With Nintendo and Sega locking their launch dates for February 13, 1988, a ground war over distribution channels, retail, and promotion erupted the moment the announcements dropped. Its intensity stunned onlookers.
Nintendo sales rep Mori stood in a cramped game shop, his tailored suit clashing with the cluttered space. The air carried the distinct smell of old cardboard and plastic, walls plastered with fading, curling game posters. This was shopkeeper Takeda's lifeblood.
As a cog in Nintendo's "Shoshinkai" war machine, Mori's mission was clear. "Good afternoon, Takeda-san," he said with a practiced smile, as if visiting an old friend.
Takeda, a portly middle-aged man, rose stiffly from behind the counter, his smile strained. "Mori-san, what brings you here?" His heart sank. Shoshinkai reps didn't drop by casually—each visit carried headquarters' orders, usually about hot game allotments. Today felt different.
Mori's gaze swept the shop, lingering on a Zelda poster before settling on a handwritten sign behind the counter: "MEGA DRIVE Pre-Orders Accepted." Takeda's back prickled with sweat.
"You've received headquarters' notice, I presume," Mori said, his polite tone carrying an edge. He slid a document across the counter, its cover bold: *Super Mario Bros. 3 Priority Sales Agreement*.
Takeda avoided the paper, eyes fixed on Mori. "Mori-san, that sign—it's just—"
"Takeda-san," Mori cut in, voice soft but heavy, "Shoshinkai is a family. Nintendo prioritizes its partners' interests. For *Mario 3*'s initial stock, we're keen to favor our most loyal allies." The word "loyal" hit like stones.
Takeda understood. "Priority sales" meant exclusivity—no Mega Drive promotions allowed. "But… we're just a small shop, trying to—" His voice trailed off.
Mori's smile vanished. He tapped the contract. "There are many paths, Takeda-san, but only one leads to the future. You're a smart man."
Silence gripped the shop, broken only by an old clock's ticking. Takeda's brow glistened. He glanced at the contract, then at his fresh-inked Mega Drive sign, mocking his naivety. He just wanted to make a living—why was he caught in Nintendo and Sega's war?
Seconds later, he sighed silently, forced a pained smile, and turned to rip down the Mega Drive sign, crumpling it into the trash. Mori's smile returned. "A pleasure doing business, Takeda-san. I'll secure you top *Mario 3* allotments."
Carrot and stick—Nintendo's classic, ruthless tactic, proving their iron grip on the channel battlefield.
Mori left for his next target, brimming with imperial pride. But that pride faltered at his next stop: a Pokémon Center.
Unlike the dingy game shop, this space was bright, spacious, and trendy. Pikachu, Charmander, and Squirtle adorned walls and shelves. Kids swapped Pokémon stickers in a dedicated play area. It felt less like a store and more like a youth culture haven.
Mori frowned, spotting a prominent Mega Drive display and a vibrant *Pokémon Park: Adventure* poster at the entrance. He delivered his polished pitch to the manager, a young man in a Pokémon uniform, his smile warm but eyes resolute.
"Sorry, Mori-san," the manager declined politely.
Mori, caught off guard, pressed harder, hinting at Shoshinkai rules and potential cartridge supply cuts. The manager's smile held firm.
"Look here," he said, opening a photo album to a bustling weekend scene—crowds packing the store. "Many aren't here for games," he said, pointing to joyful kids and parents. "They trade stickers, buy Pikachu shirts, dolls, or just soak in the vibe."
He slid over a ledger, showing Pokémon merchandise and tie-in snacks dwarfing Famicom cartridge sales. "Pokémon brings me entire families. If I reject the Mega Drive and *Pokémon Park*, I lose the foundation of this store. No Nintendo ad budget can replace that."
Mori faced a commercial ecosystem beyond Nintendo's reach. The kids' smiles, the shelves of Pokémon goods—Sega had built an impregnable fortress with this IP. He left the Pokémon Center, his earlier confidence shattered, and urgently reported the encounter. The report sparked a reevaluation of Pokémon's power and heightened vigilance within Nintendo's marketing team.
The war spread. In convenience stores, a carve-up unfolded. FamilyMart, tied to Pokémon, was Sega's stronghold, stocked with Mega Drive flyers and tie-in snacks. At 7-11, Sega's reps raised proxy bids a few rounds before "graciously" conceding, letting Nintendo secure exclusive rights at a steep price. Lawson, backed by Shoshinkai ally Mitsubishi Corporation, was Nintendo's turf by default.
On the surface, Nintendo dominated, claiming two major chains. But finance teams eyed the costly agreements with unease.
In department stores like Seibu and Toys "R" Us, Nintendo unleashed a blatant money offensive. Giant Tanooki Mario posters cloaked mall facades, Mario and Luigi mascots tirelessly handed out flyers. Nintendo's regional chief boasted, "Whatever Sega bids, we'll top it by 10,000 yen daily!"
Yet Sega consistently pushed prices sky-high before withdrawing. Nintendo's reps celebrated "victories" while privately mocking Sega's "weak funds."
Late at night, in Nintendo's headquarters, a junior analyst, Maeda, worked under a lone office light. Meticulous and new, he pored over nationwide promo reports, his brow furrowing. In Osaka, Nagoya, and Fukuoka, Sega's ad spending, though less than Nintendo's, was precise and fierce, both sides trading blows. But in Tokyo—the media and symbolic epicenter—Sega's efforts were negligible, limited to Pokémon Centers and allies like Tokuma Toys, with muted intensity.
It didn't add up. Maeda's unease grew. He bolded a note in his report: a suspicion of irregularity. The next day, it was returned, his boss's red ink proclaiming, "The enemy fears battle, lacks funds—a sign of our triumph. No need for concern."
Maeda stared at the smug dismissal, his anxiety deepening. This wasn't retreat—it was a strange vacuum. Sega wasn't ceding Tokyo due to weak finances. They seemed to absorb Nintendo's saturation attacks, quietly funneling resources to an unseen, lethal strike point.