Redwood City, Silicon Valley Online Headquarters.
In the third-floor Monitoring Center, Mark Cerny held a cup of cold coffee, reviewing the freshly printed summary of backend data.
Hideki Sato and several Sega engineers stood beside him, flipping through bug reports sent by players via email.
"Three days of open beta, one thousand accounts, and a peak concurrent user count of nine hundred and seventy," Mark said, pointing to the line graph on the report. "The average daily playtime exceeds six hours. In today's PC gaming market, these numbers are quite impressive."
Sato turned a page of the feedback emails in his hand.
"The number of bugs reported by players is lower than expected," Sato said, pointing to a few entries. "Most are clipping issues, texture errors, or isolated cases where quest items couldn't be picked up. One player wrote in his email that while talking to an NPC in the tavern, the network lagged, and the NPC's line repeated ten times. He almost thought the NPC was stuttering. But it was fine after a restart. The core combat logic and network synchronization haven't suffered any major breakdowns."
"This is thanks to the turn-based framework we're using—it has a high tolerance for errors," Mark said, setting down his coffee cup. "The reconnection mechanism really saved us here. When a minor bug caused a freeze, players could simply force-quit and log back in. The server would then restore their previous position and state, allowing them to pick up right where they left off. In the current network environment, this kind of experience is a lifesaver."
Hideki Sato couldn't agree more.
His observations over the past three days had given him a clear understanding of how online games actually functioned. Hardware wasn't a panacea; you needed software mechanisms to provide a safety net.
"Mark, we've already logged the network congestion points exposed during this test," Sato said, closing his folder. "The open beta has been incredibly fruitful. I'm confident that the network features of Sega's next-generation console will be fully optimized."
"A pleasure doing business with you," Mark said, extending his hand.
A few days later, the open beta's popularity hadn't faded. Instead, it spread across major gaming communities as word of mouth grew. Casual gamers, who had previously been deterred by the tedious calculations of tabletop games, were now drawn to the forums' descriptions of automated calculations and seamless matchmaking. They flooded Silicon Valley Online's official website with messages, demanding the full release.
Gaming media outlets were quick to seize on this trend.
In the latest issue of Computer Gaming World, Editor-in-Chief David wrote in his column:
"We always assumed the biggest hurdle for online gaming was the network itself. But Silicon Valley Online's three-day beta has proven that with the right design, even a flimsy phone line can bridge the gap to a complete fantasy world. Now the question is: who will be the first to press this world onto a disc and get it onto retail shelves?"
In his office, Frank kicked his feet up on the desk as he read the magazine.
"Tom, is Sega of North America's pressing plant ready?" Frank asked into the speakerphone.
Tom Kalinske's laugh crackled from the other end.
"The production line is cleared and waiting. Just send over the gold master, and we'll have the first hundred thousand copies in Best Buy and Walmart stores across the country within a week."
Frank shifted into a more comfortable position.
"Then let's fan the flames a little more."
Berkeley, California.
Brian refreshed the Silicon Valley Online BBS page.
The title of the pinned post had changed to bold red: Dungeons & Dragons Online: Your Ticket to Faerûn.
He clicked the post.
The page loaded for a few seconds, and the pricing plans appeared.
Monthly Subscription: $9.99/month.
Point Card System: $9.99 for 2,400 minutes of game time. Each minute consumed 1 point, which worked out to 25 cents per hour.
Brian grabbed the calculator on his desk and tapped a few buttons.
For a hardcore gamer like him, who practically lived in front of his computer, the monthly plan was the best deal. Less than ten dollars—that was not even a quarter of the price of a single-player game on a legitimate optical disc.
The point card option was clearly meant for working professionals and casual gamers.
Spending fifty cents to run a dungeon for two hours on the weekend was ridiculously cheap.
As soon as this flexible billing system was announced, the number of forum replies skyrocketed at a visible rate.
"A $9.99 monthly subscription? 3D0's Meridian 59 is the same price, but DND's scale and gameplay are way better!"
"I'll go with the point card. I have classes during the week, so I can only play on weekends. This is a steal."
"Cut the chatter. When does the server open? My credit card is itching to be used."
Redwood City, Silicon Valley Online Headquarters.
Frank leaned back in his leather chair, listening to the Marketing Department head report on the forum feedback.
"The players' acceptance of the pricing plans is extremely high," the manager said, flipping through the printed reports in his hand. "Notably, the point card system has attracted a large number of casual users who were hesitant about the monthly subscription."
Frank nodded.
This strategy had been set by Takuya Nakayama early on.
A two-pronged approach to capture both the hardcore grinders and the casual players.
"The release date is set for July 29th," Frank said, circling the date on his desk calendar. "Is Tom's disc pressing on schedule?"
"Sega of North America's factory is running double shifts. The first batch of 100,000 physical copies will be distributed to channels next week. The GG ads we placed in major gaming magazines and geek communities will go live tomorrow."
Frank stroked his chin. He remembered another trump card Takuya Nakayama had mentioned.
"How's the testing for the Passport System and the trial mechanism going?"
The Technical Director chimed in, "Extremely stable. After players buy the physical disc or download the client online, they'll need to activate it using a Silicon Valley Online universal account. Upon successful activation, the account will automatically receive a one-week free trial. Only after seven days will the system prompt them to choose a monthly subscription or top up with a point card."
Play for seven days first, then decide whether to pay.
In the 1996 North American gaming scene, this was a disruptive marketing strategy.
Players, who were used to spending 40 or 50 dollars on a blind box only to find out it was a terrible game and just suck it up, were completely defenseless against this "try before you buy" model.
In downtown San Francisco, at an internet cafe called "Cyberspace."
The manager, Reno, was wiping the counter. The shop had 20 decently configured Pentium computers.
This business had just started to take off, and usually, it was mostly businesspeople who came to send emails or look up information.
But these past few days, the atmosphere in the shop had been a bit unusual.
A few regulars hadn't opened Yahoo or the Netscape Browser, but were instead gathered together, pointing and gesturing at a green interface on a computer screen.
Reno leaned in to take a look. It was an ICQ group chat from Silicon Valley Online.
"Have you guys heard? The online version of DND is coming out at the end of July," a young man with glasses typed on the keyboard.
"I've known for ages. I was just worried I didn't have a computer at home. Boss Reno, can your machines run that game?"
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