There's a special way in which I categorize the games that we played in our earliest years. There are, I like to say, two different types of them.
First there are the games that you personally owned. You remember them best as the games that you were able to play and explore within your childhood abode and thus the most intimate of settings. Thinking about these games brings to mind all of the rooms and places in which you did your gaming. It reminds you of the strongly influential atmospheric qualities that defined such spaces, and it evokes memories of the many first-time experiences, hours-long grinds, night-long gaming sessions, and other unforgettable gaming moments that occurred within them.
Then there's the other type: games that you played at your friends and relatives' houses. These are games that you most strongly associate with the places in which you first played them and the people who introduced you to them. When you think about these games, you're reminded of the spaces that you'd occupy when you were gaming at friends and relatives' houses--the toy-filled bedrooms, the wood-walled dens, and the carpeted basements--and the environmental elements that defined them--the lighting, the furniture arrangements, the decorations, and whatever type of shading or scenic qualities the windows were inclined to provide. And you remember how these environmental elements helped to shape and augment your gaming experiences.
Lately, I've been thinking more about the latter type. I've been reminding myself that many of my fondest gaming memories are attached to games that I played exclusively at friends and relatives' houses (in the early days, at least). I'm talking about games like Contra, Bionic Commando, Altered Beast, Golden Axe and Blaster Master, my memories and mental images of which are largely colored by the environments, the design qualities, and even the very air of the houses in which I played them.
I most strongly associate Mickey Mousecapade with my uncle's old house in New Jersey. That's where I was introduced to it. That's where all of my most indelible memories of it were formed. Consequently the two are inseparable in my mind. I can't think about the game without also reflecting upon the way in which that house and its environmental aspects helped to shape my impression of it.
I remember that house quite well. It was a rather large farmhouse, and the best thing about it was that it was fairly isolated and surrounded by woodland. Those qualities, I felt, made it the perfect place for a weekend visit. I loved the atmosphere and the setting that they created.
I loved, also, the breathtaking views that the house's second-floor windows provided. From my cousins' bedroom windows, in particular, you could see just over the trees, whose assemblage seemed to stretch on forever, and get a view of the far-off skyline and whatever stunning imagery it was displaying. It was glorious.
And those windows were more than just portals into the world. They were also conduits. They provided the room its texture. If the sun was bright that day, they'd do the job of saturating the room with glowing sunlight and also the soft shadows of dancing foliage. And, fortunately, that was usually the scene.
And I couldn't think of a better atmosphere for playing video games.
And Mickey Mousecapade's opening stage, with its delightfully bright visuals and charming color schemes, seemed almost tailor-made to capture the essence of that setting and speak of how great it was to play NES games in such a special place.
I loved everything about that opening Fun House stage: its enchantingly radiant graphical presentation; its joyful, whimsical music, which was oozing with early-8-bit spirit; its wonderfully playful level design; its buoyant enemies, who seemed to be dancing along and moving in rhythm to the music; and its cheerful energy, which was utterly absorbing.
Normally I was quick to turn my nose up at video games that were based off of movies and cartoons--particularly those that were aimed at children--because I had no interest in them. The two mediums simply weren't compatible, I felt. When you tried to combine them, you'd get nothing but boring, watered-down products.
But I didn't feel that way about Mickey Mousecapade. It wasn't boring at all. It had many attractive visual and aural qualities, and it looked really fun. I was honestly captivated by what it was showing me.
As my cousins showcased the game for me, I remained in state of full immersion. I watched on intently as they demonstrated how to properly advance through the opening stage, how to effectively deal with the hyperactive enemies, and how to use Mickey and Minnie's star-shaped projectiles to uncover secret items. They imparted upon me, also, knowledge of a trick that could help you to easily take out the stage's witch boss: Minnie was basically invincible, so what you could do was use some clever character manipulation to separate her from Mickey and maneuver her up to the top floor, and thereafter you could take advantage of her invincibility and safely take out the witch! (According to my cousins, every kid knew this trick.)
And the whole time, I couldn't help but feel envious of my cousins. "I really want to own this game!" I kept thinking to myself.
I was so enamored by what the Fun House stage had showed me that I couldn't wait to find out what else Mickey Mousecapade had in store!
But then I got a look at the second stage, The Ocean, and quickly my mood changed.
At the time, I was only an observer, but still I could tell, by watching my cousin Steve struggle his way through the ocean stage, that something had gone seriously wrong. And all I could do was watch on in horror.
"Now what the hell is happening here?" I silently wondered as I tried to make sense of the level design's unfortunate turn.
Only a few moments prior, Mickey Mousecapade was such a pleasant, nicely constructed game. It was displaying such a wonderfully unique spirit and boldly expressing its determination to be a creature of its own design. But now it was inexplicably eschewing those qualities. Now, suddenly, it was desiring to be Adventure Island without a net.
At that point, Mickey Mousecapade had turned into a standard platformer and not a very good one. That became clear to me as I observed the ocean stage and Steve's traversal of it. I took note of the questionable stage structuring, the cruel enemy placement, the unavoidable waves, and Steve's inability to keep the movement-mimicking Minnie Mouse from slipping off of platforms and falling into the watery abyss (Minnie's continuously falling to her death wouldn't have been such a big issue had the game allowed for Mickey to continue on alone, but since losing Minnie spelled automatic death for both characters, her aptitude for falling off of platforms was something to be greatly feared).
That stage looked really rough.
And when I got the chance to take control of the action and play through the ocean stage, I learned that my assessment was correct: In a short time, Mickey Mousecapade's quality had taken a literal plunge. The ocean stage was nothing short of disastrous.
I could fare no better than Steve. Like him, I repeatedly missed jumps with Minnie and continuously failed to endure all of the craziness that as being thrown at me, and I couldn't come close to beating the stage.
