by [name redacted]

Part four of my ongoing culture column; originally published by Next Generation under a different title; something like “The Problem with Mascots”. Somewhere between this article’s completion and its publication, one of my more vocal “fans” started a forum thread about Sonic the Hedgehog. He felt a few of the points were similar; I think something in my description of Sonic. Considering this is one of my least favorite articles, I sometimes wonder if it was worth the bother. Still, here it is again.

I wrote a while ago that there’s maybe one good Sonic game for every two flops. At the time I was halfway kidding, setting up the premise for a silly “top ten” list. Where I wasn’t kidding, I was speaking from a historical perspective rather than a contemporary one. As much as I have loved the guy, I’m aware that Sega hasn’t done too well by Sonic for a long time – to the point where he’s now the butt of dumb jokes on semi-respectable business websites. Since the Genesis we’ve seen, what, one truly great Sonic game?

When Sonic and Sega came back with the Dreamcast, they did it with a collective bang. Everyone cheered at his return, and at Sega’s. Then came a less interesting sequel. Then Sega went out of the console business, and suddenly there didn’t seem much point to Sonic anymore. More games kept coming out, each worse than the last, each building on the least compelling parts of Sonic Adventure. People stopped caring about the character, then started mocking him. Sega tried to address the problem with Shadow: a grittier, cooler answer to Sonic. Without even playing the game, people immediately wrote off the character, Sega, and everybody involved with the franchise.

The problem wasn’t really Shadow, or his game – even the concept behind it, for what it was worth. Heck, people didn’t even have to play it to dismiss it. The problem was that it didn’t seem like Sega knew what the hell it was doing anymore. The most fascinating thing about Shadow the Hedgehog is that Sega had once seemed so in touch with… everything, really: with itself, with its audience, with the market. Back when Tom Kalinske was in charge, Sega could practically dictate what was cool. With Shadow Sega seemed to show – right or wrong – that the only trick it had left was to cling to its old icons, and try to spin them according to perceived market trends. It brought up images of Donald Duck wearing gold chains, speaking like Dr. Dre, and flashing a piece around. Just, what?

The thing that modern Sega seems not to entirely grasp is that Sonic is not simply a piece of choice IP – a popular character who can be plopped into a game to drive up sales. He’s a mascot, through and through. At his peak, he behaved as one. When everyone loved Sonic, the reason he was popular was that he represented an appealing and unique set of options – qualities that happened to correspond with all the things going on at that time, in the industry and in the broader world.

Now: if these elements give a mascot his power, they are also his greatest weakness. Like all icons, a mascot remains relevant only as long as the cause that it trumpets. With no console to herald, with no amazing and exclusive new style of gameplay to proselytize, Sonic becomes just one more Mickey Mouse knockoff with a snarky voice; a relic like Betty Boop or Rosie the Riveter, taken out of his time, place, and anything that ever made him important.

Mascot, Mask Off

The difference between a mascot and a simple character is the difference between a copyright and a trademark. Although the actual content of a registered trademark can also be copyrighted, the primary role of a trademark is as a symbol for its given enterprise. Whereas the Heinz logo and pickle that “57 Varieties” gobbledygook might have some art to their design and layout, their real power and purpose is an associative one: when you see them, you think “Heinz!” – without even reading the words. The pickle tells you these are preserved products, mostly condiments; the “57”, though literally meaningless, suggests that Heinz makes a lot of this stuff – and therefore clearly knows its business. The label is bezeled and old-fashioned, giving the impression that Heinz has been around for a long time (which it has), and is thus an enduring and timeless brand. The importance of this symbolism goes way beyond a nice, snappy package.

Although mascots can be characters in their own right – have personalities, have lives, worlds of their own – their primary role is as a symbol for their associated enterprise. When Sonic started off, he was one of the most well-conceived mascots probably in the history of mascotdom. Sega’s console was faster than the competition’s, so Sonic was super fast. Sega was the scrappy underdog, effortlessly showing up the “big guys”, so Sonic was full of attitude. Sega’s logo was blue, so Sonic was blue. The Genesis was targeted toward kids who were growing out of the NES, so Sonic was a sleek teenager (compared to the fuddy uncle Nintendo had going, who by comparison seemed to represent the “past generation”). Beyond that, Sonic tied into the environmentalism craze of the early ’90s: the enemy was a big fat mustached Mario-like figure who polluted (trendy, modern graphic design-styled) Nature and turned its wildlife into hideous creatures. Unlike most videogame heroes, Sonic’s impact on his world was only positive – and his motive was almost entirely selfless. When he smashed a robot, he freed the animal inside it. His ultimate goal was simply to protect the sanctity of nature.

In designing Sonic, Naoto Ohshima did everything right. In programming Sonic’s game, Yuji Naka did pretty much everything right, giving Sega a vehicle to show off Sonic’s trademark qualities. And his… trademark qualities. Sonic and his game were designed as the embodiment of Sega, so as to give Sega an popular identity (or rather, to advertise the identity Sega saw in itself). In knowing Sonic – an identifiable character – a person would metaphorically know and identify with Sega (and its console), therefore form a personal attachment and loyalty to the company and its line of consumer goods.

