The hard stuff

Darren Waters looks at the competition in the platform market

Statistics are often misleading but sometimes numbers do not lie. The global video game industry generates $30bn in sales each year, and the average age of a gamer is said to be 28 years old.

In the UK we spend more on computer games than we do on films at the cinema.

According to Screen Digest, more than £1.5bn will be spent on games in 2007, compared with £821m spent at the cinema box office.

Children and adults are playing more games on more platforms than ever before - from games consoles, to set-top boxes, mobile phones, the PC, the web and even the iPod. Yet hardware is not necessarily a money maker in the gaming market. In the console arena, Microsoft has now sold 13.4 million Xbox 360s worldwide, Nintendo has shifted 13.2 million Wii machines and Sony has sold 5.6 million PlayStation 3s, yet both Sony and Microsoft lose money on every console that they sell. For them, consoles are the delivery system through which they deliver the software and services that make the money.

Microsoft has capitalised on its 12-month head start into the market in this round of consoles, but it is Nintendo that is the success story of 2007. It is the only one of the three firms to make money on each console it sells and the Wii has been a runaway success to such an extent that Nintendo is struggling to meet demand.

Targeting family gaming

The company has targeted family gaming and shied away from the hardcore gamer market, focusing on fun, social interactivity and simplicity. Of all the three consoles it is the purest gaming platform - it does not play CDs, or DVDs, let alone high definition movies.

The Wiimote controller, which uses motion sensitivity rather than a plethora of buttons to direct the action has proved a huge hit with gamers of all ages.

Actors Nicole Kidman, Patrick Stewart and Julie Walters are the faces of an advertising campaign for Nintendo's handheld console, the DS - hardly the stereotype of the friendless, teen gamer.

Nintendo has sold more than 53 million DS consoles worldwide, twice the number that Sony has sold of its PlayStation Portable (PSP). Here too, Nintendo has focused on pure gaming, while Sony's PSP is also promoted as a media player and web browser.

Long term, it looks certain that all three console firms remain committed to the business. Microsoft has the deepest pockets of all three companies and sees the Xbox as a gateway to the digital living room of the future. It has invested billions of dollars in Xbox over the past decade and has yet to see a single cent in profit. Earlier this year, Microsoft's Shane Kim predicted that the firm would see its first profit from Xbox before the end of the 2008 financial year.

Hardcore gamers

The Xbox 360 continues to be seen as a console for hardcore gamers, despite attempts to broaden its appeal with arcade games available via its online service Xbox Live. In just five years Xbox Live, has attracted eight million subscribers worldwide and offers not just gaming but also video downloads and voice and video calls over the internet.

Sony has had a sticky 18 months - with delays to the launch of PlayStation 3, a lukewarm response to games on the machine and complaints that the console is too expensive. It has now launched a cut-down, cut-price version of PlayStation 3 and sales have spiked as a result, up 197 per cent in the month following the refinements.

HD movie player

Sony also makes great play of the fact the console can play Blu-ray high-definition movies. But, with the battle of formats between Blu-ray and HD-DVD still aflame, it is too early to know if this is a feature that really sells the console to consumers.

In the US, sales of hardware and software this year are up 50 per cent on 2006 and Christmas holiday sales are yet to be factored in.

The platform that is expected to see the biggest growth in the coming years is mobile gaming. Global mobile gaming revenue is set to skyrocket from $2.9bn in 2006 to $9.6bn in 2011, according to analysts Gartner.

Mobile phones like the iPhone, LG Viewty and Nokia N95 are now powerful enough to offer 3D gaming experiences.

The inclusion of global positioning satellite technology in phones could also lead to a rise in location-based games, with real-time action dependent on the gamers' physical location in the world.

The other growth area for gaming is among casual gamers, with an estimated 56 million people worldwide who play games on their PC regularly - everything from online chess and card games to puzzle titles.

Common games platform

The industry is expected to be worth $1bn in 2008 and encompass 80 million players within three years. Long term, some in the industry have predicted that the hardware wars could become irrelevant. Gerhard Florin, a senior executive at giant games publisher Electronic Arts, said the industry would benefit from a common games platform, instead of competing, and incompatible, systems.

Games hardware manufacturers could perhaps one day be competing services, or channels. Your gaming device of choice - be it console, PC phone, or set-top box - could be your conduit to Xbox Live or PlayStation World or Nintendo Land.