I don't remember if we abandoned the game on our own volition or if we had to stop playing it because it was time for dinner, but I know for certain that I'd seen enough of it and that I was real happy to be done with it. And after experiencing the torture of that ocean stage, I wasn't sure that I ever again wanted to see Mickey Mousecapade (well, anything beyond its opening stage, at least).
In truth, though, I wasn't finished with Mickey Mousecapade. I saw a lot more of it in the following few months.
I didn't go out and buy myself a copy of the game, no. Somehow I managed to suppress my impulse to do so (at the time, I was in my copycat phase, during which I was apt to go out and buy any game that I'd played a friend or cousin's house). I gained access to it, instead, via my friend Mike, who had recently purchased it. And I played it a bunch of times at his house.
And in time, I improved enough to where I could reach the third stage, The Woods, with regularity. And I wanted to make further progress because I genuinely enjoyed playing the game and being around it. I didn't like the direction that it took after the opening Fun House stage, no, but still I had a fondness for many of its other aspects (particularly its visuals and and music) and desired to experience them. I continued playing, also, because I felt that there would be a point in which the game would get back on track and return to doing what it did so well in its opening stage. I wanted to be there when it finally realized its potential.
Mind you, I never felt as though the game was getting "worse" as it went along. It really wasn't. Its quality was pretty consistent. The problem was that it liked to introduce ideas that were torturous in new and different ways. The Woods, for example, introduced an irksome maze element whose rules dictated that you get sent back to a previous area every time you selected a wrong door. And it had the gall to incorporate a secret-finding mechanic that required you to uncover correct exits by jumping all over the place and randomly firing your star projectiles at open spaces! This was the type of mischievous, arcane level design that not even Adventure Island would dare to incorporate.
What really stumped me (and everyone else) was the stage's final leg, which seemingly had no exit door. In reality, the exit door was located right at the area's starting point, but it wouldn't become active until you looped around the area a single time. And that, to me, was some top-level arcanity. I was so annoyed by it. At the time, I considered it to be the most questionable level-design decision in gaming history.
I mean, if you weren't aware that such a thing was possible--that a looping stage's design could change in a subsequent cycle--you could potentially find yourself stuck there forever (though, it was more likely that you'd continuously run out of health as you desperately searched for the exit).
This game, man.
In those early years, that's as far as I ever got. I was never able to get past the The Woods. Its boss would always destroy me.
I had hoped to reach the much-talked-about Pirate Ship stage, which had been so built up by friends and classmates that it had taken on an almost-mystical quality in my mind, but I just couldn't do it. I wasn't good enough.
It wasn't until five years later that I finally managed to make it to the Pirate Ship. And as theme continued, I was disappointed with the stage. It was way too short (it contained only four screens in total), and its boss, Peg-Leg Pete, could be cheaply and easily taken out with the invincible-Minnie trick. I was expecting so much more from it.
Certainly it did nothing to warm me up for the final stage, The Castle, which, conversely, was massive and difficult to navigate. Traversing it was a matter of (a) fighting past hordes of annoying, hyper-aggressive enemies and (b) carefully managing Minnie's delayed movements and trying as hard as you could to get her where you needed her to be. It was a frustrating exercise, and eventually I reached a point in which I felt so defeated by the process that I was ready to swear off the game for good.
Another half-decade dropped off before I found the courage to return to Mickey Mousecapade and play it through to the end. It was time, I decided. So I loaded it up on an emulator, and then I endured two hours of pure irritation. And in the end, I finally succeeded at making it to the final stage and defeating the evil Maleficent.
When it was over, I didn't feel a sense of accomplishment or experience any type of catharsis. Rather, I felt only relief. I was just glad that I was done with the game. I was glad that I'd never have to play through the game's awful final stage again. The only thing that I was truly happy about was that I could now scratch Mickey Mousecapade off of my "Unfinished Games" list, on which it had been present for over 12 years.
I couldn't deny, though, that I was pleasantly surprised by the game's ending because of the important context that it provided. It revealed that Mickey and Minnie's mission was to rescue Alice from Alice in Wonderland! Up until that point, I had no idea what the game's story was. I didn't know that Alice had any involvement in it or that its scope expanded beyond the basic Mickey Mouse universe. That's why I was so fascinated by what the ending revealed. It showed me that there had always been more to the game than I realized, and my suddenly becoming aware of that fact helped to make the final scene feel wondrous.
I mean, sure--I would have known what the game's story was had I ever taken the time to read the manual, but, well, I just never thought to do that. Really, though, I'm glad that I didn't because of how my resulting ignorance wound up working in the game's favor. It made me feel as though the game was, like I said, large in scope and wondrous, and it caused me to become filled with the sense that the game was once again exhibiting the type of bold spirit that it hadn't displayed for me since our first meeting in 1989. And consequently, it helped my personal story with the game to come full-circle.
And in truth, I wasn't done with Mickey Mousecapade. When I told myself that it was awful and that I was glad to be done with it, I was speaking from a place of bitterness. I was mad at myself for being bad at the game, and instead of admitting to it, I decided to place the blame elsewhere (mostly on the level design, which, honestly, wasn't as bad as I was making it out to be).
The fact was that I really liked Mickey Mousecapade. I enjoyed playing it. I found its action to be fun and engaging. That's why I continued to return to it. It was a good game.
And 15 years later, my feelings haven't changed. I'm still quite fond of Mickey Mousecapade. I still think that it's fun to play. And I'm always happy to return to it.
And whenever I play it, I do what's proper: I make sure to enjoy and savor the incredibly delightful, wonderfully charming Fun House stage, which I consider to be one of the most memorable opening stages in gaming history, and fondly remember the powerful, utterly indelible first impression that it made on me long ago, back on that sunny day in New Jersey.
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