What Was Wrong with Wii Music

Taking an objective—and sometimes subjective—look at why Wii Music failed to resonate with consumers.

In 2006, the Nintendo Wii was released with the now best-selling, single-console game of all time: Wii Sports. Does it count if it was bundled with the Wii system? Apparently, yes. Would 1-2-Switch have "sold" more units if Nintendo bundled it in with the Switch? Absolutely, yes. Following Wii Sports’ success were other iterations in the Wii game series like Wii Fit (43 million units sold) and Wii Play (28 million units sold). There was one game, however, that didn't enjoy the same popularity. Here's a hint:

This wasn't DJ Ravidrums worst gig. He performed at the Make America Great! Welcome Celebration in 2017.

Wii Music sold around 2.5 million units. That number is decent, yes, but when compared to its other Wii series games, Nintendo missed the mark and market on this one. Here are some reasons Wii Music failed to resonate with fans.

Wii Music is not a video game

People see video games as a play activity with clear rules, goals, and feedback. In Wii Music, it is a pretended reality with no clear rules, no goals, nor any feedback; therefore, it is not a video game. Wii Music is a toy. Toys are better suited to young children who simply enjoy the entertainment of something and ignore rules and goals. Perhaps the target audience should have been much different, say to ages 3 - 8, as an alternate to the recorder as an entryway to music.

Wii Music is TOO Casual

Speaking of target audience, Wii Sports was targeted at the casual market ("…even if you have never played a game before") but dumbed down too much. Many casual players pushed the momentum of Rock Band and Guitar Hero’s (hereafter RB/GH) success, and the difficulty options for those games ranged from the complex to mostly simple button combos. The market didn't need a more simple presentation. Part of the joy of learning music is hearing your effort come to life. Wii Music is the equivalent of giving someone a paintbrush, having them shake it around, and getting a Bob Ross landscape without learning how to make the happy trees. Wii Music plays itself for you.

And it's TOO Broad

I think the developers wanted to create an ideal music game that would appeal to everyone. It is not possible to please everyone because everyone does not enjoy the same thing. Games should strive for inclusiveness, not universality. Add one or two unique features to a new game so as to not alienate enthusiasts, with the intent of attracting the interest of people who otherwise wouldn't notice.

Why did we need Wii Music? 

There's a reason kids pick up learning a musical instrument when they're young: it's easy. With the right guidance, most kids can learn how to read music and make a melody on an instrument in a few days if not hours. There's also a reason people played RB/GH games: they entertained people by allowing them to play music to popular songs, and you could play cooperatively for high scores. Wii Music floats in the middle of those two ideas: playing together but with no challenge, and learning to play music, which is already accessible to most people. 

It was released as an inferior product

If it preceded the (at the time) revolutionary RB/GH, it may have had a chance, but the product was the equivalent of Sony and Microsoft's attempts at motion controls after the Wii's release: late to the party, despite better tech. There was no need for consumers to buy this product.

The controls were silly

When people play music games cooperatively with friends, they're emulating a real-life craft. The controllers offered by RB/GH use similar peripherals compared to their real-life counterparts. The Wii Remote and nunchuck don't have that same appeal.

How do I look? 

A lot of people (certainly not me) want to look cool (definitely not me) when performing in front of friends (of which I have MANY), and the Wii Music combo would make Bruno Mars look like a scrub.

Suspension of Disbelief was missing

Wii Music lacked the immersion that RB/GH gave to people: I'm really singing "Since You've Been Gone" into this mic vs. I'm using this plastic remote like a saxophone. Definitely pulling this off... This kind of social immersion was missing in Wii Music.

Where's the Motivation?

Games need to incentivize players to continue playing, and so long as a game keeps offering new things to learn, it remains enjoyable. In Wii Music, what are the goals, what is the feedback? This game provides little of either. The feedback in Wii Music is as complex as pressing a cow button and hearing the cow go moo.

No clear vision

There's an Iwata Asks article about Wii Music, and apparently Mr. Miyamoto tinkered with a musical video game idea in the 64 era. That idea went on for years with no specific goal in mind. A prototype came about with the Wii "conductor's game.” According to the article, the concept seemingly continued to drag. Games that have no clear vision struggle throughout development. The developers did not outright answer the most important question: What is the player going to do? What is their role and what dream is being fulfilled? You're telling people you can become a musical master, but they're not learning those skills. It's like telling potential Mario Kart consumers, "Play this game and it's like driving a car in real life, minus the props.”

If you enjoyed Wii Music, great; but as far as the Wii series library goes, Wii Music is, by far, the “wiikest” link. (Yikes.)

