November 21, Tokyo.
Today was the official launch day of Nintendo's new console, the Super Famicom.
Perhaps to avoid clashing with the Emperor Akihito's enthronement ceremony on November 12th, Nintendo ultimately chose an ordinary weekday—a Wednesday—for the release.
---
Sega Headquarters.
Knock, knock.
The door to Nakayama Takuya's office was tapped twice.
"Come in."
His assistant hurried inside, placing a freshly faxed report onto the desk. His tone carried both excitement and confusion that he could barely hide.
"Sir, this is the first batch of on-site reports from Akihabara. The situation is… a bit strange."
"Read it," Takuya replied without looking up, fingers rhythmically tapping the desk as if he were calculating something.
"Yes. All the big electronics stores have people lining up outside, but the numbers are far below what the media predicted. Our observer says that in front of Yodobashi Camera, there were actually more reporters filming the scene than customers in line."
Takuya's fingers stopped.
He raised his head—not surprised, but rather with the expression of someone listening to a story whose ending he had already known.
"And?"
"The report says most of the people lining up are university students who took the day off or freelancers. Almost no office workers in suits, and students are even rarer. Many schools and companies apparently issued strict orders forbidding anyone from going out today to buy a game console. Anyone caught would be seriously disciplined."
The assistant hesitated, then muttered under his breath, "Did Nintendo overestimate themselves this time…?"
"Have you forgotten?" Takuya finally looked up at him. "Two years ago, when Dragon Quest III launched—wasn't that chaos enough? Tens of thousands of students skipped class just to buy the game. The social uproar almost flipped Nintendo and Enix upside down."
"Principals, department heads… they've all got that trauma carved into their bones now. Who would dare let students or employees run out on a Wednesday to buy a game console? That's a one-way ticket to career suicide."
The assistant blinked, then suddenly understood. A hint of satisfaction appeared on his face. "Come to think of it, Sega always launches on weekends or holidays… and we never had that kind of trouble. And our games are supposed to be 'more violent' than Nintendo's in those teachers' eyes too."
The others in the office burst into laughter.
Who would've thought? Sega—the company constantly criticized by the moral guardians—had somehow become the one most considerate of social order when it came to launch dates.
A bizarre irony indeed.
Takuya stood and walked to the window, looking down at the busy street.
"Let them celebrate. Yamauchi Hiroshi is probably already congratulating himself for the day-one buzz."
"We're in no rush."
As soon as he said this, the tension in the room visibly eased. After days of tight nerves, everyone finally found an excuse to relax—at least a little.
Yes. No rush.
But that didn't mean they could afford not to watch Nintendo's every move.
---
A few days later — Monday.
The newest weekly market report was delivered to Takuya's desk.
In the marketing department's meeting room, no one dared to breathe too loudly as every eye focused on the assistant's stiff expression.
"Sir…" He swallowed, voice unusually dry. "Nintendo officially released their numbers. From Wednesday to Sunday—five days total—the SFC has sold over two million units."
A sharp gasp cut through the room.
Two million.
The number dropped into the minds of every Sega employee like a stone splashing into cold water.
Even on a weekday, even under heavy restrictions, Nintendo had leveraged the "Mario" brand to create a commercial miracle.
Two million units. In five days. Numbers many game companies could never reach in a lifetime.
Takuya quietly picked up the report and flipped through the cold, hard figures. No ripple crossed his face. He even had the leisure to sip his tea and blow aside a floating leaf.
"I imagine Yamauchi's victory party must be lively," he said calmly.
A department manager finally found his voice. "Sir, this momentum is too strong. The user base Nintendo built with the Famicom—it's practically a bottomless gold mine. Just the name 'Mario' alone is enough to make over a million players buy without thinking."
"So what?" Takuya set down the report and swept his gaze across the room. "Do you think that's a bad thing?"
Silence. Wasn't it obviously bad?
"No. It's not that bad for us." He tapped the table lightly. "They've fired a gorgeous opening salvo. The media cheers, investors celebrate, and Yamauchi thinks he has already won. But then what?"
He let the question hang.
"Then comes the long wait. Only a handful of launch titles. Few major games. These two million players will soon realize their shiny new machine doesn't have much to play. Hunger is the best catalyst."
He turned to his assistant.
"How's our side? GamePocket—what about Kirby?"
"You mean Kirby on the GamePocket…? First-week numbers are around… about 400,000 units." He shrank his neck slightly. Compared to two million, it was nothing.
