The producer knocked on the door and walked in, holding a thick proposal in his hand.
"Director, the first draft for next week's 'World Business Satellite' special feature is ready." The producer handed over the document.
Nakagawa Jun took the document and flipped through it.
The title read: "From Toys to Cultural Pillars: The Second Transformation of Japan's Gaming Industry."
"The entry point is well-chosen," Nakagawa Jun commented.
Last year's theme was "Sunrise Industry," emphasizing economic benefits and employment absorption.
This year, the situation has changed. It's not just young people holding game controllers on the streets anymore; there are also middle-aged people taking their children to buy Toy Story merchandise. We need to show the audience that this thing has already integrated into public life.
The producer pulled out a chair and sat down to report: "We pulled data from the Ministry of International Trade and Industry and several large think tanks."
We need to let the audience see that this has already become an integral part of everyday life.
The producer pulled up a chair and reported, "We've pulled data from the Ministry of International Trade and Industry and several large think tanks. In 1995, the total output value of the Japanese video game industry is estimated to have neared that of the traditional anime industry. In our program, we will present an intuitive data comparison model."
Nakagawa Jun circled a line in the proposal with a red pen. "Talking about money isn't enough. We need to elevate the technological aspect. Full computer CG rendering like in 'Toy Story,' and the 32-bit RISC processors used in Sega's Jupiter console—these are solid, high-end technologies. We need to make those old-school politicians and entrepreneurs understand that the technological spillovers from the gaming industry are feeding back into the entire IT and semiconductor sectors."
"Understood. We will invite an economics professor from Waseda University and a computer expert from the Tokyo Institute of Technology for live interviews," the producer noted, recording the key points.
A few days later, on Thursday night, TV Tokyo's "World Business Satellite" went on air as scheduled.
In the control room, the indicators for various data points flickered rapidly.
The ratings curve began to climb once the program got into the main topic.
Inside the studio, the host stood in front of a massive electronic screen.
The center of the screen was split into two sections.
On the left, footage played of people lining up in Akihabara to buy 16-bit cartridges a year ago, while on the right was a recording of North American families gathered around the television playing "Toy Story" during Thanksgiving this year.
On the left, footage plays of people lining up in Akihabara a year ago to buy 16-bit cartridges, while on the right is a video of a North American family gathered around the TV playing Toy Story during this year's Thanksgiving.
"Good evening, viewers. One year ago, in this very studio, we discussed the possibility of video games becoming a new engine for the Japanese economy. Twelve months have passed, and this industry, once seen as a short-term trend, has delivered a stunning result." The host turns to the side, and a bar chart pops up on the screen.
The red bars represent the gaming industry, while the blue bars represent the traditional publishing and anime industries.
Between 1994 and 1995, the red bar representing the gaming industry shows a steep upward trend, its top now level with the blue bar.
The special commentator, an economics professor from Waseda University, takes over. "This is a substantial industrial upgrade. Last year, a large amount of capital and talent poured into this sector. Many entered with the mentality of making a quick buck. After a year of market baptism, the bubble has been squeezed out. The companies that remain are building a massive system of cultural export. Its scale and influence now qualify it to become a pillar of Japan's cultural industry."
The camera cut to another guest, a computer expert from the Tokyo Institute of Technology.
"Don't let the word 'game' limit your perception," the expert said, pointing to a Jupiter console on the table. "The processor inside this machine has more floating-point computing power than a small workstation from five years ago. Game development involves complex graphic algorithms and artificial intelligence logic trees. Behind all this lies an incredibly vast amount of engineering code. The gaming industry is forcing Japan's software engineering technology to advance."
In a studio apartment in Adachi Ward, Itsuhara stared at the television screen. A year ago, he was still an unemployed programmer living on instant noodles. It was after watching that very program that he gritted his teeth, signed up for a crash course in C and assembly language, and sent out thousands of resumes.
Now, he was a low-level logic programmer at a medium-sized game development company in Minato Ward.
The company wasn't large, with about thirty employees, and they specialized in puzzle games for handheld consoles.
Itsuhara took a can of beer from the fridge and cracked it open.
He deeply resonated with the expert's analysis on TV.
The pace of technological iteration in the industry was astonishingly fast.
The development documentation for 32-bit consoles was as thick as a dictionary, and every call to a low-level interface required rigorous logic.
To avoid the technical barriers and capital pressures of 32-bit consoles, their company chose to focus deeply on the GamePocket platform.
Even so, to optimize battery consumption and fluency on the handheld device, they racked their brains to streamline the code.
"Cultural pillar." Itsuhara muttered this phrase to himself, taking a large gulp of beer. When he used to go back to his hometown, relatives would ask about his work; when he said he made games, the elders would always give him looks that implied he was not doing serious work. The public opinion environment is very different now.
After this episode of TV Tokyo aired, it sparked widespread discussion in society.
Other traditional media outlets, not wanting to fall behind, scrambled to find their own angles for follow-up reports.
In the conference room of the NHK news department, the editor-in-chief tapped the table as he assigned tasks.
"TV Tokyo took the macroeconomic and technological route; we can't just reheat their leftovers," the editor-in-chief said, glancing around the room. "Go find those micro-level individuals. During last year's boom, weren't there many small and medium-sized enterprises that jumped on the gaming bandwagon? Go investigate their current status. What's their survival rate? What are their business models?"
The young reporter accepted the assignment and left.
After a few days of field visits and data screening, NHK aired a special segment on its evening in-depth news program titled "The Survival Rules After the Frenzy Recedes: The Real Ecology of Small and Medium-Sized Game Companies."
The program did not shy away from the brutality of the industry.
It opened with footage of a defunct company being liquidated.
A software company located in Shinjuku, having blindly initiated a 3D fighting game project, failed to meet technical standards. With its capital chain broken, its office computers and desks were tagged and hauled away by a moving company.
"High returns come with high risks. The development threshold for 32-bit next-gen consoles has become a death knell for many who blindly entered the market," the NHK host's voice-over sounded off-screen.
The scene shifted to an aging office building in Akihabara.
This was the office of "Pixel Workshop."
This was a micro-developer founded at the end of 1994.
The president's name was Kenta Watanabe, who previously worked as a project manager at a traditional software outsourcing company.
This is a micro-developer founded at the end of 1994.
The company president, Kenta Watanabe, was previously a project manager at a traditional software outsourcing firm.
The office space in the shot is incredibly cramped, cluttered with reference books and discarded sketches everywhere.
A dozen or so employees sit in front of their computers, the sound of their typing as dense as falling rain.
Kenta Watanabe faces the camera, not wearing a suit, but a pilling sweater. "Most of the companies that jumped on the bandwagon last year have died off. That's normal. Everyone was watching Sega and Sony battle it out in the 3D space, thinking that was the future. But for small workshops like us, trying to compete in 3D in an unknown market is just asking for death."
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