Whatever the future holds for the manufacturers of hardware, one thing is certain - the popularity of gaming shows no signs of diminishing.

One day it might not matter what hardware you play your games on.

Darren Waters is technology editor, for the BBC News website

This article first appeared in the 17 December 2007 issue of the New Statesman, Christmas and New Year special 2007

PAUL POPPER/POPPERFOTO
Show Hide image

No peace after progress

How the death of the industrial way of life gave us choice – and stoked resentment and fear.

Now that the making of useful and necessary things in Britain is only a shadow of what it once was, we can see more clearly the effects of the Manufacturing Age. The cost was high to the producers of prodigious wealth; a ten-year difference in life expectancy remains between people living in the richest areas and those in Glasgow. The (fleeting, it now seems) visitation of industrialism has made life more comfortable and its dismantling has liberated millions from choiceless occupations. The legacy is one of spectacular improvement, unequally shared.

Perhaps the most dramatic experience of the 20th century was the suddenness with which profligate plenty replaced a skinflint subsistence. Was it the speed of this that distracted us from wondering why, instead of the secure sustenance that generations of needy people had asked of an unyielding economic system, we were offered a promiscuous spillage of goods, promoted with quasi-religious zeal by the converts of a capitalism that had previously delivered to most of its captive workers a life of penury? Such a rapid reversal might have alerted us to changes beneath the surface that elided losses incurred.

The greatest of these was certainly not the extinction of the industrial way of life itself, release from which has been an unqualified blessing. But the transition from relentlessly work-driven lives (in the 1950s, two-thirds of Britain’s workers were still manual labourers) was marked by perfunctory obituaries for the disintegration of industrial communities, with no acknowledgement that, for a century and a half, they had represented the inescapable destiny of the people they sheltered.

Even less recognition was given to the fortitude with which they had borne a long, coercive labour. A way of life, buried without ceremony in the unmarked grave of progress, could not be mourned; and this has generated some social pathologies of our time: resentment over an arbitrary obliteration of industry, disengagement from a party of labour by those it called, like feudal lords, its “own people”, loss of memory of the economic migrants we also were, passing from the goad of industry into the pastures of consumption, and thence into the liberating servitude of technology.

Grief makes no judgement on the intrinsic value of what is lost. Absence of the known and familiar is the object of melancholy in its own right, even if replaced by something immeasurably better. Objectively, there was little to mourn in the vanished industrial way of life: insufficiency and humiliation, malice of overseer and manager, officiousness of poor-law administrator and means-test man. Male industrial workers exhausted in body and spirit, instead of protecting those for whom the power of their hands was the only shelter against destitution, visited similar punishment on their wives and children. There is nothing to be lamented in an end to the penitential life of women, scrubbing not only the red tiles of the kitchen floor, but even an arc of pavement outside the front door; their interception of men on payday before wages were wasted on beer and oblivion; the clenching against joyless invasion of their bodies in the boozy aftermath. But it was the only life they knew, and they adhered to it with grim stoicism and even pride.

There is much to be said for their resistance. The fragile lattice formed by women’s arms was often the only safety net against destitution. Trade unions and friendly and burial societies that shielded folk from economic violence foreshadowed the welfare state and the National Health Service.

The life of labouring people in Britain was strikingly homogeneous, despite diversity of occupation, dialect and local sensibility. There was the same collective experience: terraced house with parlour reserved for celebration or mourning; the three-piece suite, plaster figure on a stand behind the window, chenille curtain against the draught, engraving of The Stag at Bay on the wall; the deal table and Windsor chairs in the living room, the mantelpiece a domestic shrine with clock, candlesticks and pictures of soldiers smiling before they died; the music of cinders falling through the bars in the grate; cheerless bedrooms where husband and wife slept in high connubial state, more bier than bed, where sexual enjoyment was ritually sacrificed as flowers of frost formed on the inside of the window.

And everywhere photographs: wraithlike children with ringlets or in sailor suits, fated never to grow up; weddings in the back garden, a bouquet of lilies and a grandmother in boots and astrakhan hat; the smudged features of a kinsman no one can now identify. Identical memories, too: the shotgun wedding in the dingy finery of a Co-op hall; the funeral tableau around the grave, amid ominous inscriptions of “Sleeping where no shadows fall”; queues outside the ocean-going Savoy or Tivoli to watch Gone With the Wind; the pub where “Vilia” or “The Last Rose of Summer” was hammered out on a discordant piano.