A Spine in Time

I know this sounds cynical, that Sonic’s whole purpose in life is to be a shill for Sega’s stuff. It isn’t, really; it’s a hard job, and done well it forms a symbiosis of sorts between mascot and parent company. The problem arises when the company and the mascot begin to drift apart; the mascot starts doing its own stuff that has nothing directly to do with its parent company, and the parent company goes off in weird directions that have nothing to do with either the qualities the mascot was supposed to represent or what it’s currently up to, in its own little world. When the metaphor no longer holds up, your mascot is functionally dead in the water. It holds no purpose, except perhaps as a neutered piece of IP. The solution to this problem is simple enough: either retire your mascot and find a new one that represents what you’re trying to do now, or somehow re-jig your old mascot to the same end.

Sega kind of did this in 1999 with Sonic Adventure; Sonic was redesigned, placed in a new kind of game, given a new context, and was resurrected at the same time Sega returned to the world stage with its attempt at a neo-Genesis. Both Sonic and Sega were framed as legendary heroes, stepping back into the player’s life for the first time in an eon – cocky as ever, maybe even cooler than you remember from your youth. The player was put in the role of Tails, looking up in awe and striving to prove his worthiness in the face of his hero – or maybe of Amy Rose, Sonic groupie of old, fawning after Sonic (and by extension Sega), willing to chase him to the end of the Earth. Sonic’s world was stripped down to a handful of important characters, each with his or her own perspective, all of which added up to a bigger picture of self-growth and wonder, all inspired by Sonic returning to their lives. And at the end, just like that, Sonic slips away again, leaving everyone just a little better off for his having stopped by. And you just knew Sonic would always come back, he’d always be there when you needed him.

Then, well. Circumstances didn’t really live up to that new vision. And none of Sonic’s further games did much with that message – or even bothered much with a message. They just built on the engine of the first game, and… existed, mechanically, for the sake of there being more Sonic games in the world (throwing in more and more random characters, while they were at it, in favor of focusing on what they had) – all while Sega was going nuts as a business venture, essentially doing all it could to destroy any public confidence or interest in the company. Today, who knows what Sega stands for. They’re refocusing on outsourced Western games, and downplaying the designers that made them famous. They got bought out, after several near misses, and who knows who runs what now. Most of Sega’s real talent has either fled or vanished into the hedges. Even Yuji Naka’s splitting. I guess Sega can’t afford another Ferrari. So clearly what people want to see is Grand Theft Hedgehog.

The Boomer Bust

Sega isn’t alone in this mess, of course. Over the past ten years or so, the industry has generally seemed to strip itself of reliance on mascots. A few years ago, Sony even divested itself of its PlayStation-era icons – including its own Sonic MkII, that went along with its “more Sega than Sega” ad scheme of the mid-’90s. And I’m no ad executive, so I’m just working with the same eyes as all of you – yet this trend doesn’t even seem unique to videogames. When was the last time you saw Mrs. Butterworth on television? Where did the Snapple lady get off to? Did Mayor McCheese fail the election? Even breakfast cereals aren’t immune; didn’t Wendell used to have a couple of friends?

For that matter, what on Earth happened to the art of the jingle? Jingles work on the same principle as mascots, except they burrow their way so deep in your soul that you’ll never extricate them. I still remember the phone number to a long-disbanded furniture store in mid-Maine because once, when I was three years old, that number was set to music. Isn’t that evil? What else could I have stored in that corner of my brain? And isn’t it the most perfect kind of advertising ever? So where did they go?

Jingles have been largely traded out in favor of licensed pop songs. It started in the late ’80s, with songs from the late ’60s and early ’70s, to appeal to Boomer nostalgia. For maybe a year it seemed kind of clever and edgy, associating products with people’s existing memories and goodwill, piggybacking on the best years of a generation’s lifetime. Then it got old. Then it got annoying. Then it became commonplace. And to this day I can’t hear The Turtles without thinking of Golden Grahams. Whereas jingles at least carve out their own space in your mind, this kind of advertising is parasitic; rather than create something new (if inane), in a sense it ruins everything it touches, attacking the pattern-finding centers of your mind and stamping brands all over your memory banks, so you can’t think of anything you enjoy without a commercial coming to mind.

In response to the public opinion backlash spawned by this abyss of creativity, the marketing industry seems of late to have taken an even less creative approach in obtuse anti-advertising. The idea is, today’s consumer is so media-savvy that she’ll see through any kind of marketing – so let’s not even bother to convince them of anything. It’ll be ironic, and they’ll respond to that. The irony, of course, faded after the third of fourth commercial. After that point, it just became a standard.