That Dog

I remember Bogey in the laundry room. The cold hardwood floor his bed, no, his world; the dark his constant companion. He couldn't hold his piss like he used to, and that wasn't acceptable to Rob. I turned the light on as I stepped into the room. Either the light or my scent drove him into a frenzy, and he paced around me. I knelt to hold him, to calm him down. Cupping his face, I felt what little fur he had left. His tongue frantically searched the air for a lick of moisture. (Only a few sips of water a day--that ensures fewer messes to clean up for Rob.) How is this moment real? Bogey was a family member for 12 years, both cherished and loved by Rob and the others. But then Bogey grew old. He became an inconvenience. (I think when time's limit starts to noticeably tick, it's louder to those around you.) That dog suffered; Rob watched TV. That dog searched for his pack; Rob knew exactly where he was. I urged Rob to send Bogey away—out of his misery if nothing else. What sort of life is lived trapped in this void? “He’s fine,” Rob said. I wouldn’t relent, though. I reminded Rob every day. Every day. Every day until my persistence was more annoying than that dog that couldn’t contain his bowels. Rob conceded.

The next day, I cradled Bogey, his body tense as I gripped the skeletal ridges of his torso around my arms. Rob would want to say goodbye; after all, he wouldn't come for the farewell. I carried Bogey out to Rob. He looked at the dog with hollow eyes. In this house, Bogey was dead a long time ago. I took him to the veterinarian without Rob. Why am I doing this? He's not even my dog...

My eyes hurt. I couldn't stop the tears. I couldn't hold them in. One by one by one they pushed through--burning my skin--reminding me that Bogey was forever gone.

The hardwood floors...they're clean again.

Sad Times at Outcast High

When I think back to all the cruel words and actions I endured in middle school, many instances come to mind. Here’s a collection of the worst that I remember:

• I was dubbed “Casper the Ugly Ghost.”
• I had a gap in between my teeth, and so boys would do the field goal gesture as they passed me in the hallway.
• I invited all the girls in my class to my birthday party. Only two out of 12 accepted; I overheard the remaining 10 entertain each other with their made-up excuses for not coming.
• I dreaded the dance unit in P.E. class since no boy would dance with me--but someone always got stuck with me. They’d never look at me while we danced, instead looking forward to the moment when it’d be over.
• One girl caused a rumor that I stuffed my bra in sixth grade. (Thanks for that, Katie R.) To this day, I don’t know why she started that false rumor. Puberty hadn’t summoned my chest to rise yet, and I was so flat I wore a sports bra just for kicks--or nips. Whatever. Despite the historically pancake nature of my chest, the whispers didn’t die down for some time. Rumors really suck when they’re not based on the slightest fact. I actually considered stuffing my bra AFTER the rumors since I didn’t realize it was a problem prior. (If I recall correctly, Katie R. never filled out. Hah! Boob karma.)

All of that sucked. I was sad, lonely, and sometimes my thoughts turned...very dark. Desperate to find peace, I entertained the thought of leaving in hopes that a happy life elsewhere awaited. (I credit a specific video game for carrying me out of that Hell and giving me hope and purpose. That’s a different, happy story.)

I eventually gained a few friends in middle school, and those friends transitioned into high school. Around sophomore year, I don’t know what sparked it, but I became brave. I grew confident with my thoughts, my words, my actions, and who I was. I tired of quietly sitting in class, at lunch, in the hallway, on the bus, and every waking moment. I started to crack jokes, make decisions courageously, call out people that were mean or rude, and simply exist outwardly instead of in my head. I know not everyone changes from being the outcast to the accepted. I’m lucky I found a way. That’s not to say I was popular, but no one bullied me any longer.

During my junior year, I learned a different type of hostility. Truly, the crux of this whole piece as it wasn’t a demeaning name or slanderous rumor or lewd gesture. This person f**ked with me. Mental game sh** that I didn’t realize was possible, and to this day astounds me knowing a 16-year-old was capable of such cruelty.

I met Molly on the bus going to and from school. She was a cheerleader that oddly seemed exiled from her teammates. Molly was energetic, enthusiastic, and I enjoyed hanging out with her. We talked about topics most teenage girls chat about including boys we fancied. As she earned my trust, I grew candid with her and mentioned a classmate, Drew, that I found handsome. She told me that they were friends, and she would ask him if he was interested. At this point, I hadn’t so much as kissed or hugged a boy, and so this prospect was exciting!

The next day, Molly told me that Drew liked me. Not only that, he was interested in meeting up after the basketball game on Friday. (Drew played on our high school team.) The school usually held a mixer in the cafeteria after a home game, and we would meet there. I told my other friends about the romantic development as I was over-the-moon thinking we would finally talk. Better yet--he already liked me! It felt like fate, and at the time, I hoped that fate had some place in our world.

