The mustachioed romanizers of the Meiji period — from the Roman Character Association (羅馬字会) and their 1885 pamphlet “How to write Japanese in Roman characters” to Mori “Let’s just all speak English” Arinori — were the first to seriously make the argument that Japan’s writing system would be better abandoned than reformed. The idea was influential for the better part of a century among certain circles of Japanese society, and there’s still a Nihon Rōmaji Kyōkai (”Society for the Romanization of the Japanese Alphabet”, 日本ローマ字協会) in operation today. Shiga Naoya’s famous 1946 “Let’s all just speak French” proposal, however, was essentially the movement’s last hurrah.

1946, after all, was the year that the Ministry of Education announced gendai kanazukai (modern[ized] kana usage) and the tōyō (”general-purpose”) list of simplified kanji. These two changes swept away the most egregious archaisms and inconsistencies of written Japanese, depriving the Indo-Europhiles of the orthographic horror stories they were forced to fight against in the past. With only cerebral arguments on general principles left, groups opposing the kana-kanji-kana orthography faded into irrelevance as the Japanese economic miracle progressed.

But romanizers and modernizers were not the only ones who wanted to rebuild Japanese in the Imperial years. The Kanamojikai (カナモジカイ, “Kana Character Society”), founded in 1920 and still active, were inspired by the same issues — our children waste too much time learning kanji, our writing system doesn’t fit properly down linotype wires, etc. — but had, in a way, a more radical program than other groups worrying about these issues.

(There were no doubt many practical considerations behind the decision to spell “Rōmaji kyōkai” with as many kanji as possible — 羅馬字会 — not least the lack of public understanding at the time of how to read Roman characters, but dog food is dog food and someone has to take the first bite.)

The Kanamojikai’s aim was to convert the katakana syllabary into a form that that would let readers recognize words as gestalts, like readers of English and other alphabetic languages can. Kanji and hiragana were to be locked in the basement and never spoken of again.
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After the television series Superdimensional Fortress Macross debuted in Japan on October 3, 1982, the fantasy lives of Japanese geeks would never be the same. Originally conceived as a slapstick parody, Macross eventually evolved into an iconic sci-fi drama brimming with now-classic anime stereotypes: the introverted protagonist who’s a total klutz with the ladies, apocalyptic imagery, grand space battles, and the first portrayals of transforming robots that felt realistic. As one of the very first anime productions created by and for hard-core fans, the success of the series played a major role in defining and legitimizing the otaku as a consumer demographic. (A demographic, incidentally, that never tires of gleefully pointing out that the premier episode of Macross contains the very first use of the eccentric second-person pronoun “o-taku” [お宅] in an anime.) Most importantly, the series and its subsequent theatrical follow-up offered an updated take on the relentless rehashing of the Japanese World War II narrative: consumer culture as an antidote to militarism.

The basic plot: in the far-flung year of 1999, a massive, uninhabited spacecraft of extraterrestrial origin crash-lands on the fictional South Ataria Island located in the Ogasawara Island chain. The continually-warring nations of the Earth lay down their arms to study and rebuild the mysterious craft, code-naming it “Super Dimensional Fortress 1” for its apparent ability to “fold” space-time. Exactly a decade later, the once quiet island is home to a bustling metropolis of scientists, soldiers, and workers who are involved with the SDF-1 project. Although the re-construction effort for the ship was ostensibly funded by a global organization called “UN Spacy,” the social culture on-board the space fortress is unmistakably Japanese. The bridge crew is staffed by a bevy of energetic and uniformed office ladies, overseen by an absentminded, pipe-smoking ojiisan named Captain Global, while the ship is defended by all-male squadrons of stalwart “Valkyrie fighter” pilots who are portrayed with salaryman-esque dedication to their jobs and “country” (i.e., the SDF-1 itself).

The story starts on the day of the SDF-1’s official launching ceremony. Now re-christened the “Macross,” apparently in reference to its huge size, the ship is about to take its maiden flight under human control when the island comes under attack. An enormous fleet of alien invaders appears in the skies over the city, intent on reclaiming its lost property. During the confusion, the rookie crew activates the SDF-1’s as-yet untested Hyperspace Fold Drive, sending the ship to the edge of our solar system along with a huge chunk of the city, island, and ocean. Although temporarily safe from enemy attacks, the fold drive “folds in on itself” and vanishes during the process, stranding the ship in deep space with tens of thousands of civilian refugees on-board.

