Over a Barrel
When he became addicted to the classic arcade game Donkey Kong, his only hope for a cure was to go for the world record

By Josh Criss
Sunday, November 9, 2008

I was an awkward, stick-thin 13-year-old, and one afternoon I entered my small-town Vermont arcade as I did most days after school. The place was tucked away in the left corner of a run-down shopping plaza, hidden between a movie theater and a fabric store. It was a refuge for nerds, sullen toughs and other misfits looking for escape in a town that had little else to offer. The games were not just fun; they demanded complete focus, so everything else faded away. I was there every chance I could get.

On this day, everyone was crowded around a new cabinet, leaving the other games virtually abandoned. The kid at the joystick was no doubt the arcade's alpha male, likely sporting wisps of facial hair. The rest of us were left to jostle for glimpses of the screen. For me, too short to see over most heads and too low in the hierarchy to expect to play anytime soon, it was hard to get a good look at the game -- but its name was plastered on the side of the cabinet: Donkey Kong.

For an arcade crowd used to single-screen options such as Pac-Man, Centipede and Frogger, Donkey Kong represented a new era in video games. Featuring four different screens, the game had a bizarre, cartoonish quality; even the angry expressions of the titular antagonist, a rogue gorilla, were cutely entertaining. It was also the first appearance of the game's hero -- the stubby, overalls-clad, mustachioed carpenter, Mario (in later games, he became a plumber).

Donkey Kong's basic premise is that the gorilla has kidnapped Mario's girlfriend and carried her to the top of a building under construction. As Mario, you must reach the top of four different construction screens and rescue her. Every level starts with the "barrel board" -- the first of Donkey Kong's four screens -- a series of ladders and slanted girders that Mario must ascend. At the top of the structure, Donkey Kong is releasing barrels that roll down the girders toward Mario, whom you control. The barrels take shortcuts down some ladders while rolling over other ladders, creating ever-changing barrel groups that Mario must jump over or otherwise avoid. Randomly, the gorilla will also pick up a barrel and hurl it in Mario's direction. During all this mayhem, one or more fireballs work their way up from the bottom girder. If they reach Mario, he dies. If he touches a barrel, he dies. If he falls off a girder, he dies.

There is a "pie factory board" that features conveyor belts carrying what look like pies (actually pans of cement), and fast-moving fireballs. There's the "elevator board," where Mario must jump from one precarious moving platform to the next before negotiating a never-ending series of bouncing springs. And finally, the "rivet board," in which Mario must avoid a team of fireballs while removing eight rivets from a five-story skeleton of girders.

Untold weeks after Donkey Kong arrived at my local arcade, I finally got a chance to play. I became an average player, but it never really hooked me. The arcade closed some years later, as sophisticated home consoles took over, and I forgot about Donkey Kong. In the decades since, I have lived the typical life of a government contractor, bought a small condo close to work, and watched the years pass by in a blur.

This past February, I rent the documentary "The King of Kong" -- the story of the quest for the Donkey Kong world record between archrivals Billy Mitchell and Steve Wiebe -- and it takes me back to my own first glimpse of the game. I fondly remember the dim lighting and artificially induced adrenaline of my hometown arcade. I'm intrigued by the general agreement among the film's gamers that Donkey Kong is the hardest of the classic games -- citing, in particular, the legendary status of the third elevator board. I find myself wondering how I could do at the game, if I really tried.

There's no need to go looking for an arcade, as the Multiple Arcade Machine Emulator (MAME) has been available as a free download since the late 1990s. MAME uses data cloned from the actual circuit boards of classic arcade games, then essentially fools your computer into thinking that hardware is installed. The effect is identical to having just plugged the original arcade cabinet into a wall outlet. In the case of Donkey Kong, you hear the gorilla's mocking snort, then "INSERT COIN" appears on the screen, atop the list of high scores. No need for quarters, though -- every press of the "5" key equals one credit. And, just like that, the game I had to wait weeks to play as a lower-tier arcade rat 27 years ago has possessed my computer.

But this time, Donkey Kong grabs me. I realize that virtually every time Mario dies, you can identify your error and convince yourself that you won't repeat it. I discover that the barrels and fireballs have surprisingly complex behaviors -- all but invisible to anyone playing the game casually -- that can be subtly influenced by your own movements. In "King of Kong," Steve Wiebe talks of "controlling the barrels," and as game follows game, I gradually understand what he means. Pulling it off consistently is another matter. As the weeks pass, I'm amazed by the amount of depth crammed into a game that, on the surface, appears to be a cartoonish and goofy distraction.

With my 40th birthday approaching, I find myself obsessed with Donkey Kong. A game before work. A game after work. Games until it's time for bed. The world record is 1,050,200 points. Within three weeks, I've recorded a 185,000-point game. After five weeks, I reach 228,000. Every death is a new lesson. And then there's that notorious third elevator board. Game after game, and between games, I study the third elevator board like the Warren Commission studied the Zapruder film.