I watched the game from the bleachers--and Drew--but couldn’t stop thinking about my night with destiny. Molly left her post cheering on the court to greet me. She told me that all the plans were set and Drew would meet me by the pop machines in the cafeteria at 9:15 p.m. That made sense. He had to shower and get ready after the game. It was our first meeting after all.

I counted down the minutes to the buzzer and excitedly took my place in the cafeteria. Molly swung by to confirm I was in the right spot. She said Drew would be out shortly. At 9:15, I turned away from the door. I decided that I would let him turn me around or tap my shoulder or some other sweet gesture. A few minutes later, I checked the clock and he was late. That’s okay. Probably had to fix his hair or apply extra deodorant. The reasons why he was late grew in number as time continued to pass. I started to ask if anyone around saw Drew. I scanned the room for him, thinking it was possible he got the location wrong. I texted Molly. No answer. I called Molly. No answer. I looked at the clock which reached the tenth hour. He wasn’t coming. He...never was coming. One of his teammates I knew from class verified that he went home with his parents immediately after the game. She fabricated the whole thing. But why? I texted her again when I got home. No response.

On Monday, Molly got on the bus, but she didn’t sit by me like usual. When we arrived at school, I accused her of tricking me for her pleasure. She denied it saying they did talk, but HE probably chickened out last minute. It wasn’t true, though. Certainly I couldn’t confront him; he wasn't aware anything was happening! That’s how foolish the whole scenario was. I believed it was possible that he noticed me like I noticed him, and she would bring us together. I was strung along like a fool.

I cut off Molly completely after that. She tried talking to me a few times as if nothing happened, but I refused to acknowledge her. I didn't understand why she played me. I am now older, wiser and more cynical. I know that humans are capable of cruelty, but why can’t we evolve to be wholly honest and kind to each other? It’s not in our history, and so likely not our fate either.

The Squirrel of Carbs

Many years ago, to compost stale food I would throw the offenders off my balcony into the field behind my apartment. I figured the bugs and animals could do better work than a landfill. One day, I launched a quarter loaf of bread into the yard. I went back inside to check on the laundry, and then grabbed some damp clothes to hang outside. As I’m hanging the shirts, I noticed the loaf is missing in the field. I scanned the space and saw a squirrel grasping the sizable loaf in both his claws. He was hugging it, spooning it, owning it, and just wrapping every ounce of his being into this yeast-infused treasure. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the scene. I returned to my chores without realizing the impact I made on that squirrel’s diet--nay, life.

Click for full-size squirrel on loaf.

As I was locking up my apartment a few days later, I heard a screech behind me. A squirrel was hissing at me. His body tense, his voice shrill--it was the squirrel from the yard! I wasn’t sure how to process the situation, so I left for school knowing I gave that squirrel a taste for bread that couldn’t be sated any longer by weekly scraps. He was addicted to his newfound wheat belly, and I was the dealer responsible for his unnatural desire. The next day, I explored the balcony and found that the squirrel--let’s call him Carb Squirrel--took up residence in a little hole in a brick pillar. What’s better for a critter than a second-floor loft next to an irresponsible human that recklessly flings biscuits out their window?

A couple months later, Carb Squirrel charmed a lady squirrel into moving in with him. Such a sweet story if you remove the part where this doubled the amount of squirrel screaming. As far as terrible neighbors go, I figure two animals that harass you daily for not serving them food ranks pretty high. Eventually, they stopped berating me since I no longer hurled food into the yard after I saw the effect it had on Carb Squirrel.

I suppose that’s the lesson. I went from someone that didn’t think twice about throwing food away in my backyard, to someone who now makes a conscious effort to reduce waste and to properly compost whenever possible. I live clear across the country now, but I wish nothing but the best for Carb Squirrel and his companion. I’m sure they had squirrel babies and told stories of the giant, unfurred gluten dealer that caused their father’s diabetes. But more likely, rest with pieces of croutons, Carb Squirrel. I hope your legacy of doing a bread shotgun lives on in that backyard.

A Collection of (Rough) Cinquain Poems

My stuff
Where is my crap?
Ugh, you lost the damn thing
Customer service does jack shit
Not pleased.

Frozen
More Lean Cuisines
Spruce it up with rice, cheese
Tastes like a fancy feast to me
Cat food.

Red light
You drove through it
Pay heed to your own life
If not that, the ones around you
You suck.

Three words
Two hearts lay still
Thousand meanings between
One moment arrested by time
Gone... Gone.

Brie cheese
That creamy funk
I eat the rind, of course
Too lazy to put on crackers
Still good.

T Bell
What is this shit?
Tacos shaped like canoes
The beef is like a donkey paste
Let’s go.

Author's note: Five out of the six poems are based on today's events. Food is my muse.

