The passing of hardware designer Hideki Sato has made me reflect on how the Sega Master System shaped the way I enjoy video games, and on a friendship I made along the way.
My childhood was framed by the Sinclair ZX Spectrum, and I’ve written many times about my experiences with that trusty British home computer, most recently about the effect the terrible conversion of Double Dragon had on me.
But as I reached ten years old and into my early teens, I switched from being a computer game enthusiast to a console game enthusiast. And once that change happened, I rarely looked back.
That shift came as the ZX Spectrum really started to show its age, and just as 8-bit video game consoles began to make their presence felt in the UK. The Nintendo Game Boy would become part of that story later, but in my hazy recollection the turning point was really the Sega Master System. The news of Sato’s death has rekindled those memories, and brought home the importance of that particular platform to me.
The curious thing is that I never owned a Sega Master System.
Adam did.
Adam was my best friend at school. Striking, adored by everyone and with good reason. He was a genuinely nice guy, a force of nature who brought people together through humour and enthusiasm for everything, whether it was sports, movies, or video games. We haven’t spoken for years and sadly that’s on me, but I hope I can still say he’s a friend. And if we ever bump into each other again, I like to think we’ll just pick up where we left off. Adam, it’s my round.
Anyway, Adam had a Sega Master System. So, despite the fact it took us the best part of an hour – and two buses – to get to school, I always got to his house early so that we could play games, and I could marvel at this remarkable new console.
Goodbye Sinclair, Hello Sega
Having spent my youth wrestling with the rubber keys and loading times of the ZX Spectrum 48K – and later the clunky, tape-deck-adorned Spectrum +2 – the Master System hardware captivated me, even before I played a game.
Its angular, black-and-red design looked like something ripped from the Death Star’s control room. I was especially fascinated by the diagram on the front panel. It looks hilariously quaint now – essentially a map of how everything plugs in – but to my 11-year-old brain it was like a secret schematic that teased something so powerful it had to be documented.
The name ‘Power Base’, printed across the fascia, only reinforced that feeling, as did the fact that it could take both cartridges and credit-card-sized game cards. The Master System is a masterpiece of product design that still looks spectacular. And it also has the most satisfying power switch ever to grace a console, and I won’t hear otherwise.
The Control Pad was similarly revelatory. Coming off years of waggling – and continually having tantrums with – Cheetah 125+ joysticks, it was a joy to use. The pad felt designed for human hands, not something repurposed from a budget helicopter. Nintendo may have invented the form, but Sega got to me first.
Instant gaming
The Master System start-up screen has become iconic with good reason. No tapes or five-minute loads required. That woooooooop and two-note jingle still works its magic, and takes me back to the late 1980s in a flash. Now, as then, it suggests immediacy.
The sense of wonder was reinforced by the fact that the Master System had a game built in. Hang-On wasn’t included as a pack-in cartridge. It was already there, inside the system, waiting. Given the jump in graphics compared to the ZX Spectrum, it was like having an arcade machine in the bedroom.
And it got better.
Because the Master System also had another built-in game: a secret one. Snail Maze was only accessible by starting the console with no cartridge inserted and holding Up + 1 + 2 as it powered up. It’s a weird little game and I don’t even recall how we discovered it. Maybe it was from a magazine, or maybe it was a school whisper from Booty or Martin or some of the other kids we hung around with. The quality of the game – which is a slight experience at best – was irrelevant. It was the fact it even existed, tucked away inside the console like a wink.
Play time
Before long, our play sessions expanded into afternoons, weekends, and holidays. Adam and I would sit there burning through the likes of Alex Kidd, Rastan, Psycho Fox, Quartet, Basketball Nightmare, Rocky, and California Games. I don’t know where these games came from, but Adam had lovely (and, I suspect, generous) parents.
Best of all was Wonder Boy III: The Dragon’s Trap, a game that consumed a summer with its secrets, transformations, and challenge. We didn’t have access to The Legend of Zelda or Metroid, but the game fused the elements that made those franchises successful with style. Nintendo was present in the UK, but it felt like Sega had the upper hand. In our orbit, the Master System was everywhere. In catalogues, on magazine shelves (S: The Sega Magazine became our go-to), and certainly at school.
Adam eventually progressed to the Sega Mega Drive, and inevitably I clung on as we graduated into new obsessions such as Starflight and ToeJam & Earl. These were good times. The best times.
It’s true that Nintendo would eventually steal me away from Sega. The NES and SNES had their own gravitational pull of characters, polish, and impossible standards. But my love of console gaming – and of console hardware especially – started with the design and secrets of the Master System.
Specifically, Adam’s Master System.
So thank you, Adam. And thank you, Sato-san.
