JosephJDowling
Newbie
- Credits
- 0CR
Hey guys
Some of you will know me as one of the owners of Four Quarters. I'm looking for a couple of people to read a novel I've written, specifically to check the realism of the arcade gaming element. All that is required is a solid knowledge of the gameplay elements of classic arcade machines and preferably an enjoyment of reading!
Blurb -
Take one snarky English goth girl, add three arcade-obsessed suitors, and grab your Sony Walkman for a nostalgia-drenched trip to San Jose, 1983, at the peak of video gaming’s golden age.
Exploring themes such as obsession, sexuality and platonic friendship, and boasting a supporting cast of memorable characters, THE OUTRUNNERS (64,000 words), is a coming-of-age novel which will appeal to fans of Ernest Cline's READY PLAYER ONE, and pretty much any John Hughes movie ever.
Obviously I have played all the classics and have done my research but my ability at these games is nowhere near the skill level of my characters.
Here's a sample so you can see if it's something you might enjoy....
Brandon stepped into his favorite place. The familiar sickly-sweet smell of cigarettes, perspiration, wood, corn snacks and a hundred other more subtle notes felt like home, better than home even. Space Race was home. A light haze hung in the air, and a myriad of bleeps, shouts and other noises created a discordant wall of sound for anyone not used to it. Despite the low lighting, the room offered a warm ambiance from the glow of the screens and their bright marquees.
His worn Chuck Taylor All-Stars stuck to the orange and brown patterned carpet as he strolled across, taking his time to scan the half-full room for new arrivals. There it was—Star Wars Deluxe—the brand-new Atari arcade, based on the movie, of course, with its resplendent sit-down cockpit cabinet. He had been anticipating the game for over a year now, following its progress in the press, although Atari had kept the game a closely guarded secret. Via the rumor mill, amplified by the proximity to Atari’s headquarters a few miles away in Sunnyvale, Brandon had already gained the gist of Star Wars’ tactics and gameplay. At last, it was time to play for real, not just in his imagination.
The long line of kids which snaked towards the new machine created a buzz of excited chatter. Brandon joined the queue behind Wayne Schmidt, the ginger-haired kid from school. While he waited his turn, he jingled his four spare quarters and tapped his foot. Unlike most other arcades in the Bay area, Space Race’s games still operated on coins. The biggest arcade around was Galactican, on Saratoga Ave and Prospect Road. Brandon went there as often as possible, but they had recently started exchanging only three tokens per dollar. His precious and hard-earned cash stretched further here. Besides, not even Galactican had a Star Wars cab yet.
But, for the first time in Space Race’s history, they’d set a game at two quarters per play. “Two damn quarters? Man, this is a joke,” One boy said as he saw the sign and exited the queue.
Good, thought Brandon, one less asshole in my way.
Most players were averaging around two-and-a-half minutes before climbing out of the cockpit, with a mixture of exhilaration and disappointment slung across their faces, desperate to get straight back in and deposit another two quarters. The unwritten rule stated: if there’s a queue and it’s a new game, you only got one turn. At least half the kids got straight back in line. Next up was Billy McArthur, a lanky boy from his high school, two years older than Brandon, but he’d been kept back to repeat twelfth grade. Over a black AC/DC tee-shirt, he wore a denim jacket with cut-off sleeves. He had long, greasy, thin black hair, bad skin and a fluffy mustache growing on his top lip. Billy managed four minutes, which was the best performance he’d witnessed so far.
Once Billy had begrudgingly made way, Wayne took his place inside the cockpit. Brandon watched intently, peering inside, and making mental notes as he examined the playfield. At the top of the screen in the center, it displayed six shields. On the left side was the score and the right side tracked the current wave number.
Wayne lasted only two minutes before losing his final shield. Destruction followed seconds later. He emitted a high-pitched squeal of anger and levered himself out. “Man, this is seriously awesome!” he said, his high-pitched voice rich with enthusiasm.
Wayne’s brow was dripping with sweat, but Brandon hardly noticed him as he admired the flawless paintwork and side art, while his hand explored the machine’s sleek curves. Finally, the moment had arrived. His mouth grew dry, and his heartbeat quickened as he deposited two quarters into the coin slot and eased himself into the cockpit. He caressed the black plastic of the yoke in front of him, slick with Wayne’s sweat. His fingers glided over the buttons as his thumbs slid across the two side controls. Now his chance beckoned to control his own X-Wing Fighter, something he’d daydreamed about ever since watching the original film.
