Console Wars (2015)

PART FOUR

CIVIL WAR

46. BLOOD, SWEAT, AND TIERS

“Come on,” Kalinske said with disbelief, leaning over his desk with the phone to his ear. “You must be exaggerating.”

“If anything, I’m doing the opposite,” Fischer claimed. “What’s the opposite of exaggerate? Deexaggerate? Unexaggerate?”

“I don’t think those are real words,” Kalinske said.

“Fine,” Fischer replied. “Then you’ll just have to trust me. By the time he finished smashing the thing, there were pieces of it all over the room.”

“I know it’s the truth, but I just can’t believe it,” Kalinske said. For a brief moment he imagined what the reaction would be if he did something similar at SOA. Nilsen would probably start cracking up, and then everyone would scramble for the pieces as if it were a scavenger hunt. “I think the thing we need to do is get you a camcorder and somehow find a way for you to start secretly recording these things.”

Fischer had a good laugh over that. “It’s a good idea, but I worry it’s not an original one. I’m pretty sure SOJ is already doing that to you guys.”

“You better be kidding.”

“I am, don’t worry. But would you honestly be surprised?”

“At this point,” Kalinske said, “I’m not sure there’s anything that Sega of Japan could do that would truly take me by surprise. And yet I remain hopeful.”

“Such is the nature of an optimist,” Fischer suggested.

“Optimist on the outside,” Kalinske revised, “pragmatist on the inside.”

“And not a trace of pessimism to be found?”

“I wish that were the case,” Kalinske said with a chuckle. “But you just told me that the head of SOJ, the man who signs my paychecks, had another temper tantrum. And this outburst was directed at the very same people who I’m hoping would follow our advice and work with Sony. So it’s probably time to start looking for a backup plan. Speaking of which, there’s someone I need to see about that.”

Although Kalinske was the undisputed king of the Rolodex, when it came to contacts in the technology and advertising industries, then Doug Glen had to be crowned some kind of prince at least. His contacts had been an asset to Sega in a variety of areas over the years (Sega CD and Goodby, Berlin & Silverstein were good examples), and most recently with Sega Channel, as Glen had been instrumental in striking deals with TCI and Time Warner Cable to implement this revolutionary on-demand videogame service. These deals and the company’s groundbreaking plans for the Sega Channel would be announced to the industry at this summer’s Consumer Electronics Show, and then begin national testing in June. Ideally, if all went according to plan, it would be available to millions of subscribers nationwide in time for the 1993 holiday season.

“Did you want to discuss the Sega Channel?” Glen asked, entering Kalinske’s office. “Or is this about the ratings? Either is fine, but knowing in advance helps me switch gears.”

By ratings, Glen was referring to the videogame ratings system that Sega was currently trying to create. Following the courtesy call that Kalinske received from CARU’s Arthur Pober, Sega had quickly become very interested in establishing a council that rated videogames in much the same way that the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) rated movies. In fact, one of the first things Sega did was approach MPAA president Jack Valenti, but he and other movie industry folks looked down on videogames and didn’t want them to sully the organization’s reputation. With the MPAA no longer an option, Sega set out to create a new entity. It was a noble idea, and one that would certainly cover Sega’s ass (and cleanse Kalinske’s conscience), but it presented a host of challenges, like figuring out who should rate the games, what criteria should be used, and, most important, how to spearhead this endeavor without giving the impression that the ratings council just did whatever Sega said.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something else entirely,” Kalinske said. “I was wondering: do you know anyone in the hardware business?”

“Many people,” Glen answered. “We can venture to Silicon Valley if you’d like.”

“What about when it comes to hardware for videogames?”

Glen scratched his nose in thought, his big Brass Rat MIT ring shining in the sun. “Are you asking if there’s anybody at Sega of Japan that I deem trustworthy?”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Kalinske said. “Although I now realize I probably should have asked you that a few months ago.”

“Then what is it you are curious about? Contacts at Nintendo?”

“Contacts who can help us build a next-generation console to defeat Nintendo.”

Glen nodded as he quickly tried to figure out what scenario might have prompted this inquiry. “Well, it was my understanding that Sega of Japan was nearing completion of a 32-bit prototype. Is that not accurate?”

“No, no,” Kalinske said. “That’s accurate. But my worry is what happens if that prototype isn’t everything that we want it to be.”

“Gotcha,” Glen replied. “Nobody comes to mind, but I’ll put my ear to the ground. Is there any company or region where I should direct my efforts? And, for that matter, any that I should avoid?”

“You don’t need to waste your time looking at Sony,” Kalinske stated. “But otherwise the entire board is open. However, I would suggest that, in the spirit of team building, it would be helpful to find someone that SOJ might like working with.”

