Many moons ago – before ECA and IEMA – I ran a small business-to-business publishing company and for a brief period early in its life, I was a magazine editor. One of my favorite parts of wearing that hat was the access that the position provides to some of the industry’s best and brightest talents. It was an amazing perk that I learned early, but in a fashion that I never saw coming.
The publication was known by several names, “Interactive Entertainment (IE),” “GameWeek” and initially, “Video Game Advisor.” We launched it at the very first E3, after shopping it around to potential advertisers and editorial contacts at the winter CES. As an industry publication, the target audience was retail buyers – the 120 or so influential executives who purchase games on behalf of their merchandising teams. Back in those days many buyers weren’t gamers. So we reviewed and previewed products based on how we thought they would sell, rather than how fun they were to play, as the enthusiast media had done.
On a shoestring budget, we had a full-time staff of five. Our editorial department consisted of me and a couple of the part-time guys who had worked for me in the retail stores I briefly managed before starting the publishing company. The E3 issue was successful in gaining the respect and trust of the target audience and the next couple of issues went well. One morning a very pleasant and professional sounding woman called and introduced herself simply as Perrin Kaplan from Nintendo of America. She asked if I was the Editor/Publisher and if one of my editors and I were generally available the next day. Assuming that she meant available for a conference call, I said yes, wondering what was going on. Perrin said that two tickets would be waiting for us at JFK for the first flight out the next morning. Just out and back for the day. In shock, I think I said thank you and hung up the phone – still unsure what just happened.
I asked around about who Perrin Kaplan was and was surprised to learn that she was the senior executive over corporate communications. I went to the workstation outside my office where Matt Harding (yes, that Matt Harding) was sitting and said, “Hey, Matt. You’re going to need to call your mom and get written permission to fly with me to Seattle for the day tomorrow because Nintendo wants to meet with us.” You see, Matt was a high school intern, working part-time.
We flew out the next morning and grabbed a cab to the NoA offices. Matt and I were fans and likely looked exactly like what we were, giddy fanboys – young and younger. Perrin came out to the reception area, where Matt was glued to a kiosk. She gave us a quick tour and said that we would be dropping Matt off at “The Treehouse,” a windowless interior room lit only by the glare of monitors. Knowing that I was legally responsible as his guardian, it was with more than a little trepidation that I agreed… In fact, I think Matt went ahead and closed the door behind him so quickly that I didn’t even have a chance to object. We continued on to a conference room that I believe was called “Donkey Kong” where she said that someone would be in to talk with me. But Perrin had this knowing look in her eye that made me wonder what was going on.
I prepared my media kit and rehearsed my elevator pitch, hoping that I’d have the opportunity to discuss advertising – thinking that Matt was doing the editorial thing, so whoever they’re sending in to meet me must be looking to address my Publisher duties. A few minutes went by, during which time people kept stopping by to ask if I needed anything. And in saunters Peter Main, an older, confident and affable guy with a broad smile. He enthusiastically shook my hand, patted me on the shoulder and invited me to have a seat. He plopped down in the conference room chair like it was a comfortable recliner, padded the tips of his fingers together while assessing me, and said, “It’s great to meet you, I’ve really been looking forward to it.”
The reason I don’t play poker by the way is because – if you haven’t gleaned it so far – you can read me like a book. The expression on my face at this point had to have been a mixture of wide-eyed shock and confusion (a state that persists throughout this story by the way).
He thanked me for flying out on short notice and then said, “So… I bet you’re wondering what you’re doing here today!” I paused and replied, “I presumed that I was here to pitch you on advertising in our magazine.” The infectious laugh of Peter is legendary and I got my first taste right then. It wasn’t a condescending laugh, it was a good-natured belly laugh.
He said, “Look, Hal. Before we talk about that, the reason you’re here is because you published a story about Yoshi’s Island and well, the buyers read all about it.” I was likely beaming with pride at the thought that our little magazine was that well regarded by the buyers. He continued, “And yes, that’s great. It’s great that our retail buyers not only read your publication, but also rely on the advice that you guys give them. The problem is, Hal, that we didn’t want them to be thinking about Yoshi’s Island yet. We wanted them to be thinking about Donkey Kong Country. You see, our sales people have been out touring around the major retailers and at every stop they go in to pitch the final purchase order for Donkey Kong Country and because of your magazine, they only want to talk about buying Yoshi’s Island.”
In retrospect, it’s clear that he was doing everything he could to be pleasant and patient in explaining the idiosyncrasies of how channel purchasing happened at that level, but I just wasn’t seeing what the problem was. To my mind, he had two great games and the buyers were more interested in the second one because we said it was a superior product.
