What could be more counterintuitive than a videogame fitness program? It's like going on a tiramisu diet or an Amsterdam abstinence tour. Yet Nintendo's Wii, which abandons the traditional thumbs-and-fingers joypad for sensors that interpret actual body movements, has confounded this notion. The operative word is movement, heretofore absent in games that simulate the most exhausting human endeavors (ski-jumping, martial arts, slaughter of horrible creatures) while burning no more calories than slumber.
First came reports that Wii users, from chubby teenagers to creaky geezers, were experiencing some physical benefits from rolling invisible bowling balls and swinging imaginary tennis rackets. Then Nintendo released Wii Fit, which prescribed various calisthenics and included a balance board in lieu of gym equipment. (You expected a Bowflex, maybe?) Finally, last year Electronic Arts joined the health club with its EA Sports Active for the Wii. It logged sales of almost 2 million in three months.
I decided to take the EA challenge. It was easy to set up the software, which asks your age and weight (presumably so it can modulate the workouts to prevent cardiac arrest). One of the benefits of the system was immediately apparent: Since the workouts are computer-based, they are automatically logged into a journal that provides metrics of your progress over time. It also requires minimal equipment: an elastic strap that is rather grandly referred to as a "resistance band" and a Velcro leg band with a pouch for the Wiimote.
OK, time to face the actual workouts. Here's where the difference between a "personal trainer in a box" (as EA puts it) and a human fitness coach becomes obvious. On the plus side, the software is much less costly, has an infinitely flexible schedule, and can't recount your flabby, pathetic exploits to its friends between gales of laughter. On the other hand, a human trainer is more likely to acknowledge when the client is crumpled on the floor writhing in pain after doing a leg stretch. A virtual trainer's response in such cases is to impatiently urge that another rep be completed. Trust me on this.
Even though I knew that my EA Active trainer was a disembodied voice, I wound up trying to interpret her tone after I completed, or failed to complete, an activity. At times her exclamations seemed inappropriately encouraging (how much talent does it take to run in place, for heaven's sake?). But I sensed some testiness when she judged that I wasn't jumping high enough during a drill that just didn't seem right in the living room: a mimicry of in-line skating that involved squatting into a deep crouch and suddenly springing toward the ceiling. Other times, I deserved her wrath: I got berated after fumbling with the resistance strap and almost dropping the Wiimote.
The workouts were vigorous, and calories were indeed burned. But I felt like a total schmuck high-kicking in front of the TV while my animated virtual trainer — a nameless woman with an omnipresent smile that makes Julia Roberts look like Coraline — gushed about my rhythm. As I performed squats, stretches, and air-box punches, I had a nightmare daydream that the Wii might contain a secret webcam that sent clips of my session directly to YouTube.
The fact is, I couldn't get through a session without daydreaming. During my forays to the gym, my ears are plugged with iPod buds and my eyes are distracted by ESPN. But exercising on the Wii demands total attention to, of all things, an exercise program. Good for the body, but barren for the mind. So I wound up abandoning this particular workout... because I need more stimulus. Talk about counterintuitive.
Email steven_levy@wired.com.
