big deal, but as the technology of videogames progressed, the differences in philosophy between Sega and Nintendo would only become more pronounced.

And yet, even though Phillips felt this way, he had still agreed to join Sega. He resented himself for saying yes to Toyoda and cringed a little bit while driving to that night’s dinner, but working for them would be better than his current position at THQ, and there didn’t appear to be any other options. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but he promised himself that he would effect change from inside Sega, act as a moral compass, and stay true to himself.

“With the success of Donkey Kong we became the largest shipper in the port of Seattle,” Phillips went on. “And every week we’d receive a delivery of about a hundred or so forty-foot containers. We never quite knew what to expect. Not even Mr. Arakawa. Sometimes it was just more Donkey Kong units, sometimes it would be arcade cabinets for a different game, and sometimes it would be a new toy or electronic device that Mr. Arakawa would have to decide if he wanted us to start selling.”

“That sounds kind of exciting,” Kalinske said.

“It was!” Phillips exclaimed. “It was like Christmas morning every week! And then one week it was like the best Christmas of all time. We were still pretty busy with Donkey Kong, I remember, and were getting a lot of that, but one of the containers was full of nothing but a bunch of boxes for Mr. Arakawa. And inside one of them was this thing called the Famicom. It was a goofy, very toy-ish-looking thing. White plastic, maroon trim, and a little cartridge of Donkey Kong that just slides right in. So we hooked the thing up to the TV and it was just un-frickin’-believable.”

“Un-frickin’-believable.” That was a word Kalinske had never used before, and he felt confident that he’d end his days without it ever coming from his mouth. It wasn’t a matter of taste, but a function of age. His daughters could get away with it, maybe even Karen, but not himself. Words like that were part of the vernacular for a different generation. It’s funny how that works, the hidden truthfulness of language. Kalinske could throw his back out playing basketball and convince himself that it was a one time thing, and he could discover a gray hair and feel the distinguished pride of wisdom, but there was no way that he could ever say “un-frickin’-believable” without feeling like he was a hundred years old. But in a strange way, this disconnect was part of the reason he loved Sega so much. By going after teens and young adults, a demographic that he had never targeted before, he felt a small link to a youthful world of hope, change, and irony, one that his daughters would come into as they grew and which they would inhabit for many years.

“This is so very fascinating,” Toyoda said. “What an interesting time.”

“And it just kept on getting more exciting,” Phillips said, now speaking with a noticeable degree of nostalgia. “After Mr. A. decided that it was time to try to bring back the videogame industry in America with the NES, the question became which games we would sell here. By this time, they already had fifty games selling in Japan, but we were only going to release sixteen over here. So I played each of them, all the way through, and provided an analysis of which ones I thought were the best. After that, our head count grew from a hundred to a thousand, sales hit a billion dollars, and, well, things kind of went batshit crazy for a couple of years.”

Kalinske and Toyoda laughed. The sensation that Phillips described, the sheer insanity of riding the roller coaster, had recently become a popular topic of discussion amongst Sega’s top executives. They didn’t want to jinx Sega’s success, but they felt a need to be prepared for the best. When it happens, that exponential expansion, it happens fast. And if the right pieces aren’t in place, companies can easily collapse under the weight of their own success (an inability to fulfill increasing orders, ill-advised partnerships, failure to adapt with changing technologies, etc.). So to avoid the pitfalls of newfound profitability, Sega of America had brought in a trio of talented veterans: Doug Glen, Joe Miller, and Ed Volkwein.

Doug Glen was a tall, bald, tech-savvy MIT grad who came on board to run business development. It was borderline impossible to spend a minute with Glen and not step away convinced that he’d missed his calling as a college professor. Instead of pursuing a career in education, however, he’d opted for a combination of Silicon Valley, Madison Avenue, and je ne sais quoi, arming himself with a sophisticated fluency in technology, advertising, and a multitude of Romance languages. With a finger in so many pies, he was the perfect fit to partner Sega with other companies on the cutting edge. At the top of Glen’s list, however, were launching a CD-based hardware system and exploring the futuristic concept of making videogames available to download directly to a player’s television. Beyond these diverse talents, Glen’s arrival also signified a superstitious victory of sorts: he had a reputation for joining companies that were about to become the next big thing.

