Williams - Significant zero: heroes, villains, and the fight for art and soul in video games

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Dedicated to K & P

Zero: noun ; a digit or number lacking either positive or negative value.

Significant Zero: noun ; a zero located between significant digits; that which on its own has no value, yet alters the value of whatever it touches.

In telling this story, I have made some adjustments. Some names and characteristics have been changed, and some composite characters have been created. Certain events have been combined and/or reordered. For the sake of anonymity, one situation has been retold from my perspective, with the permission of those involved.

My first video-game console was a cardboard box.

They called it the Nintendo Cereal System, and it was gifted to our world in 1988 by Ralston, a purveyor of fine license-based cereals. Unlike their other brands, such as Donkey Kong, Gremlins, and Ghostbusters, the NCS wasnt inspired by an intellectual property but rather a piece of hardwarethe Nintendo Entertainment System, an actual honest-to-God video-game console and the one thing I wanted more than anything else in the world.

Ill admit, the Nintendo Cereal System was a poor substitute. As food, it lacked the impossible flavor profiles of modern, cutting-edge breakfast treats like Waffle Stix, Go-Gurt, and Ice Cream Shoppe Frosted Rainbow Cookie Sandwich Pop-Tarts. Its selection of playable games was limited to exactly zero. And yet, without a doubt, the Nintendo Cereal System was the best console I have ever owned.

To gaze upon the NCS was to see true innovation: one box containing two different cereals, each representing a different game Super Mario Bros. and The Legend of Zelda . It promised two different natural & artificial flavors. Mario was fruity. Zelda was berry. Both tasted like sweetened sawdust. Their shaped pieces bore no resemblance to the source material. There was nothing good about the cereal, and that was fine, because I didnt buy the Nintendo Cereal System for the cereal. I bought it for the box. And oh, what a box it was.

Across the top, in beautiful red letters, was the Nintendo logo. Beneath it sat a large square, its corners rounded to mimic those of a TV screen. On the left side was a poorly drawn interpretation of Super Mario Bros., and on the right, The Legend of Zelda . I cut a rectangle out of cardboard, just big enough to hold in both hands. With crayons, I added buttonsUp, Down, Left, Right, B, A, Select, and Start. A shoelace stolen from my sisters shoe connected it to the cardboard console.

I would play that box for hours. My fingers mashed imaginary buttons as my imagination projected action onto that unmoving cardboard screen. I was Mario, flinging turtle shells like cannonballs, and Link, kicking lizard-men into dust. None of it was real, but it was perfect in every way. Reality never stood a chance.

That Christmas, I received a real Nintendo Entertainment System. It was the Action Setthe one that came with the two-in-one Super Mario Bros. and Duck Hunt cartridge and the NES Zapper, a light gun used to shoot down digital ducks. While my father plugged it into the TV, I read the manual from cover to cover. This is what it told me:

One day the kingdom of the peaceful Mushroom People was invaded by the Koopa, a tribe of turtles famous for their black magic. The quiet, peace-loving Mushroom People were turning into mere stones, bricks, and even field horsehair plants, and the Mushroom Kingdom fell into ruin.

The only one who can undo the magic spell on the Mushroom People and return them to their normal selves is the Princess Toadstool, the daughter of the Mushroom King. Unfortunately, she is presently in the hands of the great Koopa turtle king.

Mario, the hero of the story (maybe) hears about the Mushroom Peoples plight and sets out on a quest to free the Mushroom Princess from the evil Koopa and restore the fallen kingdom of the Mushroom People.

You are Mario! Its up to you to save the Mushroom People from the black magic of the Koopa!

It was nonsense, but my eight-year-old brain latched onto it like a Bloober, a squid the game warned me was a guy to look out for. I was Mario; the manual said so. It was up to me to save the Mushroom People. This was my story.

Except it wasnt. This real, playable version of Super Mario Bros. was nothing like the game Id been playing in my head for months. Instead of punching turtles and flying through the air, I mostly fell down holes and got mauled by Goombas, sentient shiitake mushrooms that have sprouted feet and fangs. My excitement turned to frustration as each death brought me closer to tears. This wasnt a game. Games were meant to be fun.

That was the angriest Christmas of my life. The longer I played, the sloppier I got. My deaths piled up, my blood boiled. All that pressure needed a release, and jumping on evil turtles wasnt doing the trick. I screamed and cried and swore off video games forever, which never lasts long when youre eight years old. Little by little, I progressed through the game, until late that evening I stood on a bridge across from my enemyBowser, king of the Koopaa fire-breathing, spike-backed dragon turtle.

My fingers jerked wildly across the controller. On the screen, Mario leapt over fireballs, then sprinted beneath Bowsers legs to grab an axe someone had carelessly left on the far side of the bridge. With one smooth motionso smooth you didnt even see itMario brought the axe down, severing the bridges cables. It fell into fire, and Bowser followed. The king was dead. Long live me.

Mom! Dad! I shouted. Come here! Bring the camera!

I had accomplished the impossible and needed proof. No one in the history of video games could have beaten Super Mario Bros. in a single day. Was I the greatest video-game player alive? Yes. Yes, I was.

On-screen, Mario ran ahead to the next room, where Princess Toadstool was waiting to be rescued. When I saw her, my heart stopped. This was not the princess Id been expecting. She was short; shorter than Mario. On her head sat an oversize helmet covered in red-and-white polka dots. Strangest of all, she appeared to be wearing a diaper. Ten words appeared above her head.

THANK YOU MARIO!

BUT OUR PRINCESS IS IN ANOTHER CASTLE!

The game wasnt over; there were twenty-eight more levels to go. Our princess had not been saved. Mario, that mustachioed shit-weasel, had lied to me. This wasnt my story at all.

T WENTY-THREE YEARS LATER, I was in Santa Monica, directing voice recordings for Spec Ops: The Line , the tenth installment in the long-running military game franchise. It was May. Or maybe it was April. I could be wrong. For all I know, it was August. The year was definitely 2011, that much Im sure of; but the rest is hazy.