5/26/2005
Where Life Is A Game
Pac rat transforms Middleton basement into elaborate '80s arcade
By Meredith Goldstein, Globe Staff May 19, 2005
Eric Clayberg's Middleton basement is a kind of joystick utopia for anyone who spent at least part of the 1980s in a pizza joint or arcade playing video games.
He has Galaga, Q*bert, and the beloved Ms. Pac-Man. He has Tron, After Burner, and three versions of Tempest, relics of life before the evolution of home systems like Nintendo and Xbox.
''Tempest is clearly my favorite," said Clayberg, 41, of the 1980 Atari game, one of the first ''color, vector-graphic" games, which became extinct by the mid-1980s.
He is not shy about mentioning that he held the world record for the game in 1983. ''For three months," Clayberg said, wistfully. ''Then I was unseated."
The 40 arcade games in his collection, believed to be one of the largest in Massachusetts, take over most of the carpeted basement in his suburban home. He has two full rooms of machines lined up like soldiers. To nongamers, a group that includes Clayberg's wife, these machines don't mean very much. In fact, classic video games are generally losing investments. Very few video games from the 1980s become more valuable as they age. In fact, most of these games cost about $2,500 when they were released and now sell on Internet sites such as eBay for $500 to $1,500. But to Clayberg and fans of '80s arcade games, these games have an inherent value. It's not just nostalgia; it's the look and feel of the machine. They just don't make this type of video game anymore. ''All of these games, they all had interesting story ideas," said Clayberg, who believes that each game is, to some degree, a work of art. ''All these games were unique and interesting. They had beautiful cabinet designs." They were also for everyone, unlike some complicated modern games that require expertise, he said. ''Anybody could walk up to a Ms. Pac-Man and learn how to play it."
For Clayberg, who owns a computer software company, video game collecting started as a profitable hobby. He bought three games in 1983 from an arcade in his hometown of Fredricksburg, Va., and brought them to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology for his sophomore year. He stored the games in his fraternity house and charged his Theta Delta Chi brothers a quarter for four games, one-fourth of what they charged at the MIT student center.
Clayberg gave half of his earnings to his fraternity. The other half, which amounted to several hundred dollars a month, was about enough to pay for his room and board.
Those games didn't survive the fraternity experience, so Clayberg was gameless after his graduate work at Harvard Business School. He resumed collecting once he moved back to the Washington, D.C., area and within two months, had bought five or six games. Within two years, his collection had grown to about 15. He had around 20 when he met his wife in 1993.
By Meredith Goldstein, Globe Staff May 19, 2005
Eric Clayberg's Middleton basement is a kind of joystick utopia for anyone who spent at least part of the 1980s in a pizza joint or arcade playing video games.
He has Galaga, Q*bert, and the beloved Ms. Pac-Man. He has Tron, After Burner, and three versions of Tempest, relics of life before the evolution of home systems like Nintendo and Xbox.
''Tempest is clearly my favorite," said Clayberg, 41, of the 1980 Atari game, one of the first ''color, vector-graphic" games, which became extinct by the mid-1980s.
He is not shy about mentioning that he held the world record for the game in 1983. ''For three months," Clayberg said, wistfully. ''Then I was unseated."
The 40 arcade games in his collection, believed to be one of the largest in Massachusetts, take over most of the carpeted basement in his suburban home. He has two full rooms of machines lined up like soldiers. To nongamers, a group that includes Clayberg's wife, these machines don't mean very much. In fact, classic video games are generally losing investments. Very few video games from the 1980s become more valuable as they age. In fact, most of these games cost about $2,500 when they were released and now sell on Internet sites such as eBay for $500 to $1,500. But to Clayberg and fans of '80s arcade games, these games have an inherent value. It's not just nostalgia; it's the look and feel of the machine. They just don't make this type of video game anymore. ''All of these games, they all had interesting story ideas," said Clayberg, who believes that each game is, to some degree, a work of art. ''All these games were unique and interesting. They had beautiful cabinet designs." They were also for everyone, unlike some complicated modern games that require expertise, he said. ''Anybody could walk up to a Ms. Pac-Man and learn how to play it."
For Clayberg, who owns a computer software company, video game collecting started as a profitable hobby. He bought three games in 1983 from an arcade in his hometown of Fredricksburg, Va., and brought them to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology for his sophomore year. He stored the games in his fraternity house and charged his Theta Delta Chi brothers a quarter for four games, one-fourth of what they charged at the MIT student center.
Clayberg gave half of his earnings to his fraternity. The other half, which amounted to several hundred dollars a month, was about enough to pay for his room and board.
Those games didn't survive the fraternity experience, so Clayberg was gameless after his graduate work at Harvard Business School. He resumed collecting once he moved back to the Washington, D.C., area and within two months, had bought five or six games. Within two years, his collection had grown to about 15. He had around 20 when he met his wife in 1993.
In 1998, the couple moved to Middleton, with the 20 video games. ''We basically had the house built, so I designed the basement wiring with the games in mind," Clayberg said.
Back then, the games only took up one of the rooms in the basement.
