Time moved into May of 1990.
At Nintendo headquarters in Kyoto, the long-gestating Super Famicom—codename SFC—had finally completed all development. After countless rounds of adjustments and revisions, the machine was ready to enter mass production. The final sprint for its launch titles had also begun.
Yamauchi Hiroshi, who had been tense for months, could finally exhale—if only a little.
Meanwhile, far away in Tokyo, deep within a restricted R&D lab at Sony headquarters, the atmosphere was the exact opposite.
Kutaragi Ken stood before a massive workbench. A prototype SFC lay disassembled into countless pieces; chips and components were neatly categorized like the organs of a meticulously dissected body.
A young engineer brought up data on his terminal and projected it onto the wall—dense circuit diagrams and parameter lists, the foundation of Nintendo's next-generation empire.
"Kutaragi-san, I must say—the custom Ricoh 5A22 CPU Nintendo built is absolutely brilliant for 2D rotation and scaling," the engineer murmured with something akin to reverence.
Kutaragi lifted a circuit board and held it to the light, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Brilliant? Maybe. But it's the brilliance of someone who locked himself inside a cage."
He set the board down, thinking:
"All of its design is welded rigidly to 2D functions. To us, that's Nintendo's ceiling."
Across the lab, dozens of elite engineers worked with feverish focus.
On the surface, they were developing a CD-ROM add-on for the SFC through the expansion interface—a collaboration spelled out clearly in the contract. A friendly olive branch extended to Nintendo.
But beyond another door—one no Nintendo engineer could access—lay the true heart of the project.
There, another team was developing an entirely new console.
"Our PlayStation must support 3D from the very beginning."
Kutaragi walked from the collaboration lab to the entrance of the "PS" lab. He swiped his badge. The door slid open.
Inside was a machine larger than the SFC prototype, a sleek black box resting on a testing platform, cables connecting to its core like veins.
"Nintendo thinks we're building a CD add-on," Kutaragi said quietly, eyes burning with ambition. "They'll never guess we're using their shell to gestate an entirely new console."
He knocked on the casing; the sound was deep and solid.
"Kutaragi-san," an engineer reported, "the independent graphics processor you requested has passed the first tape-out. We can begin hardware integration next month."
"Good." Kutaragi took the report and set it aside without looking.
He knew well: once this machine debuted, the so-called SFC-compatibility was nothing but camouflage—an excuse that would leave Nintendo speechless.
Because once players witnessed true 3D worlds, who would still want to play those flat, paper-thin SFC games?
On that day, Nintendo would realize that the CD technology they invited into their home hadn't become a weapon for them—but a shovel for Sony to dig out their foundations.
Thus, the same day Nintendo signed the SFC-CD partnership, Sony had already secretly begun designing a new graphics processor—one meant to give the future PlayStation full 3D capabilities.
Kutaragi looked at the progress charts pinned to the wall. Sega's MD-CD project and Nintendo's SFC-CD project were side by side—but the former's progress bar was significantly longer.
A thought surfaced.
He picked up the phone and dialed Nakagawa Ryoji's internal line.
"Nakagawa-san, it's me. Kutaragi."
"Oh? Kutaragi-kun, what's the matter?" Nakagawa's voice held a knowing amusement; he clearly expected this call.
"That old fox Yamauchi is too cautious," Kutaragi said bluntly. "He started the SFC-CD project only on paper. He sent only rookies. He wants to see how the SFC sells before committing to the CD format. We can't let him drag us down."
Nakagawa chuckled. "So we need someone to light a fire under him."
"Sega," Kutaragi replied.
"Yes, Sega." Nakagawa's tone sharpened with businesslike cunning. "Nakayama in Sega is ambitious—and obsessed with CD tech. Give him a push and he'll sprint."
"That's exactly the plan," Kutaragi said. "Increase support for Sega's MD-CD project. Give them engineers, give them tech—whatever they want. Get their product into the market fast."
Two birds with one stone.
Nakagawa drawled, "First, Sega becomes our trailblazer. Whether CD gaming works, what sells, how to market it, what price point—their money, their effort. All we need to do is read their reports. Free tuition."
He paused, voice tinged with amusement. "A 'paid beta test', with Sega footing the bill."
Kutaragi smiled too. "Second—and most important. Once Sega's CD system hits store shelves, what expression do you think Kyoto's president will have?"
"He'll be restless. He'll lose sleep," Nakagawa said, picturing Yamauchi's darkened expression. "The media will corner him. Investors will question him. Third-party studios will complain. All pressure pointing to one conclusion—embrace CD, or Nintendo will be left behind."
"And when that moment comes," Kutaragi continued, unable to hide his thrill, "we can accelerate development openly—turn the rice into cooked rice."
"Excellent! Do it." Nakagawa clapped decisively. "Make sure our engineers 'hold nothing back' when helping Sega. Let them truly feel Sony's 'sincerity'."
"Understood."
After hanging up, Kutaragi looked again at Sega's name on the chart, eyes deep with calculation.
Nakayama Takuya—he'd happily accept this "gift."
He'd think Sony was showing goodwill. He'd think it was another one of his victories.
