Sony Columbia Pictures' promotional campaign for Hook had already gone into full swing back in November.
Newspaper spreads, glossy magazine pages, enormous posters plastered across city streets—everything followed the rules, the most classic and mature marketing playbook Hollywood had perfected over decades.
In these promotional materials, people could see Dustin Hoffman's wicked grin and Robin Williams' eternally boyish face. Yet not a single word mentioned the arcade game of the same name.
Nintendo's intelligence network was like a vast net, covering every battlefield they deemed important: game stores, arcades, consumer electronics expos.
But that net had missed one place entirely.
Movie theaters.
In their view, that territory had already faded into the "Old Continent" of the gaming industry with the end of the PONG era, no longer worth any real attention.
That was, until December 9—just two days before the film's release.
Overnight, ticket halls in major theater chains across the United States seemed to have been touched by magic.
The prime spots once reserved for movie standees were quietly cleared.
In their place appeared brand-new posters.
On them, Dustin Hoffman's Captain Hook flashed a sinister smile. Beside him stood several vividly rendered game characters. And at the bottom, a bold line of text was enough to make any gamer's heart race:
"Hook Official Arcade Game — Launching December 11, Simultaneously in Theaters!"
December 11. A weekday.
But for American students who had already burst out of school and declared themselves free, it was merely the second day of winter vacation.
"Hurry up, Jack! The movie's about to start!"
Fourteen-year-old Mike shoved popcorn into his mouth as he urged along his slow-moving friend behind him.
They were devoted Spielberg fans, kids who had grown up watching Peter Pan. There was nothing cooler than seeing Hook during the first week of vacation.
The AMC theater lobby buzzed with noise, the air thick with the sweet scent of butter and caramel.
"What's the rush? Our tickets are for seven-thirty—we've still got an hour," Jack said casually as he caught up. His gaze drifted toward a corner near the ticket counter. "Hey, look over there. Why are so many people gathered around?"
Following his finger, they saw two brand-new arcade machines surrounded three layers deep.
The machines' colorful decals gleamed under the lights. On the screens, blades flashed and figures clashed, punctuated by excited gasps and exaggerated shouts.
"What's going on? Arcade machines in a movie theater?" Mike found it novel.
His father had mentioned that when Mike was little, there had been some machines in theaters—but they were ancient things like PONG, just bouncing blocks around.
Back then, video games were still new, easy to pick up, and didn't yet have strong stylistic preferences or issues of taste.
People were happy to drop in a coin or two to kill time while waiting for the movie to start.
Later, games became more complex, more violent. Girls didn't like them, couples couldn't play together, and those metal boxes gradually disappeared from theaters.
After all, who would choose to play one machine outside a cinema when an arcade nearby offered dozens, even hundreds, of options?
"Come on, let's take a look!"
The three boys, nimble and half-grown, squeezed through gaps in the crowd.
The moment Mike saw the screen and the poster on the cabinet, his eyes widened.
"Oh my God! It's Hook!"
On the screen, a small figure in green tights was locked in fierce combat with waves of pirates. The movements were smooth, the effects dazzling.
That face—it was clearly Peter Pan from the movie poster.
"It really is the official game! Released together with the movie!" Jack exclaimed, pointing at the marquee atop the cabinet. The font matched the movie poster exactly.
At the machine next to them, a father clumsily worked the controls while his son danced around, shouting instructions at the top of his lungs.
"Dad! Jump! Use that flying kick! Yes! That's it!"
The man was clearly no gaming expert, yet he was sweating and smiling, thoroughly enjoying himself. He kept glancing back at his excited son, his face full of joy.
"Hey, guys, move it—let me through!"
A chubby man holding a tub of popcorn finally finished his game and stepped away reluctantly. Instantly, several people surged forward to fight for the spot.
"I've got change! I'm first!"
"Line up, okay?!"
Mike and his friends exchanged looks, seeing the same spark in each other's eyes.
"How much money did you bring?"
"I've still got five bucks!"
"I've got three quarters!"
"That's enough! Two rounds!"
They hurriedly pooled their coins and, after some effort, snagged an empty spot.
The moment Mike gripped the joystick, pressed Start, and selected his favorite "Lost Boy" character, a strange, exhilarating feeling washed over him.
The controls were simple, easy to learn—pure hack-and-slash, pure progression. But when the three friends fought side by side, sending pirates flying across the screen, the joy of cooperation was something no solo NES session at home could match.
"Jack! Cover me! I'm almost dead!"
"Behind you! There's a big one back there!"
"I'm using my special! Charge!"
Their shouts blended into the joyful roar of the crowded lobby.
The dull wait for the movie to start became thrillingly short.
Only when the theater announcement rang out, calling their screening to begin ticket checks, did the three snap back to reality.
"Damn it, that was fast!" Jack said wistfully, staring at the "GAME OVER" on the screen.
"Come on, or we'll miss it!" Mike yanked him up, grabbing a huge handful of popcorn with his other hand.
The line at the ticket gate was long. Behind them, the crowd around the two Hook arcade machines hadn't thinned at all—it had grown even larger.
The clinking of coins being swallowed by the machines mixed with cheers from the players, forming a symphony that made the theater manager grin from ear to ear.
Standing nearby, he eyed the two long lines created by the machines, mentally calculating how much extra revenue they'd bring in just for the night.
When Sega had first approached him, he'd been skeptical. Now it seemed like a gift fallen straight from the sky.
Meanwhile, Mike had just settled into his seat, the game's background music still echoing in his head.
The lights dimmed. The massive screen lit up.
When Spielberg's name appeared, followed by Dustin Hoffman's Captain Hook on screen, the entire theater erupted in excited cheers.
But for Mike and his friends—and for the kids across thousands of theaters in America who had played that game today—it felt a little different.
The characters on the screen were no longer just movie characters.
They had just played them with their own hands.
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