Odyssey, Colecovision and Atari (and That’s About It)

Pushing the tiny circular knob harder and harder to the right, left, up or down was an irresistible impulse.  A pure instinct.  An unstoppable obsession.  Was it unreasonable then to expect the screen to actually respond to the force of approximately 2 elephants emanating from our pint-sized fingerstips?  That the corkscrew wire, bridging from the console to the TV, would somehow convey my urgency?  That indeed the character, gun or bullet would move farther and faster as a result of my pressure? 

Apparently not. 

Thus began the intense disconnect between my mind and the technological reality of these new things called “video games”.

Not only that, but aspects of play simply defied childhood logic.  For example, imagine the shape of a thumbtack, with a flat top and an angular edge.  Next, blow it up to 5 times its size and place it atop a big rectangular box with a keypad including numbers 0-9.  (Note: What these numbers where for, who knows.  They were never used.)  Then, make this whole disjointed menagerie the means for tiny kids’ fingers to actually play the game.

Such was the Colecovision “joystick”. 

A “joystick” bringing joy is a misnomer to the highest degree.  Soon the angular edge of the large thumbtack knob made a painful red indent in the side of your thumb.  Next, your palm (having maintained a vice grip on the harsh plastic rectangle) started to burn, then throb, then cramp.   

Why was this the case?:  Extended periods of time in high states of nervousness, and lack of synchronization between your rapid-firing synapses and game responsiveness.

Getting Hooked on Video Games

How then do we become hooked on video games for a lifetime, such that the current culture finds gaming and related virtual escapism perhaps more compelling than reality today?

Well, I didn’t.  To me, game play was extremely frustrating and anxiety-inducing.  Take a game like “Venture”, for example.  To have the monster ghost come at you through the walls, accompanied by its utterly petrifying sound, while you are bound by those same walls and stuck purely because of a lack of joystick responsiveness… it was a horror relived in my nightmares.

Or a game like Carnival, where you tense up as soon as you hear the quacks of ducks coming down to eat all of your bullets, thanks again to the ridiculous controller… it turns an otherwise pleasant game into a duck-infested anger-generator.

“Play” like this felt more like “obsessive insanity” to me.  Where winning was the result of super-human hand strength, mental perseverance, luck, or some combination thereof.

So, though my life continued through the Nintendo and Sega eras and beyond, my video gaming days generally ended in the Atari era.  To this day, Centipede and Pac-Man are the only two games where I can put other players to shame.

But it was not without some formative memories.

Video Game Memories

Consider my very first experience with video games, on the fully digital version of Odyssey.  A close family friend and his wife had purchased this state-of-the-art game console, and set it up in his small apartment in the Chicagoland area.  One wintry evening, I was allowed to play the game.

I remember little about the game itself, other than the graphics were the coolest thing ever seen. (Colored dots on a screen went a long way back then.)  What I remember most is being absorbed heavily until I heard some sort of sound behind me.  Perhaps it was a laugh?  Whatever it was, it pierced my attention enough to whip my head around to see my parents seated on the living room couch with their friends. 

With my probing gaze, suddenly the mood changed.  An embarrassed look crossed over my parent’s faces.  A moment later, perhaps something in their hands was hastily hidden between the overstuffed brown couch cushions.  My parent’s friends just grinned like Cheshire cats.

What were these responsible adults doing, I wondered?  I was about to pop up off the shag carpet and find out, when I was told dismissively to “go back to playing your game now”.  Clearly, this was for adults only, and the secrets were not for me to know.

Resigned, I went back to the game but not without a distinct sense of exclusion.  Soon, I was further blanketed by the isolating action of playing the game – an isolation both self-selected (in that I chose to continue playing) and forced (because I felt no choice to do anything else). 

This was the first time, but not the last, that I felt isolated by technology.

On the flipside, I have joyous memories of playing videogames with my fun-loving Uncles.  One Uncle had Atari (set up in a kitchen, of all things, again in a Chicagoland area apartment).  He had a wild west shooting game called “Outlaw”.  Oh, how we laughed when a guttural “oohph” came out of the pixelated cowboys as they were shot and subsequently fell on their butts.  Or perhaps these were sound effects added by my Uncle for more hilarity… I can’t remember which!

My other Uncle had “Time Pilot”, a Colecovision game.  The graphics by that time had advanced, and we loved flying different historical-looking planes around obstacles like zeppelins.  I felt so at-home: this tiny girl sitting on the floor next to her vibrant, broad-shouldered Uncle… learning from his deft plane maneuvers and eagerly awaiting my two-player chance. 

These games have fond connotations for me of relationships and experiences, much in the same way that you associate a sweet song with a person and place.

In short, I am of the video game generation and fun was aplenty.  Yet, I still jettisoned myself away, as if my space ship broke out of its fixed frame in Galaga and flew off into deep space.

Why? — My anxiety-inducing early experiences with the technology.  It is interesting now how games and virtual environments hold such strong cultural significance with current generations. (Think: what would make you get a tattoo of one game character, or name your second child after another one, except for utter obsession… or at minimum, huge enjoyment of gaming?) 

This video game excommunicado thinks escapism and a sense of “not growing up” holds sway here.  Or, maybe the young’uns just got better joysticks!

As always, I hope you enjoyed this and it brightened your day.

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• Category: Early Tech, Gettin' Philosophical