So those are pretty much the two extremes we see today: vampires that draw on existing culture, and brain-dead non-marketing that thinks it’s subversive by being ineffectual. Abstractions of abstractions. It’s like Final Fantasy X all over again, except at least Square is creating something – adding to culture, rather than simply siphoning off it. Ideally, the most effective advertising would do the same – which is where things like mascots and jingles fit in. They’re not trendy now, though – because they’re too obvious. Consumers are too “savvy”, too “jaded” to accept such obvious attempts at marketing.

Of course, there rises the question as to why they’re so jaded. I’m tempted to think if you just open up and try to sell your damned products like an honest human being, then maybe people will respond with a little less suspicion. Furthermore, that will allow you to build a proper brand, a proper relationship with your audience – the way that companies used to, in the old days. Though there’s obviously an element of manipulation in all salesmanship, there still needs to be a certain element of trust and compassion. Just ask your small neighborhood store with its excellent service and loyal customers who go there time after time, even though it might not be the cheapest place to shop.

Pies in the Eyes

So, in the wake of Sonic, everyone else under the sun got the idea that he needed a fuzzy “mascot”. Cue Aero the Acro-Bat, Awesome Possum, Sparkster, Bubsy the Bobcat, and all their cousins. Sparkster got by for a couple of games simply because his games were so fantastic. Everyone else was just playing me-too, and not really thinking. Again, Sonic was a mascot because he stood for something. He was thematically analogous to the company he represented. What exactly does Bubsy stand for? Aero? (For that matter, what does Rouge the Bat or Shadow stand for? Charmy Bee?) Little wonder they flopped so hard. And in their flopping – in this mass rejection of the random mascot for the sake of having a mascot – somehow the whole concept of the mascot got tainted.

At first Sony tried its hand with Crash Bandicoot. He worked for a while, for much the same reason Sonic did. Then, when mascots were no longer the “in” thing, Sony ditched him, figuring that, as the market leader, they didn’t need to get all chummy with their audience anymore. To their credit, in abandoning Crash they did what Sega was unable to do. It’s a little unfortunate they sold him off to a third party, to live a waking death. It’s an ignoble end, and a bum deal for the guys who bought him. Again, there’s a big difference between a mascot and a killer piece of IP: a mascot that represents nothing is, in effect, powerless – like those sad people who seem to be famous simply for being famous. Except without the fame.

A Fistful of Doldrums

Curiously, Western companies have never been all that big on mascots. Aside from Naughty Dog, who has so far created one company mascot and one “mascot game” series that gets by more on its excellent game design than out of any affection for its leads, and Mr. Ancel’s armless wonder, about whom you could make the same statement, the only really high-profile mascot I can think of offhand is Lara Croft – which all the more makes me wonder why more companies don’t bother to build an identity like this.

Sure, Lara’s ridiculous now. (Her latest game is supposed to be pretty all-right.) That’s due to the Sonic effect, though. Indeed, exactly five years after the fact, Lara was the true successor to Sonic the Hedgehog. As I said last week, Lara more or less captured the young adult Nintendo children in the same way Sonic captured them as adolescents – and, for well or ill, defined the PlayStation generation. She was a smart, capable, well-endowed woman – someone with whom a player could well spend hours adventuring. Similarly, her game – based on Prince of Persia – was a little smarter than usual, and helped to define a whole new way of designing and playing videogames. And then, just as Sonic inspired a million rodents with attitude, Lara inspired a million floozies with special crawling animation. And worse, just as Sonic became one more fuzzy animal, Lara became one more floozie in the flock. And in both cases the games kept getting shot out, on increasingly dated engines.

Then after Lara went belly-up… nothing, really. I guess you could call Gordon Freeman or Master Chief a mascot of sorts, except they’re not, really; they’re iconic. They’re simply characters, though – well-known, interesting characters by virtue of being a part of well-made, interesting games. And part of the point of each is that they sort of disappear into the player; you’re not really meant to look at them, unless you’re opening the DVD case. On the other hand, maybe that’s a whole new level of mascot design, intrinsic to videogames. It’s a fine line; I think both would lose something, were they to take on much more meaning than they already hold.

Probably a big reason for the lack of Western mascots has to do with the PC-centric focus of design over here – and the distinct preference for broad “idea games” over the more narrow “design games” of the Japan school. Since Atari passed Go, branding and identity have never been a big issue over here – at least, not to the extent you see over to the left. Those few companies that seem legitimately concerned (say, EA; Microsoft) address the issue through lame shows of brute force, rather than through persuasion and charm.

In principle, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with mascots; it’s just, as I keep whacking with this sledgehammer, they’re are both more and less than simple characters, and need to be treated as such. They’re hard to conceive of, and hard to maintain – and then you have to fight against what’s popular these days; if you don’t watch out, all the other ad execs will laugh at you!

What makes this situation so irritating is that when conceived and used properly, such that each stands for something distinct and memorable, mascots are amongst the most useful marketing and PR tools possible. More than that, though, they add wealth to the overall fabric of the medium. They give people an easy “in” – to the medium, to alternate viewpoints, and to individual developers. They add personality to the culture of videogames. And frankly, they just make videogames a lot more interesting.