It all comes down to climbing the board's final ladder. Sometimes you get killed by a bouncing spring, sometimes you don't, and it's nearly impossible to see why. I find a YouTube video titled "How to Beat the Third Elevator Stage on Donkey Kong," which suggests that all you need to do is run for the ladder when a spring lines up perfectly with the metal platform atop the left elevator. After initial elation, I discover that it only works about 60 percent of the time. Finally, I find an article from Wired.com's "How-To" series that breaks the case wide open, and it's written by Steve Wiebe himself.

Yet even after it's broken down into elementary-school components, I find the board's final run for survival too hard to execute. To dash Mario toward the ladder and then up it, while at the same time analyzing the next spring that emerges, takes the dual-brained concentration of a skilled pianist. It's beyond me.

But like everything else, it takes lots and lots of practice. My scores slowly climb toward 300,000. Weeks become months, and my unfortunate addiction continues. I come to realize that the game has turned into a ready excuse for avoiding things I don't feel like doing. My laundry piles up. The kitchen counters become covered with splatters and crumbs. Dust gathers along the floor to the point of easy visibility. Yet I play on. I break 300,000. I continue to learn new tricks.

And then, one night after work, I sit down and play a game that lasts 62 minutes. A score of 510,500. According to Twin Galaxies, the official records repository for all things video game, the score would have put me, at that time, at No. 9 in the list of all-time greatest Donkey Kong players. From an announcement on Twin Galaxies' home page, I see that the next "International Classic Video Game & Pinball Tournament" is at the end of May, up in New Hampshire at Funspot Arcade, where, in "King of Kong," Wiebe was filmed achieving the then-highest score ever reached in public.

With less than three weeks until the tournament, I decide to try to replicate my top 10 score at an official venue; even if Donkey Kong isn't in the tournament, I know that any score I receive at Funspot can be authenticated by tournament officials. I'm not sure how tough the transition will be, playing on an actual cabinet with a joystick, when I'm used to the PC's arrow keys. But I need to go. Aside from the allure of officially breaking into Donkey Kong's all-time top 10, I need to get this cursed game out of my system.

One night, in horror, I discover that MAME keeps track of not only how many times you've played each of its games, but how long you've played each game. Wincing, I scroll to the right and look at the column for Donkey Kong: 135 hours. In three months.

But now I'm training. There's a purpose to playing every chance I can. Unfortunately, Donkey Kong doesn't cooperate. I get close to my high score only once. I gradually realize part of the problem is that, to my relief, I'm actually getting sick of the game. Donkey Kong was never meant to be played for hours straight; it was meant to entertain for a minute or two and take your quarter. The true genius of the game is in the million ways Mario can get killed. After all this time, the challenge of keeping him alive is finally starting to wear thin.

I arrive in New Hampshire a day before the tournament starts, hoping to give myself a chance to acclimate to playing on an actual cabinet. First, I run off excess energy on the hotel's treadmill. Then I take a shower, get dressed and do something I haven't done since I was a teenager. I go to the arcade.

The interior of Funspot is cavernous and dimly lit, as an arcade should be -- with row after row of cabinets I haven't seen in decades. There are flashbacks every few feet: Hogan's Alley. Punch-Out!! Crazy Climber. Robotron. Battlezone. The place is mostly empty, which I'm grateful for. I finally find Donkey Kong; there are three people gathered around it who have the pale, somewhat disheveled look of hard-core gamers. There is also a subtle indication that the game has special status here: It's the only one with a stool in front of it.

I don't want to appear too eager, so I continue past Donkey Kong to another flashback: Crossbow. This is one of the few games I had mastered to the point of playing indefinitely on a single quarter. I remember a date when we strolled to the arcade from the movie theater and the poor girl watched me play the game for at least half an hour. Whatever kept her smiling and serene that entire time, standing beside my scrawny, 17-year-old shoulder, remains a mystery. I only wish I could inspire that kind of devotion in my current relationships. I put in a token and start, keeping an eye on Donkey Kong.

When the gamers surrounding Donkey Kong eventually leave, I approach the cabinet with reverence. I was hoping that Steve Wiebe's 900,000+ point game was still immortalized in the high scores, but they've been reset and his initials are long gone. Worse still, there are alien initials: SDK, and they're next to scores such as 611,700 and 765,400. Better than I could ever hope for.

Sighing, I sag onto the stool and start playing. The joystick feels awkward, like a loose tooth clunking around. I play hesitantly and stiffly, which I know from experience that the game can sense and will punish severely. Level 2, screen 1, Kong hurls a rogue barrel that crushes Mario's noggin. I have 12,000 points.

I gradually get used to the joystick and the "jump" button. My score increases to 138,000, but considering my intentions, that is downright embarrassing. I play again. Arcade rats shuffle by and watch for a few minutes, then leave. One guy compliments me on getting past the elevator board on level 5, then tells me he's from New York, here for the tournament, and his Donkey Kong high score is 370,000.