“Message received,” Glen replied, already sifting through his mental Rolodex. “Given the current trajectory of our conversation, a question comes to mind.”

“What’s that?”

“Regardless of whether or not my efforts prove fruitful, have you considered what would happen in the so-called next generation if Sega were to develop hardware inferior to Nintendo’s?”

“I’ll tell you, Doug, I’ve given that question a lot of thought.”

“And is there a scenario in which that turn of events doesn’t reverse everything that we’ve done to Nintendo over the past two years?”

“Only one,” Kalinske replied. “We crush Nintendo’s spirit so much during this 16-bit generation that by the time we fight that next war, they’ve fallen too far behind to ever catch up.”

Glen blinked several times while considering this. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

“No, it does not,” Kalinske echoed. “But a man can dream, can’t he?”

In March 1993, Kalinske tried once again to turn that perpetual dream into reality, this time by inviting Seattle Mariners slugger Ken Griffey Jr. to come visit Sega and discuss making a game together. Griffey accepted the invitation and, just prior to the start of the baseball season, visited Redwood Shores with his wife, Melissa, and agent, Brian Goldberg.

After greeting his guests, but before giving them the deluxe tour, Kalinske delivered the disclaimer that everyone in the room appreciated, even though they knew it to be almost entirely false. “I just wanted to start off by saying that Sega’s interest in developing a Ken Griffey Jr. baseball game has absolutely nothing to do with Nintendo’s ownership of the Mariners.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Griffey said, acquiescing in the lie. His wife nodded.

“That never even crossed our minds,” Goldberg added, making it unanimous.

The truth was that in this case the truth didn’t matter. At least not when it came to intentions. Griffey and his agent were using Kalinske for leverage with Nintendo just as much as Kalinske was using them to try to embarrass his competitor. Best-case scenario: Sega and Griffey make a game together. Worst case: they don’t, but Nintendo is forced to spend more money to sign Griffey.

“Speaking of which,” Kalinske began, “how has everything been working out with that new ownership group? A smooth transition, I hope?”

Griffey and his wife spoke positively about the change and Nintendo’s involvement with the team. Everything had been good so far, no complaints, and it was great that the team had been able to avoid being uprooted.

“And from a negotiation standpoint,” Goldberg added, “I can confirm that they’ve been nothing short of a class act.”

Goldberg was referring to the new four-year, $25 million contract that Griffey had signed during this past off-season, making him one of the highest-paid players in Major League Baseball (not too far behind the six-year, $43.75 million deal that Barry Bonds had just signed with the San Francisco Giants). As thought bubbles full of dollar signs filled the room, Kalinske couldn’t help but wonder how much it would tick off Main, Lincoln, and Arakawa if this guy they were paying $25 million signed with Sega and not Nintendo.

After the false formalities were out of the way, they spent the next few hours playing all sorts of videogames (Griffey was particularly impressed by the Sega CD), while Kalinske bragged about his company and how his marketing team could be an asset to Griffey. “Just look at what we’ve done with Joe Montana,” he explained. “Even though he’s nearing the final stages of his career, the guy has never been hotter.”

Although this may have sounded like nothing more than a throwaway sentence, just another chance to brag about what Sega could do, it also conveyed the other big reason that Kalinske wanted to sign Griffey. Since 1990, Joe Montana had been the primary face of Sega’s sports games. Montana was perfect for the job—the man was a winner (with four Super Bowl rings) and also a class act (he never complained about doing commercials, promotions, or signings)—but there was no getting around the fact that his days of playing football would soon be coming to an end. At the end of the 1990 season, a year in which he had won MVP, Montana injured his elbow in the NFC Championship game and missed the next two seasons. While he was sidelined, his backup, a young lefty named Steve Young, miraculously transformed into one of the best quarterbacks in the league (and even won the 1992 MVP award), which all but ensured that either Montana’s career was over or he’d soon be traded to play out his final years with some desperate franchise. Either scenario wasn’t particularly appealing to Sega, which made Kalinske and his colleagues eager to find a new face for its sports games. In addition to this, there was one other big reason why the company was making a push to find a new, younger face for its sports games: a new subbrand called Sega Sports.

As part of the shakeup that moved Nilsen to global marketing and gave Diane Fornasier the Genesis, she was also put in charge of brand and product management. At the time, Sega was expanding so quickly that she and other executives wanted to take advantage of this by building a variety of powerful subbrands. This would eventually lead to categories specifically for women, and another one dedicated to children, but the first place they decided to strike was the digital playing field. It was a logical place to begin, both because Sega had a strong roster of sports titles and because of the runaway success of the Electronic Arts subbrand EA Sports (whose John Madden Football and NHLPA Hockey ’93 were among the top-selling Genesis games). After the decision was made to move forward with this, a study was commissioned to decide what to name the subbrand. Consultants came in, pitched ideas, spoke with ordinary people, and ultimately decided that the new Sega sports line should be called Sega Sports. So with Sega Sports poised to launch in late 1993 and Joe Montana not getting any younger, what would be more perfect than bringing on Ken Griffey Jr. right now?

