Hideki Sato paced restlessly in front of the workbench, his rubber-soled shoes scuffing against the anti-static flooring with a cringeworthy squeak, squeak.
Screen size and extreme battery life were like choosing between the fish and the bear's paw—a cruel trade-off that now had to be made.
He took a deep breath, picked up the internal phone on the desk, and dialed the Managing Director's direct line.
"Sir, the final power consumption test results are in," Hideki Sato got straight to the point, his voice laced with unconcealed conflict. "The data is extremely polarized. You might need to come and see this for yourself to make the final call."
Ten minutes later, the heavy soundproof door of the laboratory swung open.
Takuya Nakayama, dressed in a well-tailored casual suit, strode toward the workbench with a relaxed gait.
"What's wrong, Sato? I could smell the desperation wafting from your office all the way down the hall," Takuya Nakayama quipped as he pulled up a folding chair and sat down, casually picking up the report from the desk.
Hideki Sato managed a wry smile and pointed to the two prototypes on the bench.
"The 3.0-inch version broke the 20-hour battery life mark. It's practically a miracle," Hideki Sato said, tapping the glaringly red-circled figure in the report. "But the 3.5-inch version only managed 14 hours and 15 minutes."
Takuya Nakayama flipped through the report quickly, his long fingers tapping twice on the "20 hours" figure, producing a crisp thump-thump sound.
"So, what are you so torn about?" Nakayama looked up, his deep eyes gleaming with all-seeing insight.
Sato pulled up another chair and sat down, his hands clasped tightly, palms slick with sweat.
"Managing Director, the visual impact of the 3.5-inch screen is just too strong!" Sato admitted, his voice urgent. "That extra bit of screen real estate creates a completely different level of wow factor for players on the shelf. It's a massive marketing advantage.
But—a 20-hour battery life is a selling point that would go down in history. I just can't decide. It feels like cutting into my own flesh whichever one we give up."
Nakayama chuckled softly and tossed the report back onto the table.
He stood up, leaned over, and studied the two running screens closely.
Both screens were playing the same high-intensity test animation—red and blue blocks flashing across the display at an extremely high frame rate.
"The resolution is 240 by 160, right?" Takuya Nakayama pointed to the edge of the screen, his tone calm yet guiding. "When the resolution is completely locked, the larger the physical size of the screen, the more the area of each individual pixel is stretched."
Hideki Sato nodded. This was basic hardware knowledge, but he couldn't grasp what his boss was getting at.
Takuya turned and leaned casually against the edge of the workbench.
"The GamePocket's sales are indeed skyrocketing right now," Takuya said, "but have you carefully read the player feedback reports from the last few years? What's the biggest pain point players are complaining about?"
Hideki Sato paused, his mind racing, then immediately answered, "The image is too grainy. Especially in RPGs with complex scenes, the pixels of the characters and backgrounds easily blur together, making it hard to see details and causing eye strain."
Snap!
Takuya Nakayama snapped his fingers, a cunning, fox-like grin spreading across his face.
"This is the key to breaking the deadlock." He turned, tapping the 3.0-inch screen emphatically. "Cramming a 240x160 pixel resolution into a 3.0-inch panel... do you know what that means? It means the pixel density—the PPI—will be incredibly high! With that kind of PPI, the image's sharpness will undergo a generational leap in quality!"
Hideki Sato stood frozen, as if struck by a bolt of lightning.
"You mean... we should abandon the cheap visual impact of a large screen to pursue ultimate image clarity?"
"Words alone won't penetrate that thick skull of yours." Takuya straightened up and elegantly adjusted his cuffs. "Come on, let's go to the Software Department. We'll have Yuji Naka load in a couple of high-resolution static character portraits. Once you compare the texture, you'll understand what a 'dimensional strike' really means."
Without wasting another moment, the two strode out of the Hardware Lab and headed straight for the Software Development Department downstairs.
Even before they stepped inside, the Software Department's hallway assaulted them with a potent stench—a unique blend of instant coffee and seafood-flavored cup noodles.
Yuji Naka's office door was left ajar. Takuya Nakayama pushed it open without knocking.
The room was as dim as a catacomb, its heavy blackout curtains drawn shut.
Yuji was hunched over his computer like a curled-up shrimp, his fingers flying across the keyboard with such speed that they left afterimages. A small mountain of empty Red Bull cans had accumulated on his desk, leaving barely any room for a water glass.
"Director Naka, take a break from whatever you're doing," Takuya said, walking over to pat the back of Yuji's chair.
Yuji whipped his head around. His hair was a bird's nest, his face etched with exhaustion, and the bloodshot veins in his eyes were terrifyingly prominent.
"Managing Director? Oh, my dear brother," Yuji groaned. "I've only just finished half of the U-bottom-layer logic. What sudden whim have you been struck by now?"
Hideki Sato wasted no words. He stepped forward and placed the 3.0-inch and 3.5-inch prototypes side-by-side on the desk.
"Get two high-resolution, detailed original artworks," Takuya Nakayama said, pointing to the devices, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Full-color static character art, the more detail the better—ideally with smooth lighting and color gradients. Burn them into these two machines separately. We need to see the absolute limit of their display capabilities."
Yuji Naka scratched his messy hair and let out a wide yawn.
"I've got some ready-made assets," he said, turning back to his computer. He gripped the mouse and quickly navigated through hidden folders buried deep in the system. "There's a set of ultra-high-definition concept art from an earlier, discarded version of Phantasy Star. Let me find it... Got it!"
With practiced efficiency, he pulled out several data cables and plugged them into the exposed ports of the prototypes.
A dizzying flurry of keyboard clacks followed as complex assembly code scrolled rapidly across his screen.
A few minutes later.
"Done. The burn is complete. Let's power them up," Yuji said, unplugging the cables and rubbing his sore eyes.
Hideki Sato held his breath and pressed the power switches on both devices simultaneously.
Fwoosh— The screens flickered to life.
The three men leaned in as one, six eyes locked onto the displays.
On the 3.5-inch screen, the heroine's portrait was undeniably vibrant, and the image was large enough to be clear. But a closer look revealed the harsh, jagged edges of the character's outline. The transitions between large blocks of color were marred by an inescapable pixel grain, making the entire image feel flimsy—as if it had been crudely patched together with low-quality mosaics.
However, when their gaze shifted to the 3.0-inch screen—
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