I was in Tokyo for a week, two years ago. From my hotel base in Shinjuku, between sightseeing, I visited as many arcades as I could.

Shinjuku is a mecca of electronics and videogames. There are countless arcades. At one end of the scale, there are the familiar, franchise set-ups run by likes of Sega, where you’re welcomed by an air hostess-like Japanese girl, who bows when you walk in to a huge hall of pachinko machines and the latest machines. At the other end, are the smaller independent arcades. These are largely unmanned, like launderettes. You walk in and there’s a change machine and a bunch of standard sit-down Jap cabs, all with the latest release games installed.

Shinjuku. Under neon loneliness, and all that.

Most game shops have a PCB section, where classic JAMMA boards can be bought and traded. I played many shoot-em-ups with shop owners eager to show off their stuff. Raiden, Darius, Metal Slug – all on offer, all at stupid prices. I only wish I’d brought more stuff home. Maybe next time.

Interestingly, I didn’t see much of this stuff in situ in the arcades. I guess the Japanese obsession with all things ‘new’, but with a healthy nod to the older stuff, meant that these things were quietly shovelled out into the retro markets and shops for prosperity. Unlike in the UK, where old machines were chopped up or simply dumped. In Japan, there’s less retro-irony, and the classics are clearly regarded as being important to the heritage of the videogame scene. Trading was brisk from what I could see.

“I’m English! I’m gonna go round there when this game has finished and lamp the fucker.
Unless he looks like Bruce Lee, like”.

They all have one thing in common. Co-operative or vs. play. Not in the Western sense of multiplay – you and some of your pissed-up mates all razzing around the oval track in Daytona. In the UK, playing a two-player game with a stranger would be viewed with suspicion – like sitting next to the only other person on an empty bus. In Japan, these boundaries are not there at all. In fact, solo players were the weird ones.

Beat-‘em-ups are the obvious phenomenon. The Japanese obviously understand that the real beauty of these games is in playing against an unpredictable human opponent, not a limited computer. Extend this to full on mech-type games, with 8 players linked up and battling it out in a huge arena – itself being watched by another 10 people waiting to play on a huge 50-inch plasma screen above the players, and you begin to see why Japan is a million miles away from ‘Funpark’ in Blackpool.

VF4 . Minimalist shoeing loveliness.

A big thing over there is ‘Card Play’: an extension of the Pokemon concept, it allows players to buy cards with magnetic strips on them from shops and kiosks, go to their arcade and find the appropriate machine, swipe their cards in the magnetic strip and play.

There was a football game in the Sega arcade. From what I could work out, you swiped your cards in and built your team. I assume you can trade cards with other players, and try to build the best team you possibly can – and then go out into the arcades and thrash everyone else. A glorious reinvention of Fantasy Football. Each card represents a different player from the J League, and you can load up your favoured team, then take control. The unique thing? All this is played on a huge screen with up to 8 players – either one on one, or up to 4 players on each team. When I was there watching, there were always 4 players on each side, and they didn’t appear to know each other. People came and went, and someone was always there to take their place. Sociable gaming at its most natural.

Another day, I was on the fifth floor of an unmanned arcade in Ginza. Virtua Fighter 4 had just been released, and I had found it in this room. Not one machine, but 10 of the fuckers: 2 rows of 5 facing each other. No one else there, so I lit a fag, grabbed my change and took a seat. 10 minutes later and I was feeling pretty good. Some of my specials were working, and I was getting a few combos in. I was mastering the game. Slowly. And then…

“I see…”

“CHALLENGER COMES!!!!!” screams at me on-screen in big red letters. I shat myself. What the fuck? Who is the challenger? How did they get in the room without me noticing. Expecting a gang of Jap Hell’s Angels to appear slowly from the shadows with flick-knives, I looked along the row of 5 machines next to me – no one there. Too late to worry, I was on, and round 1 had started.

I lasted all of 45 seconds. My arse was truly kicked good and proper. I dared not look up. The mysterious challenger was clearly on the other side of the bank of machines. In silence. I shovelled in more coins and tried again. The distinct ‘challenger’ noise sounded on the other side as I pressed the Start button and we were off again…

Several hundred Yen and sore fingers later, I stood, as did he, and we shook hands silently over the two machines with a smile. I’d been battered, but it was fantastic. On all sorts of levels. I saw more moves and combos, the likes of which I will NEVER see again, in that half-hour than I care to mention. Here was a guy from a different culture, from the other side of the world. He could speak no English, I could speak even less Japanese, and yet, we had interacted in a way we both understood. Videogames ARE a universal language. Show me any other media that can do that in it's pure, raw state, like that bank of VF4's. I walked out, stunned.

“A fine deal all-round. And now we will play Street Fighter 2 and I will dishonour you in front of
your employees”.

What’s sad is that it just wouldn’t work over here. I can’t imagine the average Joe Brit willingly sharing his space and gaming experience with a stranger. Maybe with our mates. You know, just for a bit of a laugh, before we go out and get shit-faced in some converted old bank. But with someone we don’t know? We just couldn’t do it. We want to sit in our cars and pick our noses, or stand on the tube and look and talk to no-one. We want to walk into Game and pick up the latest, biggest thing. And play it on our own. Shame.

AEROFLOTT, November 2004.

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