Go Fly Yourself

No. I never enjoyed flying kites. Well, I mean, the only kite I ever flew was a rickety, plastic number from Kmart that broke on its maiden voyage. What’s the joy in watching something else fly—let alone watching it suffer for mere minutes before crippling itself after reaching street light altitude?

As a kid and still today I love riding roller coasters. I feel such a rush going fast, going up high; I want that feeling to last, I always want to fly. (Ahem.) I guess you can say I want to be the one in the sky hovering above the land below. Of course, I have no wings or sails or wind to assist with this desire. Also, I don’t believe a hot air balloon home above Seattle will ever be a possibility. Despite these current limitations, humans are resourceful beings; and where’s there’s profit in recreation, corporations are sure to find a way. So, I have a goal to do at least two of the following three activities to scratch that flighty itch:

• Skydiving - This is the most likely of all three activities. I know plenty of folks that partook with rave reviews. You get the safety of a trained specialist tasked with yanking your (parachute) chain along with a backup sail. Not to mention a video that captures the inevitable screaming and laughing only you will appreciate.

• Bungee jumping - This seems unpleasant. You want to feel like you’re helplessly falling thousands of feet before halting and ricocheting back up like dead weight? Go for it. I get that feeling every time I play a 3D Mario game. I get 10 inches near a ledge and I clench so hard I could suffocate the dust mites in the air.
• Parasailing - Now, this is the ultimate human kite experience. This seems perfect for a tropical beach trip. I have nothing bad to say about parasailing. What a lovely prospect! (“You won’t fly the kite, kid… You’ll BECOME THE KITE!” That's the concept for a terrible Bruce Lee-inspired Netflix movie starring no one notable.)

The year is ending and I would prefer to not dive through the sky accompanied by freezing rain, so I’ll look into skydiving in the spring. I have to do it soon while the heart’s still functioning properly. If my mom is any indication, a spoon falling from the counter to the floor will make my heart skip several beats in about 30 years. As for kites, thanks for inspiring me to fly hopefully better than you.

Wine Bags and Weird Blisters

One weekend in college, my roommates and I cracked open some boxed wine. The bag nearly drained, we decided to bring our drunk selves to some unfortunate bar. But first, I had to get ready.

For whatever stupid reason back then, I was adamant about my hair being pin-straight for all special occasions—most importantly for those occasions I hardly remember. I ran to my bedroom to heat up the straightening iron at my desk/vanity/dinner table, and then returned to nurse my mug of wine. After a few pre-gaming gulps, I returned to iron my hair. The strands scorched to an acceptable crisp, I placed the iron on my chair and grabbed some clothes. I picked a shirt, skirt, and the choice to not adorn my undercarriage with full-coverage briefs. Noticing my eye makeup needed a touch-up, I sat at my desk and felt a lava-like heat down there I’ll never forget. I landed—bare ass, skirt up—on the iron and shot straight back up in surprise. The brilliant part comes after: I was so drunk that my reaction was to sit back down to calm my butt cheek’s fury. I then shot up a second time, outraged that I ironed my ass not once but twice. Luckily for my nerves, I was mentally checked out so it didn’t hurt too badly. I definitely went out dancing and shook my second-degree burned ass.

I woke up the next day with the heat of a thousand brands on my fanny. Sunday was a workday—eight frustrating hours at Home Depot awaited. As I changed, I caught a glimpse of my posterior in the mirror and saw the shame lines. Since I sat twice on the iron dead center, and knowing there are two heated plates, the burns had blistered across both cheeks for a total of eight blister strips (is that the scientific term?). The constant pain wasn’t too terrible; no, the real issue was surface interaction. When I sat down in my car, I catapulted my pelvis into the air feeling the shock down under. I don’t know how common butt blisters are, but they are TENDER BUBBLES. I had to perch on my car seat like a one-legged catcher and used my free leg to accelerate and brake. Since cashiers generally stand at post, the blisters could breathe more freely. Outside of cashiering, however, I learned that you don’t stand for much of anything. I had to perch at home and in class. After two days of living like an owl, I was perched on the carpet writing a paper. I wanted to protect the butt bubbles, but I couldn’t squat another second. I took a deep breath and plopped my ass on the floor. You don’t really know weird feelings until eight ass blisters squish under your weight into carpet. Luckily the apartment was a rental.

You’re probably wondering why I would tell such an embarrassing tale. Well, it’s been over 10 years, so whatever statute of shame limitation exists must have expired by now. What rekindled this memory was the warning on my straightening iron I noticed the other day:

Peculiar warnings like this must be derived from an actual incident, right? In a world where someone has tried to straighten their eye (lashes, brows, balls?), I guess burning ass isn't the craziest thing they need to forewarn.