Oh, the world of computer gaming. It was always such a strange and fascinating place to me.
In my early days, I didn't quite know what to make of gaming-focused PCs. I wasn't sure if they belonged in the same space as consoles and arcades. "Can these clunky, complicated-looking monstrosities really be considered 'gaming systems'?" I'd wonder every time I was playing around with a computer. "And can their software products truly be called 'video games'?"
Even as someone who had regular access to a Commodore 64 and played computer games on a daily basis, I still had trouble reconciling the differences between "computer games" and traditional games. I couldn't quantify them. I couldn't even describe what they were. At the time, I simply didn't possess the literacy or the wisdom necessary to do so.
So I was never able to explain why computer games' values felt so different from the other platforms'.
What I'd do, instead, was think about the issue in more basic terms. I'd attempt to derive answers via the more simple process of comparing how the games looked, sounded and performed. "Are Bruce Lee, Impossible Mission and Law of the West the computer equivalents of '8-bit' games?" I'd challenge myself to wonder. "Are they the same as games like Super Mario Bros., Excitebike and Wrecking Crew? Or are they somehow technologically distinct?"
And these were the types of questions that I once again had to confront on the day in which my 4th-grade class was introduced to The Oregon Trail.
Before that year, we had never had a class in that room, nor had we ever even entered into it. Its existence was a total mystery to us. We didn't know what it was or why it was there. So we identified it only as the "weird desk-less classroom in the middle of the second floor."
There were times when we grew curious and peeked into the room, but in each instance, we never learned anything new. Even getting a good look at the room's interior, we still weren't sure what the room's actual purpose was. We guessed that it was either a place in which business was conducted or an information repository.
But that year, in 1988, we finally learned what it was: It was the school's computer-science class! It was an actual place of learning!
What was most notable about the room was that it eschewed the conventional classroom setup (desks aligned in rows) in favor of a U-shaped table alignment. Tables lined the room's perimeter, and they were home to somewhere around 20 Apple II computers. And infamously, the room was perennially patrolled by the stern, humorless Sister Francis, who we feared. We'd avoid getting too close to her domain when we didn't have permission to do so because we knew what the consequence would be: She'd pull us aside and angrily scold us for several minutes! (I remember how I didn't believe that she was a real nun because she was always wearing a dress suit rather than a habit. "She's probably an angry old lady who applied for this job because she wanted to terrorize kids," I was inclined to think. "The nun identity is just her cover!")
Her class was mostly about familiarizing students with mouse and keyboard controls and basic computer software, and we loved it. It was fun and interesting (unlike 99% of the other classes we were taking). It was a once-a-week class, and we'd look forward to attending it.
Well, for the first month or two, at least.
After a while, the class became repetitive, and eventually we reached a point in which we were no longer learning anything new. And after weeks of being forced to repeat the same exercises over and over again, our interest waned, and computer class became just another mundane one-hour period.
That's why it was such a surprise to us when, one random day, we entered the classroom and found that an intriguing-looking piece of software had been loaded onto each computer before we arrived. The visual on each monitor read "The Oregon Trail," and as we examined at it, we sensed that something creative and fun was waiting for us on the following screen.
Seriously--she was the type of person who would see a bunch of kids playing Super Mario Bros. and immediately butt in to remind them that video games were "a waste of time."
But here she was, introducing us to what appeared to be an honest-to-goodness video game!
And she was surprisingly eager to each us about the basics: how to name our characters, how to buy supplies, and how to generally advance through the game. She wanted us to be excited about the experience. And we were! We couldn't wait to get started!
Now, I have to admit that I was pretty much lost. I had no idea what The Oregon Trail was actually about, and I didn't know how to properly interact with, well, any single part of it. Every aspect of the game seemed to be beyond me, and I just didn't understand what was going on.
But still, I remained engaged the whole time because certain elements of the game managed to capture my imagination and do so in a way that was entirely specific to an oddball like me. Whereas my classmates were focused on things like, say, shooting the largest buffalo in sight (the hunting minigame was, predictably, a crowd favorite) and deciding whether or not caulk their wagons before crossing lakes, I was busy being fascinated with with the game's emanative and abstractive qualities. I was spending my time thinking about (a) how radically different The Oregon Trail was from any other video game I'd ever played and (b) how alien it felt even in comparison to the most unconventional and bizarre Commodore 64 games.
