In Search Of The Original Spirit Of Arcade Videogaming…

Or: Fear And Loathing In Weston-Super-Mare

According to the signpost, we were 13 miles outside Weston-super-Mare on the A370, and the Columbian Elephant coffee had not even began to straighten out our minds from the previous night. It was far, far too late for that.

The night before, in a moment of gallant curiosity and passion for the subject, me and my mate Stu had decided that we must embark on a quest for the original spirit of arcade videogaming.

We seemed to know in our hearts that the only possible starting point for such an epic odyssey was Weston-Super-Mare; the Las Vegas of Britain. Would we find the original spirit of arcade videogaming? What is it? What we did know was there were many weak-hearted fools who would proclaim the spirit dead.

Weston-Super-Vegas; what secrets lie within?

However, being a man of unfailing optimism and faith, I disregarded most of what I had heard. I knew that somewhere The Spirit lived on. I knew a force as powerful as The Spirit couldn’t just die and disappear without leaving so much as some ectoplasmic residue on the atmosphere of the amusement halls. It was clear to me that The Spirit must still live. It may be weak, slumped coughing and wheezing against the side of a Beastbusters cab in a corner of some dingy arcade, but somewhere inside me I knew that if I looked hard enough I’d find some answers.

Enjoying a few preparatory drinks in a bar, I gazed out of the window across the street to the first amusement centre we were to investigate. I watched, fascinated, as burly tattooed women entered and left, dads with children bolted onto them at various bodily hinges, ignoring the flashing lights and clamour. My eye was caught by a mechanical arm in a glass booth welcoming a host of hapless competitors, dashing their hopes as it expertly released the plush Pokemon figures the second before delivering them as a prize. I knew we must be close.

“I’d like four pound coins, two pairs of fifties, and the rest in ten pees, please!”, I announced to the change booth attendant. The mole-like woman of indiscernible age swiftly and precisely converted my tenner into the required denominations. Her podgy fingers offered me the thin cardboard cupful of coins, but as our eyes met during the exchange, something about the tired glance she gave made me feel she was keeping something from me; as if she knew my quest but was bound to secrecy. I knew she wanted to help, so I asked her, “What’s it like working here?”

I had my change, but what was she hiding from me?

“It’s okay. Busy”, she said gruffly. It was clear that she knew a lot more than she was letting on. Suddenly, an image of her appeared in my head: she was trampling an old Snow Bros. cabinet into a wheelie bin, laughing maniacally as she deprived a generation of co-operative platform fun. Were these thoughts fantasy or reality? Perhaps she alone was responsible for the death of The Spirit. It was certainly looking grim in here. People playing alone, in silence. Not so much as a wry grin on any of them.

A few more amusements were graced with our presence up and down the gaming strip of Weston-Super-Vegas, but it was much the same story. In each we found there was always at least one battle-weary video game clinging onto its tiny niche in the entertainment ecosystem, probably just taking enough cash to pay for its upkeep among the gamblers.

Soon, we found ourselves wandering towards the Grand Pier. Walking past the doughnut shops, I was suddenly marshalled by the sweet mating call of a Crazy Taxi arcade machine.

Stu and I entered into a side-room of the promenade in which dwelt several machines:Silent Scope, Sega Sports Jam, Virtua Tennis, Jambo Safari… all alive and well, but currently unplayed. We put a quid in Virtua Tennis and began a match. In-game, I realised we had entered into a unique paradox: we both wanted to win, while simultaneously wanting each other to do as well as he could, as we were paying for the privilege to play.

The physical drain of Virtua Tennis troubled Stu.

The presence of The Spirit was beginning to look very real, but we had not yet discovered it in its purest form, and if we did, would it be recognisable? Even we didn’t know exactly what we were looking for, but such formalities have little bearing on men of true grit and determination.

The first thing that we were attracted to as we entered the main pier was a curiously pleasing ten-penny falls machine going by the name of Pac-Man Ball. It seemed clear from the people playing the machine that this was fun: your ten penny drops, triggers a switch that displays some Pac-Man bubbles on a 7 inch widescreen display in the centre of the action, and you lose your ten pence. This was interesting, but not, we felt, worthy of our time. More pressing matters were at hand…

The House Of The Dead, its sequel and the third instalment were all lined up next to each other. We chose the third instalment, tooled up with the shotguns, and began to wreak havoc. Laughing and covering each other's back, a small crowd gathered and enjoyed our loud banter and unnecessary ducking, and the two previously unmanned machines next to us earned themselves eager new contestants.

Emerging from the slaughter, I caught sight of a Prop Cycle machine in a corner and gladly took up the challenge. I was beginning to feel different, as if possessed by a benign yet powerful urge to play. I noticed that I was seeing the arcade cabinets as different disciplines to be mastered, and my reservations on playing new machines were fast being overtaken by the desire to actually beat Stu at something.

Swith pedalling with the brogues of justice.

A gaming binge had begun, and we were on the cusp of the tsunami. Every challenge this pier could offer, we were going to take it on head-first, and damn the cost. We had the fever. We could gain small audiences, wage deep but fleeting campaigns against each other, and be returned intact at the end of every experience wondering what the next game had in store.

We remembered that there are two things that will kill you in videogames: greed and fury. As I made careless forays into lines of fire to get a bonus object, my greed would be my undoing – and the ensuing fury would damage my efficiency and kill me again. I returned, of course, over and over. That was the mysterious way of The Original Spirit.

Hours later our pennies were exhausted, our trigger-finger tendons creaking in their fleshy housing and our minds utterly fried by the barrage of data we had just processed. We sat down to take stock.

We know that people don’t come to the arcades for a taste of the future like they did in days gone by. Arcades have had to adapt to provide things that one cannot get on their home console system, like big screens, novel control methods and rewarding public punishment. In the case of Pac-Man Ball, there could well be the start of a trend in the hybridisation of videogame and gambler.

We had found the original spirit of arcade videogaming, but it wasn’t hiding in the back of a long forgotten arcade in the form of a precious cabinet, The Spirit itself was part of us. It's our desire to be challenged, to co-operate, to seek thrill, to enjoy escapism and, most of all, to play.

If you want to play the old classics, you have MAME. Arcades have evolved, and in most cases changed almost beyond recognition. Don't be disheartened, though. I found that there is still an inconceivable amount of fun to be had with the right attitude and the right company in the right arcade.

The gamblers have only taken over because the gambling machines are mostly where the money goes. Perhaps it is a reflection of our times that people would rather play for financial gain than personal reward. But if we put our cynicism aside and just try going to arcades more often, I think a revolution could happen. We can’t expect an arcade to buy more coin-ops if no-one plays the ones they have.

And as for the Original Spirit? I found it, it’s infectious, it’s as strong as it ever was, and I’m so fucking proud.

SWITH, September 2004.

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