By the late '90s, the PlayStation and N64 finally rivaled the sheer power of arcade cabinets. If an arcade game was popular, it'd get a home version within months.
Assuming at least one person in a group of friends had an N64, getting the gang to chip in for a copy of GoldenEye and extra controllers made more financial sense than living at the arcade. Even if that weren't an issue, arcades had nothing like GoldenEye, nor a four-player brawler like Smash Bros. and not even a good battle racer like Mario Kart.
The arcade industry's great asset had been its inherent social appeal, full of different walks of gamers facing off and placing their quarters on their favorite machines. But as multiplayer options bubbled up - the West's rising embrace of LAN-connected deathmatches in Doom and Quake, in particular - the arcade's only response was to sell itself as a premium gaming outlet. It didn't work; elaborately networked rigs of Daytona USA didn't sweep America.
So the party moved to Billy's house.
Billy is the Xbox Live stereotype, rudely shouting via headset at anonymous foes. If we're lucky, he has at least teamed up with a clan of like-minded gamers. But he's not connected with friends in the same room via LAN party, nor is he sharing a couch and riffing with pals, nor is he even learning the ways of internet etiquette a la Quake and at least typing "gg" after a long session.
If you're tempted to label me a cranky old man who wants games the old way - buddies on a couch, shouting, holding three-pronged N64 controllers - you wouldn't be off the mark. But there's a more troubling shift at work here. Without the public influence of an arcade crowd or a gang of friends, we game differently. More obsessively, more angrily, more willing to take bait of XP gathering - Killzone 2's lobbies are packed with "XP HERE!" tags, which means people are focusing on points and loot, not the giddy thrill of combat. Developers hurt their games when they lean on achievement bait, XP systems and oversized experiences that kill all hopes of local co-op, like Sony's MAG, the 256-player battle game set for release later this year. Can a player expect to make a connection with any of his 127 teammates, even if they're broken into more manageable mini-squads (none of which can run as a foursome on a single PS3)?
The Nintendo 64 may have made multiplayer gaming what it is today, but if we're not careful, the modern trend of one-player-per-screen will slowly erode those principles that made the genre fun in the first place. Designers who do not prioritize party play will curse the entertainment form back into the lonely recesses of people standing by themselves, grinding through impossible, time-munching challenges for one.
Nintendo recently promoted its latest Super Mario Bros. title with a four-player mode that runs solely on a single console. Unhappy journalists hoping for an online option were told the Wii didn't have the power for it. But maybe there was another answer: The industry's first four-player champions didn't have the stomach for it.
Sam Machkovech is the games critic for Seattle weekly newspaper The Stranger.