The situation of the Macross could be seen as an apt metaphor for the shock and sense of drift Japan must have felt at the end of World War II. The inhabitants of the SDF-1 end up reacting in the same way as the families of the animators nearly four decades earlier: by rebuilding. Before long, “Macross City” has been almost perfectly reconstructed within SDF-1’s cavernous interior. The city inside the SDF-1 is microcosm of Tokyo life as seen through the eyes of the show’s young creators. Romance blossoms in video game arcades while giggling ladies linger over panty purchases at lingerie shops. The streets are lined with toy stores, restaurants, and nightclubs. Fans queue for the concerts of comely teenage idol-girl Lynn Minmei, whose fluffy tunes tackle close-to-home issues like “zero-G love” and flirting with fighter pilots. Nary a nursing home, hospital, supermarket, waste-treatment plant, garbage dump, or anything remotely outside the scope of a teenage or twenty-something otaku’s interest makes an appearance. Many anime are set in vaguely-defined foreign locales. Not Macross: the portrayal of life aboard the SDF-1 is almost defiantly Japanese, an attempt by the creators to re-cast the narrative of Japan’s role in World War II within the context of their own comfortable modern consumer lifestyles.
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Part One: The Rise of the Avatar

The promise of virtual reality was built on a hardware revolution attempting to envelop individuals in three-dimensional, multi-sensorial experiences. By the mid-1960s, pioneers like Ivan Sutherland at MIT were designing head-mounted display systems and wired data gloves. In the late 1980s, a second wave of acolytes (including John Walker at Autodesk and Jaron Lanier at VPL Research) helped popularize this fascinating mix of science and science fiction. But beyond the goggles and the gloves, virtual reality never lived up to our initial expectations. When attention and capital shifted to supporting progress in networking and internet capabilities, virtual reality quietly shifted focus to educational applications, like simulations for the medical, military, and transportation industries. The dream that humans could be transported by technology into endless digital landscapes never fully evaporated: it found a strong ally with nascent computer gaming enthusiasts and game-based human proxies called avatars. Since their inception, avatars have evolved from simple line drawings to complex vector graphics imbued with much more than bits and bytes.

One of the first gamers to apply his competitive passion to the computer screen was Will Crowther. By 1973, Crowther was working for technology pioneer BBN — the company responsible for developing internet packet switching. In his spare time, Crowther enjoyed spelunking and rock climbing. He shaped these into Adventure (also known as Colossal Cave Adventure), an early computer game where a player moves through an imaginary cave using simple text commands and computer responses. In 1976 Don Woods at Stanford University’s artificial intelligence lab played the game and asked Crowther if he could enhance the experience. Together, they added code that let players pick up, use, or drop objects. They also included fantasy elements based on their shared interest in the classic role-playing game Dungeons and Dragons (D&D). By having players interact with characters like dwarves, elves, and trolls, Crowther and Woods abandoned the real world and directed players into early immersive role play.

Maze War

Maze War was developed by Steve Colley at NASA’s Ames Research Center, introduced around the same time as Adventure. A shooting game, Maze War had a three-dimensional graphic interface and, with the help of co-workers who linked two computers together, multi-player gaming capabilities. Most interesting was that on screen, players were represented as eyeballs — a rudimentary sort of avatar. Maze War spawned the development of other multi-player games, many of which were based on fantasy role play and the popularity of D&D. Inspired by these, Roy Trubshaw and Richard Bartle — students at Essex University in England — developed the first multi-user text-based game in 1978. They named it MUD — “multi-user dungeon,” another nod to fantasy role play. Bartle described MUD as, “Originally little more than a series of interconnected locations where you could move and chat.” After several rewrites, MUD1 became highly interactive, providing a social network for like-minded gamers to battle monsters and create friendships, all within the context of a virtual medieval world. MUD1 became popular with students at Essex University and eventually with a global audience who could connect to the game through ARPANet. Just over a decade later, computer scientist James Apnes built on the success of MUDs with TinyMUD, a flexible virtual world that gave players the tools to build their own objects, rooms, and puzzles — a precursor to more complex worlds like Second Life. Technology professionals saw the success and rapid growth of MUDs in the 1980s as a turning point and recognition that virtual reality, with its bulky hardware and high costs, could not deliver the social or thematic experiences that audiences craved. It marked the ascendancy of software over hardware as the vehicle taking us into a virtual dimension.
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