If Glen could be considered the kitchen manager responsible for selecting which ingredients ought to be part of Sega’s recipe for success, then Joe Miller would be the chef responsible for slicing, dicing, and mixing everything together. Miller was an engineer by trade and a perfectionist by reputation. People tended to see him in one of two ways: as pretentious and pompous, or as a genuine visionary. But regardless of which view people took, they always looked at him with an underpinning of reverence. When it came to engineering, Miller knew what he was doing and had the résumé to prove it. He had spent the past decade bouncing between gaming outfits (like Atari and Epyx) and computer companies (like Koala Technologies and Convergent), which made him familiar with a wide spectrum of software and hardware. He had initially been brought in by Sega’s head of product development, Ken Balthaser, to set up Sega’s new multimedia studio, where the company hoped to record top-notch musical acts and film live-action movie scenes to be used in games for the CD system they hoped to launch in late 1992. Around the time Miller finished building the studio, Balthaser decided to leave and start a software company with his son. Kalinske, Rioux, and Toyoda all believed that Miller would be the perfect successor, a nimble-minded guy who could handle consoles, peripherals, and software for the next generation. Miller agreed with this assessment but didn’t know if he wanted to accept the undertaking. He confided to Kalinske that, unlike other candidates, he had the benefit of several months spent observing Sega from the inside and did not appreciate the constant pressure that Sega of Japan exerted on product development. At the time, Sega of Japan insisted on reviewing every single R&D dollar spent, and when it came to projects that they didn’t fully support, SOJ had a habit of “delaying” discussions until they evaporated. So Kalinske told Miller to write up a list of everything that he wanted changed. The following week, Miller submitted a list, and a week after that Kalinske returned it. “It’s all taken care of,” Kalinske said. “So you’re out of excuses. Welcome to Sega.”

With Glen in charge of looking down the road and Miller responsible for building the cars to get there, there was still the intangible issue of how drivers should feel when they were on Sega’s highway. What were the images, sounds, and emotions that consumers should experience when they saw the name Sega? It all comes back to marketing, and Kalinske was finally ready to pull out all the stops. Between launching Sonic, targeting teens, and adopting a fearless head-to-head strategy, Sega’s marketing team had done an incredible job of positioning themselves against Nintendo. Now, however, they needed to find and finalize their own identity. Internally, there was no uncertainty amongst employees about how to define Sega. It represented freedom, revolution, and the next stage in entertainment evolution. And while some outside Sega’s office walls may have already known that the coup was under way, it was time to bring on a new advertising agency that would make sure that the rest of the world was fully aware of the new world order.

Now that Steve Race was out of the picture, Kalinske needed someone to run the marketing department, a strong vice president who could manage the increasing head count and lead the agency review process. A part of him wanted to offer the job to Nilsen, rewarding him for being a one-man wrecking crew these past couple of years, but another part of Kalinske felt that promoting Nilsen would be nothing short of cruel.

Nilsen was clearly a master of ideas big and small, someone who always saw the extraordinary in an ordinary world. The problem, though, was that what the organization needed right now was, quite literally, organization. And that was not Nilsen’s strong suit, at least not in the conventional sense. In truth, he probably had a better grasp than anyone else when it came to product development, marketing milestones, and industry trends, but instead of maintaining this information in reviewable files and folders, he had it all filed away inside his head. It was the difference between the kid who takes a math test and aces it but doesn’t show his work, and the kid who gets most of the questions right and fills the page with detailed equations demonstrating how he arrived at the answers. This is not to say that Nilsen lacked management skills, but right now Sega needed someone who could invite others into his head and show them what needed to be done. They needed someone who was as much a teacher as he was a commander. They needed Ed Volkwein.

Volkwein was a balding, graying journeyman marketer who radiated affability and acumen the way a beloved pediatrician did. He’d risen up through the ranks at General Foods in the 1970s, where he excelled as a product manager for desserts and dog food. After eight years of adhering to their strict by-the-book marketing, he turned the page and went to Chesebrough Ponds to focus on new products and popularize their Ragú spaghetti sauce. The challenge with Ragú was that although they made a fine sauce, it rarely found a spot inside the American cupboard beside tried-and-true condiments like ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise. To change this perception, Volkwein’s team redefined the product by launching a comprehensive national campaign that simultaneously positioned Ragú as the sauce that true Italians prefer and also implied that Americans could easily bring home the exotic taste of Italy with this low-cost product. Each ad ended with the line “That’s Italian,” which quickly became synonymous with the product. Though Volkwein would go on to craft many more campaigns in his life, for everything from Prince tennis rackets to Funk & Wagnalls encyclopedias, his work with Ragú represented what Kalinske hoped to do at Sega: redefine a product, elevate it above the competition, bring it into homes that had never purchased that kind of product before, and, ideally, come up with a kicker to end each commercial, something that would make the ad memorable and epitomize the Sega experience.

