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It is possible I am getting too old for this, but lets just pretend I went in with the wrong expectations. Introduced to me by new friend Matt, Famitsu Vol.1 was a chiptunes event held in my adopted hometown of Osaka. It was an interesting night but one filled with uncomfortable social encounters.

Walking in to the event I was caught off guard. Held at Club Drop in Namba, I was surprised to be greeted by a small well lit bar rather than the darkened hall I expected. Casting an eye down the bar first thing I noticed (with some dismay) was the plastic glasses that I would be drinking from for the rest of the night, the second thing I noticed was the clientele. Most of the patrons sat along the small bar clutching DSs self-consciously close to their face, warding off any would be personal interactions by remain locked to their personal electronic world.

It struck me as odd for an event that thrust like-minded individuals together to see so many of them completely oblivious to each other’s existence. As a life long gamer I understand the stigma associate with the hobby, the idea that all of us are socially inept loners who struggle with normal interactions, but I had never witnessed this phenomenon so acutely demonstrated. Arguably of course these portable gamers were being social, playing over Wi-Fi as they were this was not a solitary activity, but the general lack of communication left the experience seeming joyless to me as an onlooker (though I may just have been jealous I didn’t bring my DS).

Even if the portable players at the bar had wanted to talk it soon became apparent that they would struggle to over the blare of noise coming from the adjacent room. Glancing through the doors I was greeted by something more akin to my initial expectations for the event, a large darkened room where speech was made near impossible by the 8-bit electronica pumping out of speakers at volumes it was never intended to be played at.

Moving around this new room it became increasingly apparent that the event was intended as a meeting place for gamers rather than as a music venue, or at the very least it had been misappropriated as such. Around thirty people occupied the deafening room, most of who had their attention directed squarely at the five small televisions that sat in a circle in the centre of the room. Every generation of console was represented in this huddle with games littered across each of the squat tables the televisions rested on. Players massed around each system, orderly waiting their turn.

This was where I played Mario Kart 64... Admittedly a flash would have helped.

This was more social. While it may not have been quite the experience I had anticipated, it began to feel more familiar, like a really noisy arcade. People were yelling over the music and, while the wide gap left for people to dance in remained empty, within the huddle of gamers there was mingling and socializing.

Plonking myself down in front of Street Fighter 4 I picked up a pad. My rival sat confidently with his own Hori arcade stick. Having seen off numerous other opponents he had every reason for the self-assured grin that rested on his face as the drunken foreigner sat down next to him. His confidence was not misplaced, but I at least retained some small amount of dignity holding him to a three round to two victory. As I stood to leave my opponent offered me a warm smile and handshake that made me feel instantly more connect with the event. Fellow visitors insular nature that had seemed insurmountable and cold on arrival began to thaw, as this gaming camaraderie began to emerge.

Joining a group of three playing Mario Kart 64 I anticipated more of a challenge. With the small group evidently already friends I feared being ostracised, but they welcomed me openly, even pausing the game to remind me of the controls in broken English. We played a few games together, and as I slowly improved some member of our foursome dropped out to be replaced by other lingerers from around the room until I sat as the lone survivor of the earlier four. Realising how long I had been sat cross-legged in front of the old television, I stood and allowed another player to eagerly take my place.

It was a strange community, but one that was considerable more hospitable than impressions suggested, at least once the uncomfortable first hurdle had been crossed. Approaching people directly almost without exception lead to a self-conscious silence, but with the mediator of a controller and a TV something changed and relationships were easily established.

Beneath all of my dialogues (successful or not) there lay the pounding chiptune undercurrent. Now I like chiptunes but my exposure is limited, possibly due to 8-bit consoles low penetration in the UK. The result is an appreciation of the chiptune genre that comes from a love of gaming history rather than nostalgia. Problematically the historian in me seemed to struggle in a club setting where there was no escaping the (to be brutally honest) often-grating music.

Trying to listen to the distorted sounds coming from the speakers I began to wonder if my lack of interest was simply because I was lacking a point of reference. Frequently when listening to music I need an entry point, something I recognise to access and fully enjoy what I am hearing. Everything on offer at Club Drop, bar a few brief refrains, was alien to me. Tracks blended one into another seemingly without end, producing a sound similar to a harpsichord with angry bees inside. I tried to dance, alone, in the empty space to this cacophony of bleeps and white noise but found myself unable to match any of the oscillating beats.

Hidden behind their cloth I can't decide if the DJs were being cool or hiding from their audiences indifference.

Eventually I surrendered in my attempts to dance, moving back to the bar to look at the smattering of coz-players who had joined the party. Each looked a varying degree of embraced by their situation as few who had made effort. My previous encounters with coz-players had seen them congregated in large groups; here, isolated from the safety of numbers, they looked uncomfortable. Approaching a few of these costumed individuals I tried to tell them how good they looked. Each person I spoke to shrank from me with alarming speed, a speed I suspect was as much connected to their own discomfort as it was my size and whiteness. Settling for the quick ‘arigato’ each offered I retreated to the bar to save all involved further discomfort.