But in 1999, Clayberg discovered eBay. He was on the site looking for a replacement computer board for one of his Tempest games, and he saw the online options, with hundreds of games for sale each week. ''I was like a kid in a candy store," he said, adding that it didn't take long before he doubled his collection.
Clayberg is one of 28 Massachusetts members of the Video Arcade Preservation Society, a national group with more than 200 members who collectively own about 1,300 games, according to its website. Of the in-state members, Clayberg's collection is rivaled by few.
''He does have quite an impressive collection," said Derry, N.H., resident Dawn Apollo, who collects games with her husband and has visited Clayberg's basement. Apollo and her husband have fewer games than Clayberg spread out in a larger area, she said, but they still boast possession of classics such as Gorf and Klax. ''They're great for parties," she said, adding that many of the guests at her annual Super Bowl gatherings spend much of their time with the games. The pride of Clayberg's collection is Major Havoc, a 1983 Atari game he discovered at an old arcade in Copley Square while he was studying at MIT. He fell in love with the game, but when he went in to play it one day, the game had vanished. ''From 1984 after I last saw it, I spent 15 years looking for it," he said. ''That was my Holy Grail."
In 1999, Clayberg found a dealer in California who was selling the game. He quickly purchased it and shipped it East. Clayberg said one of the most comforting aspects of his obsession is that his collection is fairly safe. No one can break in and make off with his games. ''They're as heavy as refrigerators," he said. ''You'd have to have a . . . truck and a lot of time."
For now, Clayberg's collection will remain at its current size. His wife Karen, who respects the hobby but admits to knowing and caring little about video games, has two rules. One involves no games existing above the basement. The other is a ''one for one" rule. If a new game comes in, one must depart. ''I'm sure she'd like to have a one-for-10 rule," Clayberg said.
Karen Clayberg said she doesn't want to seem unsupportive. ''I'd just like a little space for maybe a couch and some furniture," she said of her basement.
The couple's two young children have more affection for the games, although Clayberg's 8-year-old daughter, Lauren, admitted she prefers Super Mario Sunshine on her Game Cube.
It's not so much his children and their friends who gravitate toward the basement arcade, Clayberg said. It's the parents of his children's friends, who occasionally sneak to the Clayberg basement when they visit. The one-time Tempest world champion is not surprised that it's the grown-ups who want time in the basement. ''The most fun I had when I was a senior in high school was hanging out with my friends at an arcade," Clayberg said. ''We were good kids. We were National Honor Society members. There was no stigma. Going to arcades, that's just what you did."
Back then, the games only took up one of the rooms in the basement.
But in 1999, Clayberg discovered eBay. He was on the site looking for a replacement computer board for one of his Tempest games, and he saw the online options, with hundreds of games for sale each week. ''I was like a kid in a candy store," he said, adding that it didn't take long before he doubled his collection.
Clayberg is one of 28 Massachusetts members of the Video Arcade Preservation Society, a national group with more than 200 members who collectively own about 1,300 games, according to its website. Of the in-state members, Clayberg's collection is rivaled by few.
''He does have quite an impressive collection," said Derry, N.H., resident Dawn Apollo, who collects games with her husband and has visited Clayberg's basement. Apollo and her husband have fewer games than Clayberg spread out in a larger area, she said, but they still boast possession of classics such as Gorf and Klax. ''They're great for parties," she said, adding that many of the guests at her annual Super Bowl gatherings spend much of their time with the games. The pride of Clayberg's collection is Major Havoc, a 1983 Atari game he discovered at an old arcade in Copley Square while he was studying at MIT. He fell in love with the game, but when he went in to play it one day, the game had vanished. ''From 1984 after I last saw it, I spent 15 years looking for it," he said. ''That was my Holy Grail."
In 1999, Clayberg found a dealer in California who was selling the game. He quickly purchased it and shipped it East. Clayberg said one of the most comforting aspects of his obsession is that his collection is fairly safe. No one can break in and make off with his games. ''They're as heavy as refrigerators," he said. ''You'd have to have a . . . truck and a lot of time."
For now, Clayberg's collection will remain at its current size. His wife Karen, who respects the hobby but admits to knowing and caring little about video games, has two rules. One involves no games existing above the basement. The other is a ''one for one" rule. If a new game comes in, one must depart. ''I'm sure she'd like to have a one-for-10 rule," Clayberg said.
Karen Clayberg said she doesn't want to seem unsupportive. ''I'd just like a little space for maybe a couch and some furniture," she said of her basement.
The couple's two young children have more affection for the games, although Clayberg's 8-year-old daughter, Lauren, admitted she prefers Super Mario Sunshine on her Game Cube.
It's not so much his children and their friends who gravitate toward the basement arcade, Clayberg said. It's the parents of his children's friends, who occasionally sneak to the Clayberg basement when they visit. The one-time Tempest world champion is not surprised that it's the grown-ups who want time in the basement. ''The most fun I had when I was a senior in high school was hanging out with my friends at an arcade," Clayberg said. ''We were good kids. We were National Honor Society members. There was no stigma. Going to arcades, that's just what you did."