Shortly after becoming Sega’s vice president of marketing, Volkwein began the ad review process. He scoured the landscape, looking for agencies that were big enough to take Sega national and bold enough to go after Nintendo without backing down. Basically, an agency that swung for the fences and actually hit home runs. At this point, Sega still couldn’t afford the game’s heaviest hitters, but Volkwein was confident that the company’s recent momentum would attract an agency looking to get into the videogame business. In order to find the right agency and keep the process as transparent as possible, he leaned heavily on six people: Kalinske, Rioux, Nilsen, Van Buskirk, Adair, and Tom Abramson, a rowdy hustler he had recently hired to handle Sega’s promotions. Together, they would make the most important decision in Sega’s quest to reach that next level.

Kalinske believed that getting there was simply a matter of time, a process that was already being sped up by the additions of Glen, Miller, and Volkwein—the professor, the perfectionist, and the pediatrician. And now it was time to add another fresh face to the mix: that of the man who had almost finished sharing his Nintendo origin story.

“By this point, Nintendo is completely exploding,” Howard Phillips explained. He spoke with an infectious, I-can’t-believe-this-really-happened-to-me enthusiasm that Kalinske and Toyoda loved. “It’s utterly amazing, but there’s still this fear that one day, out of the blue, we’ll fall apart faster than Atari. How do we avoid that? Quality, quality, quality; not just with the games, no, but with every part of the gaming experience. So Mr. A. comes up with an idea to keep our players up to speed and taps Gail Tilden to launch this little eight-page newsletter. The Nintendo Fun Club News, it was called. She wanted to root it in reality and put a face on it to help broker the kids into the gaming experience. So she asked me if I would be willing to do this, and I said, ‘Sure, why not.’ ”

“Wow,” Kalinske said. “Did you have any idea what you were getting into?”

“Big responsibility,” Toyoda added.

Phillips chuckled. “In retrospect, I didn’t have any appreciation for what Gail was asking me to do,” he said with a playful shake of the head. “A couple months after I said okay, she comes to me again and says it’s not going to be a newsletter anymore, but a full-fledged magazine, Nintendo Power. Do I still want to do this? Well, how could I say no? There are so many messages out there surrounding videogames that it’s important for me to step forward and present a positive message. Play itself is very rewarding for children. Maybe in some respects there’s a little too much play, but play is still important. And there’s this whole social opportunity, this currency of interaction, with friends, family, and even strangers. That kind of attitude extends beyond the playground, so I was really happy to be expressing that aspect of games.”

“That’s beautiful,” Kalinske said. Ever since his conversation with Heidkamp about the increasing violence in videogames, he occasionally felt twinges of doubt regarding what he was selling. They were tiny ones, buried deep below the surface, but still, they were there, and anything that could keep them quiet was much appreciated. “Well put, Howard.”

“I don’t regret what happened next, but it certainly came as a surprise,” Phillips said. After Nintendo Power became the number one kids’ magazine, the bow-tie-wearing Howard Phillips persona went through the roof. His face became instantly recognizable and synonymous with Nintendo, and he spent most of his time traveling around the country promoting the company. “My persona had really started to take off, and they took it to the bank: the freckled Anglo face on the Japanese company. This was no evil plot by them, but it became a bit oppressive because it came at the expense of product development. If I was on the road doing promotion, then of course I couldn’t evaluate the games. It got to the point where I was evaluating games that I hadn’t even completed, which was just inconceivable from my perspective.”

“That’s awful,” Kalinske said. “It’s like a musician going on tour and not having time to work on new songs.”

“Nintendo’s rock star!” Toyoda exclaimed.

“That’s exactly how it felt,” Phillips confided. “I couldn’t go into public places without being recognized. Sometimes it was fun, but sometimes you’re in a rush and someone really wants to co-opt your time. And you feel like you shouldn’t let them down, so it gets challenging. Then it started getting to the point where it was getting a little awkward with the moms—the looks they gave me and things they would say.”

Kalinske laughed. “And how did Mrs. Game Master feel about all of this?”

