Let’s switch this up a little bit… Today, instead of consoles, here are three computers that, but for the efforts of their dedicated few devotees, might have slipped through the cracks of history altogether.

Commodore Plus/4 & Commodore 16 (1983-85): Commodore was flying high in the early ’80s home computer market; the Commodore 64 was already on its way to becoming tops in its class, and even the VIC-20 was still selling well as it neared the end of its commercial life. Despite a strong challenge from Atari and Apple, Commodore was pretty much cementing its position as the king of the home computer market.

What does such a successful company do for an encore? Well, if you’re Commodore, you throw just about everything out the window in an attempt to reinvent the wheel. It’s exactly this sort of thinking that made Commodore what they are today… extinct.

The Plus/4, one of the most infamous failures in the history of the 8-bit micro, started life as a new line of computers intended for the home and small business market, but ultimately only two of the proposed models ever made it to store shelves. With system specs that were superficially comparable to the C64 (64K RAM, 40-column display, BASIC in ROM) and actually an improvement in some respects (almost double the amount of usable RAM, a more advanced version of BASIC, and up to 121 colors), the Plus/4 could also boast one of the most ahead-of-its-time features any computer owner of 1983 could ask for – a fully-integrated suite of application software hard-coded into ROM. A precursor to the office suites of today, the “3+1” package included word processing, spreadsheet, database, and charting functions, all without having to buy additional software; just enter a certain key combination and the word processor popped up, ready to go - no load times, no hassle. And all this without a hard drive!

Great idea! Just one problem – it wasn’t anything like as good as it sounded. No sooner had customers gotten their Plus/4s home that they discovered the 3+1 software was, to put it kindly, significantly underpowered. The word processor, for example, had an inviolable limit of just 99 lines per document, meaning anything more than short letters were virtually impossible to create using this package. The spreadsheet and database operated under similar restrictions, presumably imposed because 3+1 development was rushed to make Commodore’s market date.

Making matters worse was the complete, and inexplicable, lack of compatibility with the C64. It wasn’t just that software written for the C64 couldn’t be brought over to the new platform, but because of a new higher-speed serial bus, most hardware was incompatible with the Plus/4 as well! Considering that one of the best features of Commodore’s 8-bit line (dating back to the original PET 2001) was that virtually all peripherals were cross-compatible even with newer computers, this can only be interpereted as a major step backward at a time when a new 1541 disk drive or MPS-801 printer cost only slightly less than a new C64. Needless to say, the thought of having to repurchase such expensive equipment did not appeal to many.

The final straw for many, especially gamers, was the lack of many of the C64’s enhanced graphics and sound systems, in particular the still-famous SID chip and the VIC-II. Replacing them was a new integrated design, known as the TED chip, that combined the audiovisual subsystems into a single low-cost chip. In theory the idea was sound (and it did provide some interesting tricks, such as adding eight luminance shades to each of the standard 16 colors of the C64), but it was still seen as a downgrade from the older computer. There were no hardware sprites and only two audio channels, one of which was dedicated to white noise.

There was a lower-cost version of the Plus/4, dubbed the Commodore 16, that eliminated the integrated software and provided only 16K of memory. It was otherwise identical internally to the Plus/4. If you lived in Germany, there was also the Commodore 116, a repackaged C16 in a Plus/4-style case (as opposed to the repainted “breadbox” design of the VIC-20 and C64) with a chiclet keyboard.

Apparently, Commodore had grand plans for the Plus/4 line, including customized versions with different software packages installed at buyers’ whims. However, poor word-of-mouth from leery consumers put paid to those plans, and the Plus/4 was quickly and quietly foisted off to manufacturer-closeout houses while Commodore R&D went back to the drawing board, eventually returning with the far more successful Commodore 128… but that’s another story.

Mattel Aquarius (1983): The Intellivision was always supposed to be more than just a game machine. From its 1979 release Mattel intended it to be the heart of a full-blown home computer. Unfortunately, the promised Keyboard Component was ultimately proven to be far too costly to mass-produce, and a lukewarm reception in a test market suggested it wouldn’t sell enough units to recoup those costs. These arguments did not sway the FTC, which saw only two years of broken promises to customers that they would deliver an Intellivision computer, and which ordered Mattel Electronics to pay a fine of $10,000/day until they made good on their advertising. This legal wrangling resulted in the eventual release of the Entertainment Computer System, an add-on for existing Intellivision consoles that was grossly underpowered as a “computer” and really did little more than add a QWERTY keyboard and some memory enhancement to the Inty, but it was enough to get the feds off their backs.

However, while the ECS did fulfill Mattel’s promise to turn an Intellivision console into a home computer… sort of… it was hardly a usable computer, and certainly not what had been advertised. Perhaps feeling a sense of guilt about the whole situation, Mattel began looking into an alternative – a generic computer they could license and sell under their own name. They found one, actually two, in Hong Kong computer manufacturer Radofin Electronics, which had a pair of systems it wanted to introduce into the lucrative Western markets. Mattel chose the lesser of the two models, code-named “Checkers,” with every intention of releasing the more advanced model (“Chess”) at a later date. “Checkers” became the Mattel Aquarius, an extremely short-lived entry in the early home computer market.