The opening up of such sombre lives might have been expected to call forth cries of gratitude. Instead, a synthetic joy has emanated largely from the same sources that, until recently, offered people grudging survival only, the change of tune outsourced to producers of manufactured delight, purveyors of contrived euphoria to the people – a different order of industrial artefact from the shoes, utensils and textiles of another era.

***

A more authentic popular res­ponse exists beneath the official psalmody, a persistent murmur of discontent and powerlessness. Anger and aggression swirl around like dust and waste paper in the streets of our affluent, unequal society. As long-term recipients of the contempt of our betters, we know how to despise the vulnerable – people incapable of work, the poor, the timid and the fearful, those addicted to drugs and alcohol. Sullen resentment tarnishes the wealth of the world, a conviction that somebody else is getting the advantages that ought to be “ours” by right and by merit.

Rancour appears among those “left behind” in neighbourhoods besieged by unknown tongues and foreign accents: people who never voted for unchosen change, as all political options are locked up in a consensus of elites. “Give us back our country!”
they cry; even though that country is not in the custody of those from whom they would reclaim it. There was no space for the working class to grieve over its own dissolution. If, as E P Thompson said, that class was present at its own making, it was certainly not complicit in its own undoing.

Grief denied in individuals leads to damaging psychological disorders. There is no reason to believe that this differs for those bereaved of a known way of living. The working class has been colonised, as was the peasantry in the early industrial era. When the values, beliefs and myths of indigenous peoples are laid waste, these lose meaning, and people go to grieve in city slums and die from alcohol, drugs and other forms of self-inflicted violence. Though the dominant culture’s erasure of the manufacturing way of life in Britain was less intense than the colonial ruin of ancient societies, this subculture was equally unceremoniously broken. It is a question of degree. The ravages of drugs and alcohol and self-harm in silent former pit villages and derelict factory towns show convergence with other ruined cultures elsewhere in the world.

Depression is a symptom of repressed grief: here is the connection between unfinished mourning and popular resentment at having been cheated out of our fair share, our due, our place in the world. If we are unable to discern our own possible fate in suffering people now, this is perhaps a result of estrangement from unresolved wrongs in our own past. Nothing was ever explained. Globalisation occurred under a kind of social laissez-faire: no political education made the world more comprehensible to the disaffected and disregarded, people of small account to those who take decisions on their behalf and in their name.

Anyone who protested against our passage into this changed world was criminalised, called “wrecker” and “extremist”. The miners’ strike of 1984 was the symbol of this: their doomed fight to preserve a dignity achieved in pain and violence was presented by the merchants of deliverance not only as retrograde, but also as an act of outlawry. Resistance to compulsory change was derided as a response of nostalgics protecting the indefensible, when the whole world was on the brink of a new life. Early in her tenure of Downing Street, Margaret Thatcher, that sybil and prophet who knew about these things, warned that Britain would become “a less cosy, more abrasive” place: a vision confirmed by the Battle of Orgreave – redolent of civil war – and the anguish of Hillsborough.

It is too late to grieve now. Scar tissue has healed over the untreated wound. Though no one expects the ruling classes to understand the distress of perpetual “modernisation”, the leaders of labour might have been able to recognise capitalism’s realm of freedom and a gaudy consumerism that concealed hardening competitiveness and the growth of a crueller, more bitter society.

The ills of this best of all worlds, its excessive wealth and extreme inequality, are on show in hushed thoroughfares of London, shuttered sites of “inward investment”, where the only sound is the faint melody of assets appreciating; while elsewhere, people wait for charitable tins of denutrified substances to feed their family, or sit under a grubby duvet, a Styrofoam cup beseeching the pence of passers-by.

Unresolved feelings about industrialism, enforced with great harshness and abolished with equal contempt for those who served it, are certainly related to the stylish savagery of contemporary life. The alibi that present-day evils are an expression of “human nature” is a poor apology for what is clearly the nature – restless and opportunistic – of a social and economic system that has, so far at least, outwitted its opponents at every turn.

Jeremy Seabrook’s book “The Song of the Shirt” (C Hurst & Co) won the Bread and Roses Award for Radical Publishing 2016

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain