In Search of Our UX: Remembering Arcade Co-op Play

***You can see the Korean version of this article at:

www.gamegeneration.or.kr

그 시절 같은 학교 친구들에게는 일종의 의식이 있었다. 무슨 게임을 하든 가장 마지막 코스는 <갈스패닉 S2>로 플레이하기로 한 것이었다. <갈스패닉>이란 쉽게 말해 땅따먹기 게임으로 상하좌우에 대각선까지 8방향으로 기체를 조작해 구역을 확보하면 승리하는 게임이다. 여기까지만 설명하면 거짓말에 가깝다. <갈스패닉>에서는 땅을 따먹으면 그 구역에는 ‘갈’이 등장했고, 특정 퍼센테이지를 완수하면 온전한 일러스트를 볼 수 있었다. 이 게임의 핵심 인기 요인은 일러스트였다.

Every evening, the arcade was filled with passionate cheering

Back then, there was a kind of ritual among my schoolmates. No matter what games we played, the final stage of the night was always <Gals Panic S2>. Gals Panic, put simply, was a territory-capture style game where you control your marker in 8 direntions-up, down, left, right, and diagonally-to claim areas and win. But stopping the explanation there would be almost a lie. In <Gals Panic>, once a territory was claimed, a “gal” appeared within that space, and upon reaching a certain percentage, a complete illustration was revealed. The game’s core appeal lay precisely in those illustrations.

That was why, at the <Gals Panic S2> machine tucked away in the far corner of the arcade, cooperative play emerged as a means of meeting the game’s requirements. Whoever happened to have the most spare change that day became the sponsor, while the friend with the best control took the seat. Others called out incoming bullet patterns or the remaining time; some explained the next pattern, others how to trap enemy monsters. Since this was an era when you couldn’t photograph the finished result with a phone camera, the only option was to take the illustration in with your eyes. Everyone tried their hardest to store the image in their memory.

This user experience (UX) is precisely the intriguing story I wish to tell. The arcade was, in every sense, a space optimized for cooperative play (Co-op). Beyond the previously mentioned Gals Panic, many other games also featured Co-op play. By virtue of the arcade’s nature—a place where many people gathered in the same physical space—even those who were not seated at the machine could participate, communicating with one another and collectively working through puzzles.

In Search of Our UX

In retrospect, the arcade was a space especially suited to two-player games. Most arcade machines were equipped with two seats, which naturally led to many games structured around competition between Player 1 and Player 2—but there were just as many that emphasized working together toward a shared goal. The first game that comes to mind is <Snow Bros 2>. Although the game was designed to allow players to choose from four characters—snow, lightning, water, and wind—in arcades it was typically limited to two-player play due to hardware constraints. Much of the fun lay in each player trapping monsters into balls and then bursting them at precisely the right moment.

Belt-scrolling action games like the arcade versions of <Dynasty Wars> and <Ninja Baseball Bat Man> could be said to represent the very essence of Co-op play. Two players would sit shoulder to shoulder at a cramped machine, bumping into one another as they frantically mashed the buttons. A quiet ethic of generosity was at work: yielding health recovery items to each other, or giving up buff items—or weapons—that would better suit the other player’s character. We would exchange high fives after clearing a mission, and at times, even if I had survived, I would gladly drop another 100 won to revive Player 2 rather than continue alone.

Yes—paying money for someone else’s play was considered an undeniably cool thing to do in the arcade. Unless one resorted to unacceptable behavior—taking over someone else’s game, extorting money in a nearby shady alley, or secretly adding credits with a coin-up trick—everyone had to insert a 100-won coin into the machine to play.

Within this strict 100-won rule, the reciprocity of sharing one’s single credit can occasionally be found in the online gaming era, in practices like quietly slipping help to newcomers. Even then, the weight of the gesture is different—it is often merely a veteran player distributing a fraction of their surplus resources.

The Happiness of 100 Won

With a bit of humor, the rule that everyone had to put in 100 won per game can be directly linked to what we now call P2W—Pay to Win. Because players who kept feeding more coins into a given machine naturally became more skilled, those who invested heavily in a game held a clear advantage in PvP.

Once a player’s skill surpassed a certain threshold, however, they became a kind of “monster” who could see an entire game through on a single coin—earning the wary glances of the arcade owner. There was someone who would insert just one 100-won coin and spend the entire day playing <Tecmo World Cup ’98>, defeating everyone who challenged him. Soccer games were popular then, as they are now, so many people were waiting to play, but because he dominated the machine, its turnover rate was extremely low. In the end, what stopped him was an anonymous tip reporting that he was skipping mandatory evening self-study to be at the arcade. Friends much younger than him speculated that it was probably the arcade owner who had made the call.

My personal favorite arcade game was <Tengai>, a shooter developed by Psikyo. I was completely absorbed by its distinctive Japanese look and feel and its thrilling gameplay. I would often walk with a close friend to a neighboring district’s arcade that had a <Tengai> cabinet, and that journey itself feels incomparable to anything today. In 2022, who would walk twenty minutes just to pay 100 won for a single round of a game? Game magazines existed, but it was difficult to find arcade strategies in them at the time, so during those twenty minutes on foot, my friend and I would discuss which characters to choose and how we might clear each stage.

In <Tengai>, there was a hidden character named Ain. By inputting the command up, up, up; down, down, down; up, up, up, up, up, up, up on the selection screen, the character could be unlocked. Choosing such a hidden character for someone who didn’t know the command could itself be seen as a form of cooperation. In that sense, Co-op also functioned within PvP games like <The King of Fighters>. Much like selecting “Orochi Iori” for a friend in KOF ’97—officially known as Insane Iori with Blood of Orochi Under the Night of the Moon.

3 Meters to a ‘Real-Life fight’

Couples often played games like <Come On Baby> or <Spot the Difference> at the arcade. The sound of laughter, mixed with the rapid pounding of domed buttons, remains part of the memory. In many ways, <Come On Baby> feels like it presented a prototype for <It Takes Two>, which was named Game of the Year by multiple outlets in 2021. Both are two-player games, and both carry the risk that excessive immersion in play can result in damage to the relationship itself. Back when I was a regular arcade-goer, I once witnessed a couple arguing while playing <Come On Baby>, with one accusing the other of not going easy on them—“Why won’t you let me win?”

In truth, fights between couples were usually just playful affirmations of affection, often endearingly minor in scale. But during competitive fighting games, there were occasions when disputes between two burly men escalated to the point that all gameplay in the arcade came to a halt. At the arcade in my neighborhood, there was once a physical fight during <Tekken Tag Tournament> after one player repeatedly used Devil’s laser attacks, prompting the other to shout, “Stop using cheap tactics.” In arcade fighting games, after all, your opponent’s face sits directly across from your own.

What Does Offline Co-op Mean to Us Today?

We now live in an online era. Even to play <It Takes Two>—a game often regarded as a tribute to offline Co-op, with its many embedded mini-games—two people no longer need to meet in the same physical space. With a single click on an online “invite friend” button, they can depart together into the game world.

So what meaning does offline cooperative play still hold for us? To be sure, the Nintendo Switch still offers many excellent party games, and even without software, solving puzzles together at an escape room café could also be considered a form of Co-op. Yet offline Co-op seems to have been pushed out of the mainstream, relegated to the realm of nostalgia. The experience of multiple people reacting together to a single screen is becoming a special event rather than an everyday occurrence.

When offline Co-op in arcades was at its peak, access to the internet for new information was (relatively) scarce. Few households had consoles or PCs capable of running games, and of course, not everyone carried a phone in their pocket. The only way to leave a record of one’s play was to inscribe one’s initials on the leaderboard. In offline Co-op, each and every game mattered.

In the online era, access to “a single game” has improved beyond comparison. Yet alongside this, we also see people who, shielded by the veil of anonymity during gameplay, unleash words they would otherwise hesitate to utter. In online random matchmaking, people sometimes insult casually—and disappear just as casually. Having lived through both eras, this is not an attempt to claim that “the arcade days were better.” The offline Co-op culture of old arcades also included various abuses carried out by so-called neighborhood toughs.

Nevertheless, if we take the term UX literally—as the totality of user experience—then the distinctive environment of the arcade explored here deserves to be recorded as a special chapter in the history of game UX.