Cold War Tactics: The Stasi’s Involvement in a Video Game | Games

In 2019, researchers at the Berlin Computer Game Museum uncovered a remarkable find made from salvaged electronic gear for joysticks and plastic containers. The beige rectangular tupperware, containing wires, will display a functional version of Pon when connected to a TV.

Initially, they believed that these homemade devices were an isolated testament to creativity behind the iron curtain. However, earlier this year, they stumbled upon something else: seifendosen-pong (“Soapbox Pon”), accompanied by a national magazine called Funkamateur, featuring various DIY diagrams for Atari’s 1970s gaming hits.

This discovery contradicted the notion that the emergence of computer games was merely tolerated or heavily suppressed by socialist East Germany. Evidence arose suggesting that gaming received a degree of official backing from the regime’s notorious Secret Service.

A new collaborative exhibition from the Union Museum and the Computer Games Museum in Berlin aims to uncover the intrigue surrounding Cold War-era games from both sides of the iron curtain. This includes East Germany’s sole arcade cabinet, Polyplay, which visitors can experience. Featuring honey-colored wooden panels and vibrant signage, only 2,000 machines were produced. In the late ’80s, youth flocked to these cabinets in clubs and holiday retreats, enjoying games that were largely clones of Western originals.

However, Polyplay was developed “with assistance from national security,” explains Veit Lehmann of the Alliance Museum. Due to a lack of programming expertise, the manufacturer Veb Polytechnick turned to the Stasi, who provided personnel “with expertise and computing capabilities” to code games.

PAC – In place of Man, there was Hase und Wolf – a rabbit dodging a dog, while Namco’s infamous ghost from Pac-Man was replaced. Games included Hirschjagd (“Deer Hunt”), a reimagined version of the sci-fi shooter Robotron: 2084, and Schießbude, a carnival shooting game, along with titles like Schmetterling (butterfly collecting), memory puzzles, skiing games, and other racing contests.

For many in East Germany, Polyplay marked their first exposure to computing, “opening up an entirely different world,” states Regina Sewald of the University of Birmingham. “It was seen as a family-oriented machine.” Families would spend weekends enjoying leisure activities together. While perceived as innocent entertainment, it subtly encouraged technical skill development.

However, Polyplay eliminated themes of violence, contrasting with Western arcades that showcased tanks in combat scenarios and dragons targeting players propelled by jetpacks. The GDR aimed to present itself as a peaceful nation, viewing media law as a means to suppress any portrayal of violence. “The GDR’s approach to technology reflected a desire for a harmonious self-image, coupled with a fear of the unknown,” remarks Seiwald.

Despite the family-friendly concept of Polyplay, self-proclaimed “freaks” gathered at computer clubs to challenge the regime’s limits. East Germany identified technology as a critical economic focus by the late 1970s, but Western tech was often smuggled into the country as trade embargoes restricted access, with devices like the ZX Spectrum being disguised in car seats or hidden inside chocolate boxes for cross-border smuggling.

State-run factories produced some of their own gaming devices, including the Bildschirmspiel 01 Pong clone and the Veb Robotron series of microcomputers, but accessibility was limited. High costs made it difficult for most citizens to obtain them.

As early enthusiasts began forming clubs at universities and youth centers across cities like Berlin, Dresden, and Leipzig, officials speculated whether this youthful engagement would help mitigate technical challenges. “They believed that if young people engaged with games and computers, it could lead to better outcomes,” notes Lehmann. Perhaps the regime hoped this interest would nurture a new generation skilled in microelectronics, ultimately developing a necessary homegrown industry.

A phrase often echoed among GDR officials was expressed by Martin Görlich, managing director of the Computer Games Museum: “Learning from the Soviet Union means learning how to win.” Thus, computing was embraced as mirroring Soviet dynamics, blending physical action with screen engagement in arcade games.

The Soviet Union also birthed Tetris, a dynamic puzzle game created by software engineer Alexey Pajitnov to test computer performance. Initially exchanged among engineers, it led to fierce competition for distribution rights involving Dutch game designer Henrogers and Kevin Maxwell, son of the disgraced media tycoon Robert Maxwell.

In East Germany, citizens often depended on bootleg versions to bypass restrictions and shortages. Fashion enthusiasts crafted their garments, musicians repurposed audio gear, and underground board games like a twist on Monopoly flourished in exchange for communist-themed titles.

This DIY ethos aligned with the state’s self-reliance policy, encouraging citizens to craft, build, and repair. Official publications such as Funkamateur and Jugend Und Technik advocated for “computer sports” and published programming guides. “The GDR was acutely aware of technological constraints,” affirms Sewald. “People became proactive in educating themselves and pushing the boundaries of available technology.”

For young enthusiasts, some clubs boasted advanced computing systems like the Commodore 64, far superior to state alternatives. Most members were young males, their primary interest often lying in gaming.

Some learned to program their own games on machines like the KC 85 from Veb Mikroelektronik, while others like René Meyer, who joined the Computer Club at the University of Leipzig at 16, explored this new digital realm.

“GDR’s home computers were compatible with various systems and cultivated a unique computing ecosystem in the East,” recalls Meyer, particularly one game called Bennion Geppy, which involved navigating dungeons while avoiding monsters and collecting keys.

Paradoxically, while the state seemed to endorse these groups, club members often found themselves under the close scrutiny of Stasi informants, and their computing activities were frequently viewed with suspicion. One Stasi report detailed the games circulating in Young Talent’s House, highlighting acceptable choices like Super Bowl and Samantha Fox Strip Poker, alongside more controversial titles reflecting violent themes.

As internal tensions within East German society escalated, Stasi grew increasingly paranoid about war-related themes in software, computer viruses, and anti-socialist messages. Their fears may have been exaggerated. Notably, in neighboring Czechoslovakia, underground game developers created titles like the Adventures of Indiana Jones, a text adventure where a fedora-clad hero could face peril from bloodthirsty authorities.

East Germany’s relationship with technology was complex. In 1984, West Germany penalized children for playing arcade games, viewing them as gambling hazards. Consequently, they imposed stringent age restrictions on violent games like Activision’s River Raid. This skepticism extended into the 21st century, with publishers altering titles to sidestep censorship, as seen in the German version of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, where players faced penalties for actions during the controversial “No Russian” mission.

While East Germany advocated for decentralized computing, the state maintained strict control over communications, criminalizing home networking and hacking activities. In response, activists in West Germany founded the Chaos Computer Club, still active today, known for crafting DIY modems as a form of protest, referred to as Datenklo (“Dataloo”).

“The West has been very harsh on hackers and crackers,” observes Seiwald. “It surprised many to find that the GDR exhibited a degree of surprising tolerance.”