He would never realize: the gift in his hands was merely the whip Sony would use to drive Nintendo toward the execution grounds.
---
Sega headquarters — Nakayama's office.
An assistant placed a file on his desk, wearing an expression that mixed confusion with wariness.
"Sir, Sony suddenly became extremely proactive," the assistant reported. "They dispatched three senior CD-ROM engineers and even shared new reading-speed technology. They say they want to help us accelerate MD-CD development."
"Oh?" Nakayama leaned back, smiling. "Did a meat pie fall from the sky? Or did Sony's Ōga suddenly become a saint, descending to save Sega?"
The assistant winced. No one believed Sony was truly being generous, but their sincerity was unmistakable.
"They aren't helping us." Nakayama tapped the desk lightly. "They're delivering a warning. Not to us—to Yamauchi."
He skimmed the documents and grasped everything instantly.
"Nintendo's SFC must be finished. Yamauchi wants to wait and observe the market before committing to CD. But someone is more impatient than he is."
Nakayama tossed the file aside.
"Sony wants to toss logs into the fire under Nintendo's pot. The faster Sega marches into the CD era, the more restless Yamauchi becomes. The media will stir it up. And he'll panic."
The assistant finally understood. "They want to use us to pressure Nintendo!"
"Exactly. A blatant, open-air strategy."
Nakayama rose, looking out the window at the streams of traffic.
"Tell Director Nakamura—accept everything Sony sends. Their engineers, use them. Their tech, study it. Put on a look of gratitude so real it brings tears. Let Sony 'help' us finish MD-CD quickly. A free lunch is still a lunch—we'd be fools not to eat."
The assistant didn't quite understand why—but nodded hard. "Yes, sir!"
After sending the assistant away, Nakayama checked the time, grabbed his coat, and headed to the screening room.
Inside, Hideo Kojima was clutching VHS tapes and military magazines like treasure.
"Kojima-san, packed already?"
"Ah! Sir!" Kojima jumped, pushing up his glasses. "These are research materials for the new project. I swear—they'll be useful in America."
The tapes were all classics: Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, and more.
"Good enthusiasm," Nakayama said, patting his shoulder. "But remember—we're making games, not holding a film seminar. Once we arrive, I'll take you to a shooting range. You'll familiarize yourself with the real thing."
"Really?!" Kojima's eyes sparkled instantly.
Nakayama shook his head, amused by his excitement.
Hours later, a Boeing 747 roared into the sky toward San Francisco.
---
The next morning in Redwood City, Nakayama drove Kojima across the Golden Gate Bridge to Santa Rosa.
Here stood Motion Analysis Corporation.
Inside, rows of server racks blinked rhythmically. Thick cables snaked across the floor and ceiling, converging around a central space draped with black curtains.
Around the space were a dozen high-speed cameras pointed toward the center.
And in front of a giant monitor stood Suzuki Yu, arms folded, brows shifting as he muttered technical parameters. Several Western engineers hovered nearby, adjusting settings.
"Seems our technical maestro has found his new playground," Nakayama whispered.
Kojima didn't respond. His eyes were glued to the monitor.
The feed showed a stunt performer wearing a black motion-capture suit covered in reflective markers, striking a fierce, rapid sequence of martial-arts moves.
On the computer feed, a grey polygonal 3D model replicated the movements perfectly—no lag, no stiffness.
Every punch's weight, every kick's arc, even the subtle shift of balance after a misstep—captured flawlessly.
It was leagues beyond the stick-figure motion capture they'd seen at ILM.
"Takaya! Kojima-san!" Suzuki finally noticed them, jogging over with a wide, geekish grin.
"Suzuki-san, looks like you've settled in nicely," Nakayama laughed, giving him a friendly jab.
"The equipment here is incredible," Suzuki said, eyes bright. "These cameras capture 120 frames per second with millimeter precision. We're testing direct conversion of raw data into in-game skeletal animation—no heavy movie-style post-processing. It's built for games!"
Kojima had drifted closer to the monitor, completely entranced.
He watched the grey figure deliver a combo, stumble slightly, then adjust balance with lifelike instinct. The sense of weight, of inertia—so real it raised goosebumps.
"Oh my god…" Kojima whispered. He spun around and grabbed Nakayama's arm, trembling with excitement.
"Sir! Do you see this? This isn't animation—this is performance recorded!"
His ideas burst forth like a flood:
"We can capture more than combat! A soldier fumbling a new magazine on the battlefield—his hands will shake! A character trekking through snow—his body will hunch from the cold!"
Nakayama laughed, patting his shoulder. "Calm down, Kojima-san. Let Suzuki-san finish his 3D fighting game first, or our arcade project gets delayed."
Suzuki chuckled as well. He understood Kojima's enthusiasm—this was the cutting edge of 3D technology.
"Kojima-san's ideas are fascinating," Suzuki said. "Once our 3D graphics processor is done, they'll all be possible."
"Not for real-time rendering yet," Nakayama added. "For now, only CG cutscenes can handle this fidelity. The hardware isn't ready."
He looked at the two men—future pillars of Sega, one a pioneer of technology, the other a revolutionary storyteller—standing side by side, eyes alight with the same fire.
And all because of a single new technology.
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