Back to the bar I assessed my situation. Slowly the club was filling. A few members of the ensemble stood on the dance floor trying (and failing) to pick out some form of beat from the DJs who were separated from their mostly indifferent audience by a white sheet with pixel art projected upon it. My options were simple, to stay and play games all night, paying too much for alcohol in plastic cups, or return home and play the same games with cheap alcohol from a glass. Despite the social nature some had shown I decided a dignified retreat was preferable to further stilted conversations and trying to teach people how to play Left 4 Dead.

I don’t know what I had expected going in to Club Drop, but what I found was a microcosm of an quiet community who, while shy, were welcoming to new comers. While the music may have not delivered what I had hoped, it provided an excuse to bring these individuals with a shared interest together. With any luck the next event in October will grow in size and the focus will shift towards a social meeting place for fans of gaming, with the music relegated to a more ambient level to set the mood, at least until every one is drunk.

I have to confess to being disappointed. Years of hearing about landmark game launches in Japan created in me a misconception. I erroneously believed that somehow games of note drew everyone from their homes in a frenzied fit to politely queue outside any and every game store in the land to get their mitts on the latest installment of their beloved franchise. I was wrong.

11pm, day 1, still plenty.

It isn’t that Final Fantasy XIII didn’t have a big turn out. I have seen images on blogs, hordes of people waiting anxiously in line outside the downtown stores of larger cities. But this doesn’t seem abnormal to me. These stores always draw crowds. Even in the UK, the release of a big title can draw fevered masses to the streets for a midnight launch.

No, I expected more. This game has been cited as one of the two most anticipated games in the Japanese Famitsu for nearly three years. Every thing blogs and magazine had lead me to believe about Japan’s love of Final Fantasy had me expecting every store was going to be rammed harder than a ewe in mating season. So I headed down to my local store for its early opening on the day of release to see the spectacle for myself.

The Lucky 7.

A pitiful line stood outside my local (but not insignificantly sized) game store. The cold winter morning hosted the bedraggled group of seven (six guys, one girl if you are interested). Each trudged slowly in as the door opened, they politely bought their game before scampering home. They all (perhaps rightly) looked at me like I was the weird one as I surreptitiously took photos on my iPhone, their confusion growing still greater as I didn’t even enter to buy the game. Slowly more arrived, one by one picking up their copies. The trickle of people continued on, but disappointingly it never grew in to the expected torrent.

Of course the reports are already coming in of successful the first day sales. Square-Enix talking of shipping two million copies of the game, with over one million sold on the first day alone. Obviously I am in no position to discount any of this, but I can say that claims of the game having sold out all over Japan are somewhat exaggerated. Perhaps there is a drought in Tokyo, but Osaka still has plenty to go around.

7pm, day 2, this store is about the size of two cars, still has lots to go around.

Anyone would be well within their rights to tell me I haven’t been to the otaku centres in my research. They could even tell me that this is the first Final Fantasy release I have witnessed since starting DoFuss; perhaps I mealy misinterpreted the western coverage of previous similar events. Too all of this I would have to hold my hands up and agree, that indeed I haven’t, but I did see the Dragon Quest 9 launch. I saw the state of every retailer in my area that day. Each and every one had been ransacked, and all of the staff looked exhausted. Shelves lay empty, with old Dragon Quest game the only thing left to fill the voids made by the day’s sales.

It’s to be expected. A large audience both due to complexity and platform penetration of course means Dragon Quest 9 was destined to sell better. But I visited a total of five game stores in my local area and all still had sizable stocks of Final Fantasy XIII still available. The game will be number one next week, of that there is no doubt. But unless you are unlucky enough to be looking to pick up a copy in one of the more famous gaming outlets you don’t have to worry about shortages just yet.

Now if youll excues me, I am off to reconstruct my shattered childhood beliefs.

Coz-play has become synonymous with Japanese gaming culture. At TGS this was represented by what I lovingly nick-named ‘coz-play avenue’. The effort coz-players put into their outfits was incredible. They even arrived out of costume and then changed at the show, paying five hundred yen each for the privilege of changing-rooms.

Actually coz-play is something I understand. I get the desire to dress-up to pay homage to a game or manga. What I think is a little less wholesome is scores of photographers. They wait in line for a coz-player to pose for them with doe eyed innocence and proceed take twenty or so photos.

TGS’s demographic skewed some where between twenty and forty, the photographers however tended to skew towards their forties and fifties. This made what seemed like a bit of fun into something more perverse. Well that’s what it think so maybe I am the sordid one.

Booth babes are a staple of TGS. Every company had a dozens of young ladies dressed in a variety of skimpy outfits to entice gamers into join their booth. Some were beautiful, some had tops that were undersized (to spectacular results) and all looked dead inside by the end of the day.

It isn’t a fun job of course, handing out flyers, having to smile and be bubbly all day to people you would normally cross the street to avoid. What really seemed to destroy their spirit though were the photos. Constant photos. They would hand out two flyers, and then have to stop for five minutes while fifty people took pictures of them smiling demurely at the camera. First I took pity, and then I took photos. That is until I saw the face of one ‘babe’ after one photographer refused the flyer she offered.

Think Juon.

But cute.