Little could prepare him for how good the crisp vector graphics were. Of course, he had played and mastered other vector-based titles, like Asteroids and Battlezone, but this promised to be an even more immersive experience. The game offered three difficulty levels; a chance to start on Wave 3 or Wave 5 for a bonus. Like all the other kids, he chose Wave 1, eager to learn the game’s mechanics. The first phase saw relentless attacks from wire-framed green Tie Fighters, with the Death Star floating into view in the background. After a little more than half a minute, he had his first look at the Death Star’s trench. He had been looking forward to this part, but soon the words Exhaust Port Ahead flashed up in the center of the screen, and he duly dispatched a proton torpedo to destroy the Death Star. His score ticked over 50,000 and the Tie Fighters attacked again for Wave 2 while the digitally reproduced John Williams theme tune played from the machine’s speakers.
He cursed under his breath when he lost a shield to a Tie-Fighter, but soon returned to the trench. It offered a greater challenge the second time, with more obstacles and enemies, and he lost another shield before moving onto Wave 3. The Tie-Fighters fired even faster, but he navigated them without loss and came onto the regenerated Death Star’s surface, where there were now huge towers topped with laser turrets to navigate, along with red tanks.
He fought his way onto Wave 4, with his score passing 300,000, and the difficulty ratcheted up yet another notch. By the time he reached the trench for the fourth time, he’d lost all his shields—one more hit and he was toast. Sweat beaded at his brow. The yoke felt slippery wet by now, and sweat was pouring from his underarms, soaking his orange T-shirt. Faces peered into the cockpit, watching and trying to glean free strategy tips, but Brandon ignored them.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled as the old bastard Darth Vader himself took out his defenseless fighter. Game Over. He’d lasted over five minutes and racked up a score of 548,000, good enough for eighth on the leaderboard, a decent first attempt. Even better, he’d pushed off Raj Singh’s tenth-placed score into the oblivion of non-existence.
The moment he dizzily climbed out of the cockpit, the next kid in line shoved past him and inside, not caring about the clammy yoke and heady smell of teenage perspiration. Brandon stood for a moment, his vision adjusting back to reality. For the first time, he noticed Raj, a few places back in line, watching with interest, no doubt.
“Over half a mill, Williams. Not too shabby, but I’ll beat it in a minute. That’s a promise,” Raj snarled. Brandon said nothing and scrunched up his face in sarcasm. He and Raj regularly jostled for top scores on many of the arcade’s most popular titles.
Fingering his final two coins, he wandered over towards Robotron:2084, Eugene Jarvis’ 1982 twin-stick masterpiece. Brandon was the only player at Space Race, perhaps in the entire Bay Area, to have cracked a million points, and he never grew tired of the game’s adrenaline-fueled action.
Once he’d exhausted his credits, he moved towards the arcade’s exit, ready to head home, but he stopped when he passed a crowd of excited kids gathered around a poster. When they finally moved out of the way, he saw it for himself.
Wayne joined him, also reading the poster in awe. “Holy shit man, how the hell did they swing such an awesome prize with Atari? That’s insane!”
“I dunno, man, but that prize is mine,” said Brandon. Wayne turned away from the poster to look him up and down but offered nothing to counter his assertion. For once in his life, confidence coursed through his veins. This is your moment, screamed his mind. You must win this. Perhaps he’d never need to set foot in his dumbass school again, because he’d have the coolest job in the world. The prospect of wanting something so badly made his palms even sweatier than playing Star Wars had.
Some of you will know me as one of the owners of Four Quarters. I'm looking for a couple of people to read a novel I've written, specifically to check the realism of the arcade gaming element. All that is required is a solid knowledge of the gameplay elements of classic arcade machines and preferably an enjoyment of reading!
Blurb -
Take one snarky English goth girl, add three arcade-obsessed suitors, and grab your Sony Walkman for a nostalgia-drenched trip to San Jose, 1983, at the peak of video gaming’s golden age.