“That was the worst part!” Phillips said. “The moms started pulling her aside and asking what it was like to be married to the Game Master. ‘Is he a master in the bedroom? Is his manual dexterity really that good? Does he wear the bow tie all the time?’ ”

When the laughter subsided, Kalinske said, “Well, the good news is, we just removed Sega’s mandatory bow tie policy, so you should be in the clear.” Phillips grinned.

“When is good for you to start?” Toyoda asked. “We are flexible.”

Phillips opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly the words were no longer flowing out the way they had when he was telling his story.

“The thing is . . .” Phillips began, in a way that could mean only one thing. He didn’t really want to say what would come next, but what choice did he have? After all, every superhero only gets one origin story. “I greatly appreciate the opportunity to work for Sega, but on second thought it’s perhaps not the best fit.”

“We understand,” Kalinske said, forcing himself to say something other than Check, please. He nodded several times, trying to add some truth to his words.

“Maybe another time,” Toyoda said without any hint of emotion.

“I’m very sorry. I feel terrible. I should have said something earlier.”

“Nonsense,” Kalinske said, again suppressing an instinct to ask for the check.

“Maybe another time,” Toyoda repeated.

“Thank you,” Phillips said with a strange sense of relief.

Kalinske, Toyoda, and Phillips then proceeded to finish their meal, despite the awkwardness. Kalinske held no ill will against Phillips, but that didn’t make the minutes go by any smoother. He was stung by the turn of events and felt foolish for not having anticipated this outcome, but he knew that in the long run it wouldn’t really matter. With Phillips or without him, Sega was moving forward at a million miles per hour.

“Miles Prower?” Nilsen asked with shock, horror, and disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes,” Schroeder said, standing glumly in front of his desk.

“No.”

“I know,” she said. “But yes. They’re really committed to this.”

First name: Miles. Last name: Prower. That was, apparently, the moniker of Sonic’s sidekick, a splashy new character who would be heavily featured in the sequel. As with the mascot competition from 1990 that had resulted in the creation of Sonic, SOJ once again held an internal design competition, this time to create a partner in crime for their hedgehog. The winning entry came from Yasushi Yamaguchi, Sonic Team’s primary level designer. Yamaguchi submitted an orange fox with stylish bangs and a distinct pair of tails, inspired by a mythical creature from Japanese folklore. According to legend, certain Japanese red foxes, or kitsune, magically grow an additional tail for every thousand years they have lived. Each tail provides unique powers, like the ability to create illusions, manifest in dreams, or rub two tails together and create fire. Though legend implies that kitsune are notorious tricksters, Yamaguchi’s creation was much more domesticated. His fox featured a jovial smile and a can-do attitude, and his tails could spin fast enough to let him fly through the air. Nilsen loved the new character. He looked cool, but not in a steal-the-spotlight kind of way. He skewed younger, but not to the depths of Disney. And his lackadaisical flying ability and Boy Scout persona were strong complements to Sonic’s speed and bad-boy attitude. He was perfect, except for the name he had been given.

“Miles Prower?” Nilsen said again.

“It’s a play on ‘miles per hour,’ ” Schroeder said. “Get it?”

“He sounds like a Bond villain.”

“I was thinking porn star.”

Nilsen shook his head. He liked puns as much as the next guy (probably more, even), but this just went too far. What if Batman’s understudy were called Marshal Arts? Or if Mario’s brother had been named Pie Zano? It made a caricature out of an indelible character in a fully realized universe. Plus there was another reason. “The only Miles I know,” Nilsen said, “is this kid from grade school. And I really didn’t like him.”

“You have my empathy,” Schroeder said. “But as I mentioned before, the developers are really committed to this.”

Nilsen sighed. The last time the developers had become committed to a name, Sonic’s archenemy suffered from a case of multiple personality disorder. In the character bible for Sonic The Hedgehog, Sega of America named his main adversary Doctor Ivo Robotnik. Sega of Japan, however, had taken to calling the evil scientist Doctor Eggman. Both sides were unwilling to compromise, so Sonic’s foe ended up with one name in the East and another in the West, creating an international nomenclature incident that took years to be resolved. Nilsen refused to let this happen again. Miles Prower had to go. “Then I guess it’s up to us to show them that they’re wrong.”