"Four hundred thousand is very good. It's a brand-new title, not a sequel." Takuya nodded approvingly. "Do you think the people buying an SFC are the same people buying a GamePocket?"
"Ninety percent of SFC buyers are hardcore Mario fans. But the ones buying Kirby?" he guided. "Probably commuters killing time on trains."
The assistant immediately perked up. "Yes, exactly. And many are women who don't usually play games. Kirby is cute, simple, very approachable—"
Takuya smiled faintly. The mood lightened, though worry still lingered.
A marketing manager still looked troubled. "Sir, the SFC's two-million surge… I'm mostly worried about third-party developers. If they see this number, will they start shifting resources to Nintendo again?"
The room froze.
That was the true threat.
Console wars weren't just hardware battles—they were ecosystem wars. Whoever controlled the third-party developers controlled the flow of games.
Takuya, however, laughed.
"What's the panic? They sell two million and we're supposed to panic and slash prices? That was the old Sega—not us."
He raised two fingers.
"First: how do we make money now? Just by selling MD consoles and cartridges?"
"Don't forget—Pokémon licensing revenue every quarter. Bandai's Gundam model royalties. Sunrise's animation merchandise dividends. These are our ammunition. Our leverage. Does Nintendo have any of that? Aside from games, what does Yamauchi have?"
No one could answer.
Right. Sega today was not the Sega of years past.
With Pokémon, with Bandai, with Sunrise, and with finances strengthened before the economic bubble burst, Sega was healthier than ever.
"Second," he raised the other finger, "the latest numbers from Tom?"
The assistant straightened, almost glowing. "Just received by fax—North America's MD sales are still extremely strong. Global MD install base has officially exceeded thirty million units."
A collective shock swept the room.
Thirty million!
In the previous timeline, MD barely reached that number by 1994.
Now, in 1990—they had already achieved it.
"Thirty million." Takuya repeated softly. "That is our fortress. Do you think third-party companies are idiots? Would they abandon a market of thirty million players for a brand-new platform with only a handful of games?"
"Especially when our development environment is far more friendly than Nintendo's."
He leaned back. "I've seen the data. SFC development still requires heavy assembly programming. For weaker teams, that's a nightmare."
He patted the manager's shoulder. "So relax. Let Nintendo perform their one-man show in Japan. We won't fight price wars. We won't panic. We finish our games. That's all."
The manager exhaled. "I understand, sir… but third-party loyalty is still key. Take Capcom—they were once Nintendo's closest ally. Seeing SFC's sales, I'm afraid they'll—"
"Capcom?" Takuya chuckled. "Tsujimoto Kenzo is a businessman, not a charity worker. Do you really think Yamauchi's old royalty shackles can be placed on them a second time?"
"Once bitten, twice shy. And they've already tasted the freedom and profits we give them."
He paused, then dropped the real bomb.
"Besides, Capcom—just like Koei—only received their SFC dev kits after the SFC launched."
A hush overtook the room.
After launch? Like newcomers? So this was Nintendo's idea of "loyalty."
"Then who got the first dev kits?" the assistant asked carefully.
"Nintendo's most faithful ally, of course," Takuya replied with a sly smile. "Enix."
Enix.
The name made everything click.
"They're probably working night and day right now," Takuya mused. "Trying to tame SFC's assembly development for the next Dragon Quest. I can already picture their programmers' hairlines receding over the next two years."
Someone snorted.
Laughter spread, washing away the tension.
"So we arrive at an interesting situation." Takuya lifted a finger. "Super Mario World is excellent—but finite. Players will clear it. And the next Dragon Quest? At least one or two years away."
"So the question is—after finishing Mario, what do those two million SFC owners play?"
"Go back to the Famicom?"
"No. Impossible. After tasting 16-bit graphics and audio, the 8-bit machine that was once their darling has now become…" He smirked. "An old hag."
"Old… hag?" the assistant blinked, then laughed.
The room trembled with suppressed laughter.
"Exactly," Takuya said. "They won't go back. They're holding a brand-new console with no games to play. This feeling is called 'game drought.'"
"And that hunger—will be our opportunity."
He stood and walked to the whiteboard.
"So, marketing—estimate the SFC's drought period. Then prepare a promotion campaign featuring MD's strongest titles from the past two years."
He uncapped the marker.
"We're going to pry at Nintendo's corner—using our old hits."
Only the sound of the marker clicking echoed in the silent room.
"Let's make them look our way."
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