Exploring themes such as obsession, sexuality and platonic friendship, and boasting a supporting cast of memorable characters, THE OUTRUNNERS (64,000 words), is a coming-of-age novel which will appeal to fans of Ernest Cline's READY PLAYER ONE, and pretty much any John Hughes movie ever.
Obviously I have played all the classics and have done my research but my ability at these games is nowhere near the skill level of my characters.
Here's a sample so you can see if it's something you might enjoy....
Brandon stepped into his favorite place. The familiar sickly-sweet smell of cigarettes, perspiration, wood, corn snacks and a hundred other more subtle notes felt like home, better than home even. Space Race was home. A light haze hung in the air, and a myriad of bleeps, shouts and other noises created a discordant wall of sound for anyone not used to it. Despite the low lighting, the room offered a warm ambiance from the glow of the screens and their bright marquees.
His worn Chuck Taylor All-Stars stuck to the orange and brown patterned carpet as he strolled across, taking his time to scan the half-full room for new arrivals. There it was—Star Wars Deluxe—the brand-new Atari arcade, based on the movie, of course, with its resplendent sit-down cockpit cabinet. He had been anticipating the game for over a year now, following its progress in the press, although Atari had kept the game a closely guarded secret. Via the rumor mill, amplified by the proximity to Atari’s headquarters a few miles away in Sunnyvale, Brandon had already gained the gist of Star Wars’ tactics and gameplay. At last, it was time to play for real, not just in his imagination.
The long line of kids which snaked towards the new machine created a buzz of excited chatter. Brandon joined the queue behind Wayne Schmidt, the ginger-haired kid from school. While he waited his turn, he jingled his four spare quarters and tapped his foot. Unlike most other arcades in the Bay area, Space Race’s games still operated on coins. The biggest arcade around was Galactican, on Saratoga Ave and Prospect Road. Brandon went there as often as possible, but they had recently started exchanging only three tokens per dollar. His precious and hard-earned cash stretched further here. Besides, not even Galactican had a Star Wars cab yet.
But, for the first time in Space Race’s history, they’d set a game at two quarters per play. “Two damn quarters? Man, this is a joke,” One boy said as he saw the sign and exited the queue.
Good, thought Brandon, one less asshole in my way.
Most players were averaging around two-and-a-half minutes before climbing out of the cockpit, with a mixture of exhilaration and disappointment slung across their faces, desperate to get straight back in and deposit another two quarters. The unwritten rule stated: if there’s a queue and it’s a new game, you only got one turn. At least half the kids got straight back in line. Next up was Billy McArthur, a lanky boy from his high school, two years older than Brandon, but he’d been kept back to repeat twelfth grade. Over a black AC/DC tee-shirt, he wore a denim jacket with cut-off sleeves. He had long, greasy, thin black hair, bad skin and a fluffy mustache growing on his top lip. Billy managed four minutes, which was the best performance he’d witnessed so far.
Once Billy had begrudgingly made way, Wayne took his place inside the cockpit. Brandon watched intently, peering inside, and making mental notes as he examined the playfield. At the top of the screen in the center, it displayed six shields. On the left side was the score and the right side tracked the current wave number.
Wayne lasted only two minutes before losing his final shield. Destruction followed seconds later. He emitted a high-pitched squeal of anger and levered himself out. “Man, this is seriously awesome!” he said, his high-pitched voice rich with enthusiasm.
Wayne’s brow was dripping with sweat, but Brandon hardly noticed him as he admired the flawless paintwork and side art, while his hand explored the machine’s sleek curves. Finally, the moment had arrived. His mouth grew dry, and his heartbeat quickened as he deposited two quarters into the coin slot and eased himself into the cockpit. He caressed the black plastic of the yoke in front of him, slick with Wayne’s sweat. His fingers glided over the buttons as his thumbs slid across the two side controls. Now his chance beckoned to control his own X-Wing Fighter, something he’d daydreamed about ever since watching the original film.
