Nintendo World Store just a wii bit lacking

When I first went to the Big Apple in 2006, it seemed strange to waste time checking out the Big N's flagship product store. Even gamers, at least reasonable ones like yours truly, know there is better tourism to do in the city that never sleeps than to see a glorified electronics shop, particularly when one only has two full days of sightseeing.

But this summer, when I returned there on a last-minute whim, I decided it was finally time to see what the big fuss was about.

As I entered, I thought it would be funny to send a text message to a couple of friends with a quip suggesting my credit card was about to be ruined. "Phail," one of them instantaneously replied on his Blackberry. The word turned out to be more ominous than I thought.

On occasion, Nintendo releases a more serious video game that would be begging for voice work to bring its story life, but decides not to include that feature, or creates a title with breath-taking multiplayer potential but severely limits online playability.

Like those games, its store merely suggests the greatness that could be.

Let's begin with the entrance off of Rockefeller Plaza. Whereas other brand-name centric stores in NYC have unmistakable, highly eye-catching doorways, the NWS has a mere glass door and window, with some cardboard decorations in its showcases.

Compare to this to the underground Apple Store on Fifth Avenue. A single, iconic, silver-coloured plastic apple appears to float in mid-air in the middle of the glass elevator that zips visitors down to the store itself. When I was looking for it with a friend, uncertain of its true location, that was all I needed to see.

Even the Walt Disney Store has a good idea, elevating busts of Mickey Mouse and co. right above its main entrance. One look at that, and you definitely know you are not going to find any Looney Tunes DVDs in there.

Inside, disappointment continues. Of course, the NWS has boatloads of Nintendo-themed clothing, cups, keychains, and even energy drink cans (with, I must say, neat renditions of an ugly, 80s-style Mario rather than the super-clean CG variety today's kids would be more familiar with), the kind of stuff I would like to buy but not nearly desperately enough to order online or through catalogue.

That, and stocks of video games of course, are probably the best thing about the establishment. However, does that not seem very basic?

Compare this to the NHL Store, where a giant computer allows you to actually design your own running shoes based off of your favourite hockey teams. As my buddy discovered, the computer software itself is actually painfully slow, and you're probably better off doing your ordering from the official website. That's beside the point though. The fact that it's there, and something you probably never would have heard about otherwise, is cool. I don't even care all that much for hockey, or new runners, but even I was impressed by the concept.

About the most unique thing on exhibit at the Nintendo store is its glass-protected exhibit of all Nintendo consoles and handhelds from the 80s up to now. But besides a look at a PC-style NES model with wireless controllers that never made it to retail shelves, I'm fairly certain I did not see anything I hadn't before.

Basic, in-store decoration leaves to be desired as well. Perhaps I should not have gone in expecting to see suspended ceiling lights shaped like the legendary mushroom blocks from Mario games, but pillars with clearly temporary posters of just-released video games are rather unimpressive.

What gave me the worst possible impression was a little conversation with a clerk just before I walked up the cash register. I had been listening the whole while to a fantastic soundtrack on the store's speakers, remixes and re-recordings of Nintendo video games from the first bloops and bleeps of Donkey Kong in the eighties up to the beautiful orchestrated tracks from last year's Super Smash Bros. Brawl.

Needless to say, anyone who grew up playing those titles would be awash in a sea of nostalgia at the mere sound, and simply begging to be relieved of the $12 to $20 a copy of this soundtrack may cost. "Well, we don't actually sell any soundtracks," the clerk explained to me, somewhat awkwardly. "We just downloaded these songs from websites and play them at the store."

Phail, indeed.