Shigeru Miyamoto, clutching Sega's Mega Drive demo reports, knocked on the president's office door. Hiroshi Yamauchi calmly skimmed the final report. Unlike his prior outbursts, his stillness was chilling.
He leaned back, sinking into his massive leather chair. "Our small tricks can't keep up with their pace," he said softly, tightening every executive's nerves.
His gaze landed on Maeda's reclaimed "Tokyo propaganda vacuum" report. Without scolding, he tapped it lightly. "Conventional warfare is meaningless now."
Pausing, a gambler's cold fire sparked in his eyes. "If they want a grand party to herald a new era, I'll pull the city's power switch first."
"Call Enix."
Yamauchi's order rippled through the room like a stone in still water. "At any cost, convince them. *Dragon Quest III: The Seeds of Salvation* must hit shelves before the Mega Drive launch."
Miyamoto's heart clenched. *Dragon Quest III*, delayed by Sega's disruptions, was Nintendo's ultimate external trump card—a national RPG icon. Using this eagerly awaited trilogy finale as a war tool in this white-hot battle was ruthless. Yamauchi's emotionless eyes revealed he wasn't playing chess—he was flipping the board.
Player anticipation and game joy were crushed under the empire's survival. With Nintendo's vast resources and promises, Enix's defenses crumbled, agreeing to the near-insane request.
Back in Kyoto, Nintendo's war machine crafted a blitz strategy around this new bombshell. Yamauchi circled two dates on a map in red. "February 10, Wednesday," he said icily. "Launch *Dragon Quest III*. I want an unprecedented sales tidal wave to drain all market funds, media space, and attention in three days. Not a yen left for Sega. A man-made market tsunami to crush their plans."
His finger slid to the next date. "February 13. When Sega crawls ashore, exhausted from *DQ3*'s wake, *Super Mario Bros. 3* will be waiting to finish them off."
"Double strangulation."
The room held only heavy breathing, chilled by the plan's cold precision.
On February 10, 1988, Yamauchi's plan succeeded—but spiraled into chaos.
At 4 a.m., still dark, a young reporter at Bic Camera's Ikebukuro East Exit store shivered through her broadcast. "It's 4 a.m., and the line behind me stretches beyond sight." The camera panned a silent, anxious queue, some camping for 20 hours.
The line snaked kilometers, a greedy serpent engulfing the district. Cheap coffee and anxious breath fogged the air. A weekday launch triggered a nationwide student truancy crisis.
Tokyo's Metropolitan Police held an emergency press conference. A senior officer, facing flashing cameras, announced, "By 10 a.m., nearly 300 Tokyo students were detained for truancy to buy the game."
"Truancy" stung parents via TV signals. Worse, robberies, thefts, and armed extortion targeting queuing minors surged nationwide. Cameras captured a sobbing student clutching an empty wallet. Commentators condemned the game-fueled chaos.
A new term was born, spreading like wildfire: "DQ Uproar" .
Nintendo's sales legend birthed an unprecedented PR disaster.
At Sega's headquarters, NHK News gravely reported the *DQ3*-sparked nationwide chaos—crowded Ikebukuro streets, police shouting through megaphones, a student crying over stolen savings. A young marketing manager, sweating, stammered, "President, Nintendo's move was brutal. They've drained players' cash—our pre-orders—"
Hayao Nakayama raised a hand, silencing him. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, initial worry morphing into near-ecstatic glee. He saw the crying child, heard "DQ Uproar," and spotted a crack in Nintendo's invincible sales myth.
"Opportunity," he whispered, electrifying the room.
Executives, weary and confused, stared. To them, *DQ3*'s frenzy crushed Sega's momentum. Nakayama turned, a hunter's smile curling. "Yamauchi hijacked the market with one game, but he's also hijacked society." His voice steadied, sharp. "Now society demands ransom."
He scanned the glum room. "Nintendo's the 'family joy' company, right?" he mocked. "Get PR. Contact all friendly media—papers, TV. Sega expresses deep sympathy for youths harmed in the 'DQ Uproar.' Issue a statement: corporate responsibility and protecting the next generation."
A silent PR war against Nintendo began.
Hours later, the tide turned. Evening news shifted from "game sales miracle" to "corporate greed harming youth." Education experts on TV lambasted Nintendo's weekday launch as encouraging truancy. Morning papers screamed of escalating robberies and brawls.
*Dragon Quest* morphed from heroic saga to a breeding ground for real-world villains. Nintendo, the gaming empire, was dragged from its commercial pedestal to the public's judgment seat.
A bombshell hit: *Weekly Bunshun*'s cover story exposed Fujita-ya, a major Shoshinkai wholesaler, forcing retailers to bundle unsold obscure cartridges with *DQ3* or face supply cuts. Leaked documents and anonymous shopkeepers' complaints, plus players' rage, suggested Antimonopoly Law violations.
"Corporate tyranny," "retailer exploitation," "market monopoly tumor"—scathing terms branded Nintendo's image. *DQ3*'s million-unit first-day sales, a historic feat, drowned in negative headlines, uncelebrated.
In Kyoto, Nintendo's headquarters was somber. Untouched champagne sat in an ice bucket, condensation like cold tears. Yamauchi stared at newspapers: "DQ Uproar," "Corporate Tyranny," "Truancy Culprit." Each word stabbed like a red-hot needle.
His perfect market storm, meant to uproot Sega, backfired, devouring his empire. A PR manager, pale, entered. "President, the police, Education Ministry, and Trade Ministry demand explanations for the 'DQ Uproar' and bundling. Our stock dropped three points at opening."
Yamauchi's eyes held no anger, only dead frost. His "double strangulation" faltered before the second blow, his own ground ablaze. He glanced at Miyamoto, whose face bore pure love for games and detachment from corporate schemes.
"Miyamoto-kun," Yamauchi rasped. "You'll hold the press conference. Apologize to the public."
Miyamoto stiffened. Apologize for a scheme he didn't craft, one he loathed? Yamauchi's unyielding gaze silenced protests. In the empire's game, he and Mario were aces—now, his "pure" face was a sacrificial offering to quell public fury.
Gunpei Yokoi spoke up, "But, President, if Miyamoto apologizes, what about *Super Mario Bros. 3*—"
Miyamoto patted Yokoi's shoulder, shaking his head. "Yokoi-san, my face shows the company's sincerity." To Yamauchi, he bowed. "For the company."
Yamauchi softened. "I'm sorry, Miyamoto-kun." But the president was infallible, untouchable.
Two days remained until the *Super Mario Bros. 3* and Mega Drive showdown. Nintendo couldn't carry *DQ3*'s baggage—it had to shed all weight for battle.