His first stop was Kalinske, who agreed that they could and should do better (though there was admittedly some sweet relief in the fact that this time around the biggest development controversy was a matter of names and not personality, aesthetics, fangs, or rock bands). Still, this wasn’t an ego contest between SOA and SOJ; rather, it was about doing what was best for Sega and the fictional Sonic universe. Sega of America decided upon the name Tails, and Schroeder took this to the developers, who were unwilling to budge. Toyoda then tried to mend fences, perhaps even find a compromise, but there was no progress to be made. With common sense and politics failing them, Nilsen and Schroeder resorted to Kalinske’s favorite asset of all: story. After they finished crafting a compelling backstory, Nilsen drove out to Palo Alto so he could share the tale.

Toyoda joined him at the Sega Technical Institute, where it was clear that the Sonic Team was less than thrilled to see them. In their minds, this was another case of the Americans imposing their will purely for its own sake. Nilsen knew they felt that way, and he was aware that there was little he could do to prove to them that this wasn’t the case. All he had was his short story, which he hoped would be enough. He cleared his throat, ignored the glares, and began reading from “The Renaming of Miles Monotail.”

This is the story of Miles Monotail. Miles was your average four-year-old fox. He loved to play with his friends, but his friends weren’t really his friends. Whenever they saw Miles they laughed and made fun of him.

Why? Well, Miles wasn’t like all of the other foxes. Miles Monotail had two tails. And as kids tend to do when someone is different, they make fun of him. It didn’t help that Miles sometimes tripped over his second tail and went rolling down the hill. Coordination was not one of Miles’s virtues.

Because of the rough time that his friends gave him, Miles became very depressed.

One day he was walking along with his head hanging down when a blur and a whoosh crossed his path. There’s only one person who could be moving that fast, and that is Sonic The Hedgehog.

Miles thought Sonic was the greatest person in the world. Miles wished that he could be as cool and coordinated as Sonic was. And most of all, he wanted to meet Sonic.

This was his big chance. Miles took a deep, deep breath and at the top of his lungs yelled out, “Sonic!”

The blur that was Sonic turned around and stopped in front of Miles. “You called?” said Sonic.

“Oh, Sonic, you’re my hero,” exclaimed Miles as he ran around and around Sonic. Well, you can guess what happened next—Miles tripped over his second tail and fell down. Tears came to his eyes.

“Hey, cheer up, little fellow. What’s the matter?” said Sonic.

“Sonic, I want to be just like you, but I’m a freak. I’ve got two tails.”

Sonic leaned over to Miles and said kindly, “You’re no freak. You’re more special than anyone because you have something that everyone else doesn’t have. And you can do things that they can’t. If anything, your friends should be jealous of you.”

“But I can’t do anything special,” cried Miles.

“Oh yes you can,” Sonic said. “I’ll show you. You’re about to enter Sonic’s special training camp.”

Well, Miles couldn’t be happier. His hero took him under his wing and started teaching Miles how to use his two tails to their best advantage. He showed Miles how to curl his tails up under his body so that he was like a very aerodynamic ball and could do Sonic’s famous Supersonic Spin.

Sonic then taught Miles how to use his two tails as a helicopter rotor so that Miles could fly around. Even Sonic couldn’t do that.

Needless to say, Miles was ecstatic. He was special, and when his friends saw what Miles could do that they couldn’t do, they became very jealous, but also every single one of them wanted to be Miles’s best friend.

But Miles had a new best friend. Someone who believed in him. Someone who was his hero. And that friend was Sonic.

Sonic was happy that he could help his buddy gain new confidence and new abilities. “See, Miles, you are special because you have two tails. And because of that, I’m going to give you a very special nickname. From now on I’m going to call you Tails because you should always be reminded that you are special because you have two tails.”

So from that day forward Miles Monotail became known as Tails.

When Nilsen finished, he folded the paper and slid it into his pocket. The members of Sonic Team, who’d been planning on hating every word out of Nilsen’s mouth, found themselves entranced by the story. One developer was even moved to tears.

After allowing a moment to let it sink in, Naka walked up to Nilsen and said, “You may call him Tails.” Yet despite Naka’s proclamation, the issue was still not resolved. Although moved, several of Sonic Team’s other members remained unconvinced. Sensing that the momentary camaraderie was about to fizzle away, Toyoda blurted out a compromise: “How about his real name is Miles Prower, but Sonic calls him by the nickname Tails?” This suggestion managed to do the trick: the fox would go by Tails, but Sonic Team would take solace in the fact that in a fictional filing cabinet somewhere, there was a birth certificate with the name Miles Prower (although they would eventually decide to make this less fictional and graffiti the name “Miles” throughout the game).

But in this moment, on this day, they were all part of the same story. And they would be writing the happy ending together. For now, at least.