With all this in play, Sega of America’s CEO tried his hardest to woo the coveted superstar during his visit to Redwood Shores. After they finished with the tour, Griffey, his wife, and his agent spent a few hours back in Kalinske’s office discussing baseball, videogames, and everything in between. It was a fun day for everyone, which left Kalinske even more hopeful that Griffey might spurn Nintendo and come over to the dark side.

Days later, news of the meeting leaked, and the Seattle Times ran a story by Bob Sherwin with the headline “Genesis of a Conflict: Griffey Talks Video to Sega, Not Nintendo.” The article (abridged below) details how both parties instantly benefited, and further illustrates the philosophical differences between Sega and Nintendo:

SUNDAY, MARCH 21, 1993

PEORIA, Ariz. - Seattle outfielder Ken Griffey Jr. has become involved in some video-game intrigue that may not have Nintendo officials reaching for the joystick.

“In all fairness to Nintendo and the Mariners, we have let them know about it,” Griffey agent Brian Goldberg said. “We’ve given Nintendo a chance to respond, in what other way they want to respond.”

But privately, the word around Nintendo is that if Griffey signs with Sega it would be considered a disloyal act.

“They (Nintendo) had the first chance,” Griffey said. “It wasn’t like I came to them and said, ‘Let’s make a game.’ They called me and asked me. But they did nothing. If you want to call that disloyal, you can.”

As Kalinske read the article, there wasn’t a thing in the world that could have wiped the smile off his face.

Weeks later, Kalinske’s face was filled with another tough-to-remove smile. This one, however, had nothing to do with Griffey, but rather a man named Garske—Chris Garske, Sega of America’s VP of licensing and acquisitions.

“I take it you like the idea?” Garske asked.

“Yes,” Kalinske said, still smiling. “But I have to admit that I like the news almost as much as the idea.” The news was that Nintendo would be censoring their version of Mortal Kombat by changing certain elements, like the color of the game’s graphic red blood to a bland gray. Although Howard Lincoln had made this decision a few months ago, this was the first that Kalinske had heard of it. This could be huge! If Nintendo was going to release a dulled-down version of the game, then Sega needed to find a way to capitalize on that. But figuring out how exactly to do that was now a much trickier question after what Sega had been working on over these past few months.

After the MPAA had turned down the opportunity to rate videogames, Sega forged forward on their own. They created the Videogame Ratings Council (VRC) as a new governing body to rate and review all game content. Initially, it would only be games published by Sega, but the goal was for the VRC to rate games by all companies and for all systems. Impartiality was important, as was quickly establishing a reputation for integrity, which is why Kalinske made it a point to bring on Arthur Pober as the first head of the VRC. Building this organization out of thin air was a large part of the challenge, but so was actually creating the ratings themselves. How many tiers should this new system have, and where should the age cutoffs be? What was the difference between violence, cartoon violence, and graphic violence? And should more realistic games (like those for the Sega CD) be held to a higher standard than those for 16-bit systems?

After working with Pober, speaking with psychologists, and conducting weeks of internal discussions, Sega came up with a three-tiered system:

GA (General Audiences): Appropriate for all family members. No blood or graphic violence. No profanity, no sexual themes, and no use of drugs or alcohol.

MA-13 (Mature Audiences): Parental discretion advised. Game situations and characters are appropriate for teenage judgment. These games may contain some levels of blood and graphic violence.

MA-17 (Adults Only): Not appropriate for minors. Games include complex situations that call for mature judgment. Could have lots of blood, graphic violence, mature sexual themes, profanity, or drug or alcohol usage.

With the VRC created and these criteria now in place, Sega was ready to move full steam ahead with its rating system. But then there was the issue of Mortal Kombat. What kind of message would it send if one of the most anticipated games in years earned the harshest rating? And what would that mean for game sales? If only there was a way to make Sega’s version more violent than Nintendo’s, avoid the MA-17 rating, and maintain the integrity of the VRC, all at the same time. And that’s where Garske’s idea saved the day.

“Some sort of blood code,” Garske explained to Kalinske. “So when you buy the game, it comes without any of that over-the-top gore and violence. But then all you have to do in order to get the game to look just like it does in the arcades is enter a code. A combination of buttons and then boom—blood everywhere.”

“And it would be called the blood code?” Kalinske asked.

“Yeah,” Garske replied. “Or we can change it to something else.”

“No,” Kalinske said. “I like it.”

The blood code—a way for Sega to have its cake, eat it too, and also have some left over to throw in Nintendo’s face.

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