"Using game graphics to imitate cinematic camera work?" Mamoru Oshii raised a skeptical question from a professional perspective. "Given current hardware limitations, the results will only look ridiculous."
"So, in the eyes of genuine film directors like you, his current method of game expression is not sophisticated enough, and sometimes even tries too hard." Takuya Nakayama frankly acknowledged the barrier of technical limitations. "But he put in the painstaking effort. He deconstructed the audiovisual language of cinema and forcibly crammed it into the interactive logic of video games. The stealth mechanics, plot twists, and fourth-wall-breaking directorial effects he designed—players are really buying into them. Most importantly, he packaged those obscure philosophical inquiries into a spy story with the texture of a high-budget Hollywood blockbuster."
He designed the infiltration mechanics, plot twists, and fourth-wall-breaking directorial effects, which the players bought into completely. Most importantly, he packaged those obscure philosophical discussions into a spy story with the cinematic feel of a Hollywood blockbuster.
Takuya Nakayama raised his glass and clinked it against the one in front of Mamoru Oshii. "Regarding the information overload problem that gives you such a headache, he found his own solution in games. When a player controls the protagonist infiltrating an enemy base, they have plenty of time to listen to the background lore introduced over the radio. Players who don't want to listen can just skip it and enjoy the combat; those who want to dig into the lore can spend dozens of hours soaking it in. That is the charm of interactivity: it puts the choice in the hands of the audience."
Mamoru Oshii looked at the sake swirling in his glass.
He knew Takuya Nakayama's style very well.
This young Sega Managing Director was usually easygoing, but when it came to business judgment and evaluating creators, he never fired without a target.
Someone who could earn such high praise from him must have extraordinary qualities.
"You two—one is an animation director limited by film runtime in your desire for expression, and the other is a game producer limited by game hardware in his dream of making movies," Takuya Nakayama concluded. "You should talk more when you have the chance; you might find it unexpectedly rewarding. Sega's headquarters shares development resources. Yuji Naka is working on the underlying technology for the Ghost in the Shell game. If you could get some advice on narrative and direction from Kojima, it wouldn't be a bad thing for you."
Mamoru Oshii stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
"Give me his number."
Takuya Nakayama took a fountain pen from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, wrote a string of numbers on an izakaya napkin, and pushed it across the table. "
Mamoru Oshii stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.
"Give me his number."
Takuya Nakayama fished a fountain pen from the inside pocket of his suit, wrote a string of numbers on an izakaya napkin, and pushed it across the table. "A heads-up: this guy is a chatterbox when it comes to movies. If you can't stand his long-winded rambling, just hang up."
Mamoru Oshii folded the napkin and tucked it into his trench coat pocket.
The gloom over the box office flop, the complaints from Shochiku, the philosophical debates on film and games—all of it ended here.
This string of numbers had drawn a line under the heavy topics.
Mamoru Oshii picked up his chopsticks again and took a piece of the now-cool grilled Pacific saury. "Gabriel doesn't like the smell of smoke. I rarely smoke at the studio."
"So, does that make me an accomplice to your rule-breaking?" Takuya Nakayama smiled and slid the plate of chicken meatballs toward Oshii.
Hearing its name, Gabriel lifted its heavy eyelids, glanced at the two men, and then flopped back down onto the tatami, a rumbling purr vibrating in its throat.
"It only cares about when it gets to eat meat," Oshii said, cracking a rare joke.
Gabriel heard his name, lifted his heavy eyelids, glanced at the two men, and then laid back down on the tatami, a rumbling sound coming from his throat.
"He only cares about when he can eat some meat," Mamoru Oshii made a rare joke.
"Next gathering, I'll remember to order two more servings of Wagyu," Takuya Nakayama greeted the owner, asking for another carafe of sake.
Outside the izakaya, the cold wind was still biting, with the occasional sound of drunkards' clamor drifting in through the wooden door.
In the corner booth, the temperature of the sake was just right.
The two chatted idly about which ramen shop in Shinjuku had a more authentic broth, and about the temperature in Tokyo this winter.
There were no business reports, no media reviews.
In this small, confined space, there was only an investor, a creator, and a sleepy Basset Hound.
It was December 1995 in Tokyo, and the chill on the streets had not cooled the bustle of Akihabara Electric Town.
In the shop windows of major retailers, colorful game posters were layered one on top of another.
During this year-end shopping season known as the "business war," the entire gaming industry was gambling for the players' budgets.
Looking back a month, Sega had announced high-profile that it would cede its golden December release slot entirely to its third-party partners.
This statement caused quite a stir in the industry.
On the surface, the major manufacturers praised Sega's generosity, but their private strategies were surprisingly consistent.
Some companies, however, were cunning enough not to wait until December to make their moves, choosing to push their new titles to the market early in November.
While major manufacturers outwardly praised Sega for its generosity, their private strategies were surprisingly consistent.
Some companies, rather craftily, did not wait until December as planned, choosing instead to push their new titles to the market early in November.
They attempted to harvest a wave of market share before Sega's heavyweight products arrived.
Judging by the terminal sales feedback in November, this "jump the gun" strategy yielded tangible results.
Avoiding the brunt of Sega's momentum allowed many small and medium-sized developers to reap the benefits.
It is worth noting that manufacturers who tilted their development resources toward the 16-bit console platforms of MD and SFC, as well as the handheld platforms of GamePocket and GameBoy, saw particularly eye-catching figures on their financial statements.
In an era where 32-bit next-generation consoles were in vogue and 3D polygon technology was touted as the gold standard, sticking to releasing 2D games on older platforms was once viewed by some industry analysts as a conservative move.
Market data provided a completely different answer.
Behind this counter-trend growth lay a clever displacement of the product's target audience.
The primary purchasers of 32-bit consoles were often core gamers seeking the ultimate audiovisual experience, or new family users attracted by phenomenal IPs like Toy Story.
In contrast, the audiences for 16-bit platforms and handheld consoles had completely different consumption logics.
With their irreplaceable portability, handheld consoles firmly captured the fragmented time of commuters and students.
In a crowded train carriage or a corner of a school hallway, pulling out a GamePocket for a quick game was an experience that no matter how powerful next-generation home consoles were, they could never provide.
This consumption demand based on specific scenarios would not fade away because of the evolution of home console graphics technology.
Visual novels, puzzle games, and light RPGs still had an extremely stable user base on handheld platforms.
Developers knew this well; they didn't need to obsess over graphics on handhelds. They only needed to polish their core gameplay to perfection to easily win over players' hearts.
The vitality of the MD and SFC was also not to be underestimated.
The total global installed base for these two 16-bit platforms had long exceeded 60 million units.
This was an extremely massive existing user base.
Even in Japan, these two machines can be found in tens of millions of households.
Before the hardware installed base of Jupiter and PlayStation truly gains momentum and establishes total dominance, this existing market remains a gold mine that has yet to be fully tapped.
For many budget-conscious players, a new, expensive console combined with pricey CD-ROM games represents a significant expense.
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