To say the Aquarius was underpowered would be an understatement. It belonged in the same “starter computer” category as the Timex-Sinclair 1000 (Sinclair ZX81 to our European friends) or Radio Shack’s MC-10. It featured only 4K of memory, a rubber-chiclet keyboard, and no provision for programmable graphics; visuals were limited to alphanumerics and a series of generic, predefined “building blocks.” (Despite its severe graphical limitations, Marketing ordered Aquarius versions of popular Intellivision games such as Night Stalker, BurgerTime, TRON Deadly Discs, and AD&D Treasure of Tarmin. A comment on the IntellivisionLives.com website suggests the programmers considered it “punishment” to be assigned to an Aquarius game.) Had Mattel’s plans to release Radofin’s “Chess” model as the Aquarius II panned out, the higher-end model actually would have competed nicely with the VIC-20, with more memory, a full-stroke keyboard, and the ability to program actual “hi-res” (320×192) graphics.

It featured a thermal printer that could only print up to 38 columns of text (at nowhere near letter quality), a “Mini Expander” that basically added Inty-style controllers (and an extra sound chip) to the system, and one of the slowest, least reliable cassette-tape interfaces of its day. In no way was the Aquarius going to contend with the likes of the C64, Atari 800, or even the TI-99/4A, all of which had seen significant price drops at around the time Mattel’s glorified calculator arrived on the scene.

Needless to say, the public wasn’t buying it – in any sense of the word. Underpowered, undersupported, and unloved, this Age of Aquarius came and went with barely a blip on the radar… indeed, it was pretty much dead on arrival in the marketplace. Mattel ended up having to buy themselves out of the contract they’d signed with Radofin (yet another contributor to the sea of red ink and debts that Mattel Electronics was rapidly turning into), and selling off their remaining Aquarius stock to liquidators and closeout catalogs. It was only on the market for four months, giving it the dubious distinction of having one of the shortest commercial lifespans for any computer or game console ever.

The utter failure of the Aquarius is best summed up by the ironic slogan one Mattel Electronics employee coined for it just prior to its 1983 debut: “The System For the Seventies!”

As it turns out — and quite to my surprise — Radofin actually did release an Aquarius II model in very limited numbers at some point after the Mattel debacle. It appears to be the originally-planned “Chess” model, but with no marketing push behind it and with the stigma of the Aquarius name it shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that it had, if anything, an even shorter commercial life than the original Aquarius!

Coleco Adam (1984-85): Who among us Golden Age gamers doesn’t remember the Adam, probably the highest-profile flop of the early home computer wars? At a time when Atari and Mattel were falling all over themselves trying to develop “computer” add-ons for their respective consoles, only Coleco actually delivered on its promise to turn its game machine into a fully-functional, usable home computer on par with the C64 and Apple II. (No, friends, the ECS module for Intellivision doesn’t count.)

Adam came in two flavors: You could purchase it as an add-on to the Colecovision console, or as a fully standalone computer. Functionally, both were identical; the add-on module simply eliminated any redundant hardware already provided by the Colecovision itself. Both packages included a “mainframe” containing a high-speed cassette tape drive (with space for a second), a full-stroke keyboard comparable to the fabled IBM Model M, and a full 80-column daisywheel printer (yay for letter-quality output!). Software-wise, it included a word processor in ROM, as well as an Applesoft-compatible BASIC and game (Buck Rogers: Planet of Zoom) on cassette tape. (It could also play Colecovision cartridges, naturally.)

Truthfully, Adam was an impressive system for its day. Having it default to a word processor rather than a BASIC or DOS prompt was a prescient glimpse at future trends in the home-computer market (correctly guessing that users would want to use a computer to accomplish real-world work right out of the box, not learn to program first), and you couldn’t argue that, despite a daunting MSRP of over $700, you were getting a lot for your money (it was only slightly more expensive than a C64 with disk drive and dot-matrix printer would have been). The problems with the computer stemmed from really poor build quality in early models (though later revisions were far better in this department) and some decidedly head-scratching design choices.

First, and most severely, was the lack of sufficient electromagnetic shielding from the power supply. When you powered up the Adam, it gave off an EM surge severe enough to instantly erase any data cassette left in the drives (or even just laying on the unit itself). Coleco’s solution? Warning labels! It was apparently better business for Coleco to stick a label on the system cautioning users not to leave tapes in or around the unit at power-up than it was to add extra shielding to the power supply. (Then again, no one ever accused Coleco of being totally competent in the field of consumer electronics.) The decision to use tapes in the first place was itself somewhat curious, considering that by 1984 the trend was clearly towards faster and higher-capacity floppy disks. While cheaper to produce, it still made the Adam look like yesterday’s news even as it was making its grand debut.

The other major problem was the printer. Not only was it relatively slow (only 10 CPS) and used nonstandard daisywheels, it was LOUD, generating enough noise to get people in adjoining apartments pounding on their ceilings at you. Worse, you couldn’t use an Adam without the printer, because that’s where its power supply was! Not in the “mainframe” unit with the tape drives, as you might logically expect. To this day, computer historians are still wondering what Coleco was thinking with that one… no other home computer ever put its power unit in such an oddball location.

Coleco’s heart was in the right place, and to be sure the Adam retains a small, but dedicated, fanbase even today. But QA issues with “nuked” data tapes and the high possibility of a “bricked” system if the printer ever died conspired to ensure the ambitious computer would never exactly be flying off retail shelves. The catastrophic Crash only provided the final nail in Adam’s coffin. In many ways it’s a shame, as it did deserve better than it got.

If you liked that, try...

1. Retro-Active: Consoles That REALLY Never Made It
2. Retro-Active: Consoles That Never Made It
3. Retro-Active: Wizard
4. Retro-Active: Beta vs. VHS
5. Retro-Active: Impossible Mission

1 Comment »

1. 
   Firlefanz
   October 24, 2007 at 10:51 am

   Interesting. A friend of mine did a lot of fun work on a ZX81. Way back, then, of course.

   :-)

   [Reply]

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