I played my first game of Pong on a beaten-up coin-op unit in a somewhat seedy Mexican restaurant in West Hollywood, California. I was around eight years old, and thought it was about the coolest thing I ever saw. I kept begging my parents for another quarter so I could keep playing, my burrito-and-enchilada combo plate growing cold as I tried to master moving the blip.
They usually said no, because they noticed something that took me a few more years for me to come to terms with: I wasn't very good. It was soon apparent even to me that I lacked the fundamental hand-eye coordination needed to succeed in the world of videogames. But the fact that the loose quarters in my pocket disappeared into the slots at an alarming rate didn't deter me. When I was old enough to walk the mile or so by myself to Westwood Village (as a side note, that was when I was around nine or ten - would parents let kids that young do that today?) I'd make a beeline to the Westworld Video Arcade, around the corner from the great Fox Village movie theater. The colors, the sounds, the action was a powerful magnet to a young boy. But while my friends would post good scores and stretch their videogame allowance, my experiences usually amounted to about one minutes' worth of blind, frustrating fury.
It was around that time I began begging my father for an Atari 2600. My dad was particularly proud of the fact that he wasn't an early adopter - my sister and I used to joke (well, at the time we weren't laughing) that we were the last family in the neighborhood to get cable, a VCR and a microwave - so he wasn't about to shell out for a videogame console. Instead, I discovered another type of videogame at the computer lab at Emerson Junior High School. A boy named Ken Kawahara (patiently) showed me how to program and play a Star Trek-style game and a horse racing game. We'd go in after school and play for a few minutes before I walked home. But, as with the coin-op games, my interest in these games far outpaced my ability to master them.
At last, when I was 14 or so, my parents broke down and got me that 2600. But by then, I was more mature and the reality of these games never seemed to quite live up to the hype. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that the last generation of 2600 games were horrendous - bad graphics, terrible gameplay, and not a whole lot of fun. I played my 2600 avidly for several months, but my interest waned and it soon lay dormant on top of the turntable in our stereo cabinet.
Then, when I was 15, I was in an automotive accident that claimed my left arm, above the elbow. I needed to focus my energies and interests on other things - videogames weren't much of a priority. But one day, not long after the accident and bored out of my mind (we were still in the "no cable" phase of my father's stubbornness) I pulled out my old 2600.
This is where you, the reader, might expect me to talk about how videogames helped my physical recovery, leading to a lifelong love of videogames that continues to this day. Cue the violins. But the hard truth is, I was physically unable to play. Even the joystick for the 2600, with its one oversized red button, required a two-handed dexterity that was impossible to replicate with one hand (try pushing a joystick down while reaching up with a finger to press the button, and you'll see what I mean.)
Videogames quickly faded from any meaningful role in my life. A couple of years later the first NES was released, with its decidedly two-handed controller (directionals on the left, buttons on the right.) Sure, I'd watch my friends play, and even take a frustrating crack at it myself now and then, but with only a passing interest.
I only started thinking about games again when two close friends of mine joined Activision in the mid-1990s. Purchasing a console was still a non-starter for me, but I began to follow the ups and downs of the industry, believing in its potential and fascinated by the technology. And when I joined IBM, I got the opportunity to think about gaming from some very different perspectives - its influence on business and society, what it means to the future of technology, and more.
But that, of course, is very different from the simple pleasure and purpose of gaming - entertainment. And as the games have grown more complex, so have the controllers - more buttons, more joysticks, more inputs to master. Sure, there've been periodic - and much appreciated - attempts by some to build one-handed controllers, but they've looked clunky and hard to use (imagine trying to play Madden on one of those.) So, from a communications standpoint, I've been in the position of talking about consoles I've never played.
When I heard about the Wii (then code-named "Revolution"), I was intrigued. A legitimate game console I could actually play? I didn't believe it could really work as well as they claimed. But when I got my hand on it for the first time, it was a revelation. It was as if Nintendo built a console just for me.
And that's my story. Closing in on my 40th birthday, I'm playing videogames again - for the first time in more than 25 years. Sure, it's not perfect. Games also requiring the Nunchuk controller are basically non-starters for me (so much for Zelda!) And I worry that the gamemakers, so accustomed to producing titles requiring multi-button, multi-stick inputs will increasingly depend on the Nunchuk as an excuse for not taking full advantage of the immersive controller. Nonetheless, I'm playing with my kids, and I'm having fun. I'll never be a particularly good gamer - unfortunately my hand-eye coordination hasn't improved much since that very first game of Pong - but it doesn't really matter. I no longer have to wonder whether I'll be able to game tomorrow - because now, I can play today.