It occurs to me I'm likely just one of a hundred nerds out there, third-tier players riding a renewed wave of enthusiasm for the game after "King of Kong" came out.

I get 286,000 on my second game and enter my initials, which puts me at No. 4 on the high-score screen. As soon as I'm done, another guy sits down. I watch for a few minutes, enough to tell that he's an expert. His name is Eric, he's from Seattle, and his all-time best is 490,000. Yes, he saw "SDK" earlier. He overheard SDK telling someone that his best game was more than 900,000.

The next day, I pull into Funspot's parking lot. It's noon, bright and sunny, and I'm just in time for the tournament's opening. Walking into an arcade is like walking into a cave. The tournament is being held in a separate room within Funspot, into which 27 classic arcade games have been moved, including five or six pinball machines. Other than two featured games this year -- Defender and its sequel, Stargate -- none of the selected games were known to participants until today. Players have four days -- today through Sunday -- to do their best on these games, and their high scores will be recorded. In addition to competing for bragging rights on individual games, players can also submit cumulative high scores in video and pinball, so a champion in each category will be crowned.

Of the 27 games lined up against one wall of the tournament room, more than half are already being played by pale, highly focused guys wearing name badges. Apparently the tournament has started without any fanfare. Official referees are sitting in chairs behind the players, spaced along the row, one referee for every five or six cabinets. As I pay the $30 entry fee and pick up my badge, I scan the games. Donkey Kong isn't among them. Most are unknown to me, but I was good at a few. I always found Defender and Stargate impossible, and I know better than to attempt any of the pinball machines.

I walk up to a game called Cheyenne, at which I used to be an expert. Amazingly, the referee sitting behind me is an adorable, college-age blonde. She glances at me with the detached, indifferent air of a professional referee, then looks away. Not much chance of impressing a girl that young and cute, particularly when you're a graying 40-year-old with a name tag bearing the logo of the International Classic Video Game & Pinball Tournament. Sighing, I wrap my arms around Cheyenne's 1850s rifle-styled light gun. Last time I played this game I was in the lobby of my Syracuse University dorm, and likely stoned.

The feel of the game comes back to me, but not quickly enough, and my score is worthless. According to the rules, you can play any game as often as you want and have a ref verify any score you want to submit. But I don't want to play again. So I leave the tournament room and wind my way through the general arcade, toward Donkey Kong.

SDK has struck again, and according to today's high score list, he reached 895,400 and level 22. Known as the "kill screen," it's where Donkey Kong's programming fails, and the game crashes. That puts him on the level of champs Mitchell and Wiebe. I put in a token and struggle to 185,000, which doesn't even allow me the privilege of entering my initials. I try again and barely break 220,000. My wrist hurts from pressing the jump button. I don't want to control barrels anymore or goad fireballs into climbing ladders. Ineptitude aside, I'm tired of Donkey Kong, and I realize there's not a game in this entire arcade that I really want to play. I'm alone in the resort town of Laconia, N.H., surrounded by the games of my youth, with nothing to do. I try my luck at Cheyenne one more time, but the 24-year-old light gun is on the fritz. I wander around a bit more, then head back to the hotel.

From the Guinness World Records Web Site, June 2008:

Guinness World Records Takes Over Funspot

After four furious days of classic gaming, gamers from across the globe achieved record after record at the Tenth Annual Classic Videogame and Pinball Tournament at Funspot, the world's largest arcade, in Laconia, New Hampshire, USA . . .

. . . Scott Kessler, a newcomer to the Donkey Kong scene, having only started playing the game last August, became the third person ever to achieve a kill screen in the classic game, essentially beating the game by progressing further than the programmers ever thought any person could. While Scott's score did not set a new world record, the gaming world definitely has a new Donkey Kong contender in its midst . . .

It's maybe two weeks after returning from New Hampshire that I try Donkey Kong again. I continue to play on and off, though my kitchen is now clean and the floors have been vacuumed. I've recently been distracted by other, more important pursuits, like guiding the character Niko Bellic through his rising criminal career in Grand Theft Auto IV. But a couple of times a week, I'll fire up MAME and see how well I can do on Donkey Kong. I still haven't come close to Mitchell, Wiebe or SDK, or even matched my own miracle game.

But I did submit a MAME-based recording of my 510,500-point game to Twin Galaxies, after seeing that it had a separate MAME category. The score suggests that I'm the eighth-greatest Donkey Kong player of all time on MAME; or, if you're generous enough to transfer the score to the arcade cabinet, the 10th.

I'll never be King of Kong. But, according to the official records, I am one of the top 10 Donkey Kong players of all time. It won't get me a date. It won't even earn me the respect of my peers. But the skinny 13-year-old who struggled to get his first glimpse of the game back in 1981 would have thought it was pretty cool.

Josh Criss is a communications/multimedia specialist in Arlington. He can be reached at 20071@washpost.com.