Little could prepare him for how good the crisp vector graphics were. Of course, he had played and mastered other vector-based titles, like Asteroids and Battlezone, but this promised to be an even more immersive experience. The game offered three difficulty levels; a chance to start on Wave 3 or Wave 5 for a bonus. Like all the other kids, he chose Wave 1, eager to learn the game’s mechanics. The first phase saw relentless attacks from wire-framed green Tie Fighters, with the Death Star floating into view in the background. After a little more than half a minute, he had his first look at the Death Star’s trench. He had been looking forward to this part, but soon the words Exhaust Port Ahead flashed up in the center of the screen, and he duly dispatched a proton torpedo to destroy the Death Star. His score ticked over 50,000 and the Tie Fighters attacked again for Wave 2 while the digitally reproduced John Williams theme tune played from the machine’s speakers.
He cursed under his breath when he lost a shield to a Tie-Fighter, but soon returned to the trench. It offered a greater challenge the second time, with more obstacles and enemies, and he lost another shield before moving onto Wave 3. The Tie-Fighters fired even faster, but he navigated them without loss and came onto the regenerated Death Star’s surface, where there were now huge towers topped with laser turrets to navigate, along with red tanks.
He fought his way onto Wave 4, with his score passing 300,000, and the difficulty ratcheted up yet another notch. By the time he reached the trench for the fourth time, he’d lost all his shields—one more hit and he was toast. Sweat beaded at his brow. The yoke felt slippery wet by now, and sweat was pouring from his underarms, soaking his orange T-shirt. Faces peered into the cockpit, watching and trying to glean free strategy tips, but Brandon ignored them.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled as the old bastard Darth Vader himself took out his defenseless fighter. Game Over. He’d lasted over five minutes and racked up a score of 548,000, good enough for eighth on the leaderboard, a decent first attempt. Even better, he’d pushed off Raj Singh’s tenth-placed score into the oblivion of non-existence.
The moment he dizzily climbed out of the cockpit, the next kid in line shoved past him and inside, not caring about the clammy yoke and heady smell of teenage perspiration. Brandon stood for a moment, his vision adjusting back to reality. For the first time, he noticed Raj, a few places back in line, watching with interest, no doubt.
“Over half a mill, Williams. Not too shabby, but I’ll beat it in a minute. That’s a promise,” Raj snarled. Brandon said nothing and scrunched up his face in sarcasm. He and Raj regularly jostled for top scores on many of the arcade’s most popular titles.
Fingering his final two coins, he wandered over towards Robotron:2084, Eugene Jarvis’ 1982 twin-stick masterpiece. Brandon was the only player at Space Race, perhaps in the entire Bay Area, to have cracked a million points, and he never grew tired of the game’s adrenaline-fueled action.
Once he’d exhausted his credits, he moved towards the arcade’s exit, ready to head home, but he stopped when he passed a crowd of excited kids gathered around a poster. When they finally moved out of the way, he saw it for himself.
The Great Space Race Arcade Olympiad
Saturday 11th June - $5 entry fee / $2.50 spectators
Sign up opens at 09:30 for a prompt 11:00 start.
Doors locked at midday. No late comers, no exceptions.
Pac-Man
Donkey Kong
Robotron: 2084
Galaxian
Defender
Pole Position
Frogger
Star Wars
Missile Command
Tron
10 points for 1st down to 1 point for 10th
1 credit per player per game. Highest combined score wins the grand prize.
Internship at Atari as a games tester
Get practicing with extended opening hours!
Saturday 11th June - $5 entry fee / $2.50 spectators
Sign up opens at 09:30 for a prompt 11:00 start.
Doors locked at midday. No late comers, no exceptions.
Pac-Man
Donkey Kong
Robotron: 2084
Galaxian
Defender
Pole Position
Frogger
Star Wars
Missile Command
Tron
10 points for 1st down to 1 point for 10th
1 credit per player per game. Highest combined score wins the grand prize.
Internship at Atari as a games tester
Get practicing with extended opening hours!
Wayne joined him, also reading the poster in awe. “Holy shit man, how the hell did they swing such an awesome prize with Atari? That’s insane!”
“I dunno, man, but that prize is mine,” said Brandon. Wayne turned away from the poster to look him up and down but offered nothing to counter his assertion. For once in his life, confidence coursed through his veins. This is your moment, screamed his mind. You must win this. Perhaps he’d never need to set foot in his dumbass school again, because he’d have the coolest job in the world. The prospect of wanting something so badly made his palms even sweatier than playing Star Wars had.