Originally I'd concluded that all gaming computers existed within their own homogenized universe and were thus bound by the same rules, but now it appeared as though I'd misread the situation. It was now apparent to me that computers, too, had clear divisions!
"How incredibly interesting!" I thought to myself.
It took me a few years, though, to gain a true understanding of their differences and appropriately adjust my thinking.
It was just too bad that we only got a limited amount of opportunities to do so. If we were lucky, Sister Francis would load up the game maybe four or five times during any trimester--twice as part of her normal scheduling routine and the handful of times when she'd capitulate to our collective whining and begging and allow us to play it.
Had I gotten more chances to play it, I feel, I might have eventually figured out what the hell I was doing! I might have learned how to play it properly!
"So how, exactly, were you playing it, you silly freak?" you ask while holding up your hands in an uncomprehending manner.
Well, I had a standard mode of operation: At the start, I'd choose to play as a banker because it seemed like the logical thing to do. I mean, the bankers were rich, and playing as one came with the innate advantage of being able to afford a large amount goods. And that's what I did: I loaded up on everything! Though, I prioritized food over every other good and made sure to always buy the maximum amount of it. I did so because having an abundance of food was important to my "strategy."
I understood that playing as a banker put you in a position in which you had to do less to succeed, and I was OK with that. I didn't feel guilty about taking an easier path. "If the only punishment for doing so is 'earning less points,'" I felt, "then, really, there is no punishment because I don't give a damn about points!"
I was quite happy to stick with the banker and forever shun all of the other starting characters.
And naturally, I'd name all of my party members after high-class individuals like professional wrestlers and comedians from my favorite sitcoms (The Three Stooges, The Honeymooners, The Odd Couple and such). Of course, I'd name my party leader "Mr. Perfect" (or, rather, "Mr. Perf," since the game limited names to eight letters), and I'd assign the other four members names like Ralph, Norton, Felix, Oscar, Laurel, Hardy, Abbot and Costello. How I felt that day determined the mix I'd settle on.
Well, um, I didn't actually have one. My plan, if you can call it that, was to simply buy as many supplies as I could and then attempt to tank my way through the game. I didn't have the patience for party management, so I didn't bother to do any! What I chose to do, instead, was (a) ignore all of the game's warnings, (b) stop only to hunt for food, and (c) continue charging forward no matter how badly my party had been ravaged by its repeated bouts with fever, dysentery, typhoid, cholera or any of those other diseases that my classmates and I could never properly pronounce ("'Dye-ster-knee'? 'Chlo-ree-ah'? 'Tye-foo-id'?" we'd phonate in our futile attempts to correctly pronounce the disease names).
My rules were simple: No addressing health problems. No keeping track of supplies. No stopping to look around. No retreat! No surrender!
I don't know why, but for some reason I could never make it to Oregon. (I'm guessing that the game cheated because it knew that my plan was just too good.)
In my best runs, I made it maybe three-quarters of the way there, and each time, I felt as though I could have endured longer. I kept believing that it was possible for me to put together a run in which I was able to overcome late-game difficulties through sheer will and find a way to push through to the finish. "So what if I run out of food during the journey to Fort Walla Wall?" I'd say with confidence. "That's not a problem! Surely my party members can go five or ten more days without nourishment!"
Well, no they couldn't. They'd all invariably die from funny-sounding diseases.
And that was pretty much my entire experience with The Oregon Trail--a game that I struggled to classify. I couldn't explain what, exactly, it was, and thus I wasn't sure where to place it. "Does a computer-based educational-type game count as a 'real' video game?" I'd wonder. "Can a software product whose values are so wildly disparate really be considered part of the same medium that gave us games like Metroid and Rolling Thunder? And would such a product truly feel at home on even a platform like the Commodore 64, which, unlike the Apple II, is primarily a gaming machine?"
The answers to those questions would elude me for a long time.
But one thing would never change: the way I thought about my history with The Oregon Trail. I would, at every point in my life, continue to fondly remember my experiences with the game and how those experiences excited my classmates and I and brought us closer together.
And I would forevermore associate the game with my school days, ol' Sister Francis, and that oddly furnished computer room on St. Bernadette Catholic school's second floor.
And, also, typhoid.
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