Early July.
In the top-floor office of Sega's headquarters, the air conditioning silently delivered dry, cool air, isolating the noise and heat from outside the window.
Takuya Nakayama was reviewing the promotional effectiveness survey for the first two phases of Mewtwo Strikes Back.
Media exposure and social discussion were both very high, and many respondents indicated they would go see it.
Some were confident in the quality of animated films after my neighbor totoro in April, believing it wouldn't be a bad film.
Some were already fans of pokémon animation or electronic pets.
Others were attracted by the topics of genes and cloning, curious to see the film's attitude and interpretation of these issues.
Toho had already received this survey report from Dentsu, which gave Toho's theaters great confidence in scheduling Mewtwo Strikes Back, directly allocating a 35% screening ratio.
Just as Takuya was about to give instructions for the remaining promotional work, the internal phone on his desk suddenly rang, breaking the silence in the room.
"Executive Director Takayama, it's Toho's Distribution Department calling."
Takuya pressed the answer button.
"Connect them."
Upon hearing this, the assistant quickly transferred the external call.
Takuya Nakayama picked up the receiver.
There was a moment of silence on the other end before a somewhat dry voice came through. It was Matsuoka from Toho, the distribution director who wouldn't budge an inch on even a single frame of film during negotiations.
"Executive Director Takayama, it's me, Matsuoka from Toho."
"Director Matsuoka, what can I do for you?" Takuya's tone was flat, revealing no emotion.
Matsuoka seemed to give a bitter laugh on the other end, his voice carrying a sense of exhaustion and frankness after shedding his armor: "I wouldn't dare give advice.
I've been in distribution for over twenty years, and this is the first time I've seen such a spectacle."
He paused, as if organizing his thoughts,
"This morning, the phones of those old guys from Toei and Shochiku almost blew up my line, all subtly asking who handled Toho's promotion and distribution this time."
Matsuoka's voice was filled with helplessness, "They analyzed it back and forth, dissecting your promotional plan into pieces, but they just couldn't understand how a serious topic like cloning and genetic ethics could send the anticipation for an animated film through the roof."
Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his large leather chair, his gaze falling on the bustling streetscape outside the window, a silent smile playing on his lips.
"Mr. Matsuoka, we didn't create this topic."
He said softly, "It's always been there, in newspaper corners, in university classrooms. We just put it under the spotlight at the right time, so everyone could see it."
"Just like that?" Matsuoka's voice was filled with disbelief.
"Just like that, of course, the format can't be like professors giving interviews; we need to be more lively."
A long sigh came from the other end of the phone, that sigh filled with complex emotions, including realization, but more so a self-deprecating acknowledgment of his own adherence to old ways.
"I see. We always think about how to cram things into the audience, but forget what they themselves are thinking." Matsuoka's tone had completely changed, no longer just a business partner, but rather like a junior humbly seeking guidance.
"Director Matsuoka, we still have two more phases of promotion to release; the promotional effectiveness hasn't been fully unleashed yet."
Takuya's tone suggested that the best was yet to come. "So, Executive Director Takayama, I'll be direct." Matsuoka's voice grew serious, "This call isn't just for congratulations. I want to be upfront with you: next time there's a project like this, please make sure to consider Toho first. The price is negotiable, and for screenings—Toho will definitely strive with all its might."
This was a sign of them eagerly pursuing a good project.
"Of course." Takuya Nakayama's answer was without hesitation.
"Mr. Matsuoka, please rest assured, Sega's treasure trove holds more than just one pokémon. As long as the time is right, Sega is very willing to cooperate with Toho to bring them all to the big screen."
"Then I shall—look forward to it."
After hanging up the phone, the office returned to quiet.
Takuya casually set aside the Dentsu report and picked up another report nearby concerning software sales for the MD platform.
The report clearly showed that all third-party developers who followed Sega's advice and released their ported works before the July summer blockbuster season achieved returns far exceeding expectations.
TECHNOS's Double Dragon, Konami's Jackal, Taito's The Legend of Kage—
These titles, already proven in arcades or on the Nintendo FC, were revitalized with the MD's capabilities, and the sales figures in the data column were very pleasing.
The porting costs were easily recouped, and the subsequent profit figures brought smiles to the faces of every company's board of directors.
In the report's appendix, a specific anonymous quote from an industry internal weekly was cited.
"On Sega's platform, we felt an unprecedented level of respect."
One third-party producer said this.
"They will clearly tell you future plans, tell you when the storm will come, and sincerely advise you to find a safe harbor in advance."
"This is completely different from past experiences with Nintendo."
"There, you are always on edge, and you have to meticulously calculate cartridge production quantities. Sometimes, for some inexplicable reason, you might be 'given a hard time' or even directly kicked out."
Below this passage, a small line of text was noted: This type of view has gained considerable recognition among third-party developers.
More and more manufacturers began to seriously evaluate the possibility of directly transferring their future core projects to the MD platform.
Takuya Nakayama put down the report and walked to the huge whiteboard on one side of the office.
On it, the overall strategic map of the current console war was outlined with different colored markers.
The head of the Sales Department had just updated the latest figures.
MD, Japan domestic sales, surpassed 2.5 million units.
This figure had already allowed it to firmly establish itself in the Japanese market.
And the data from another front made him even more excited.
North America market sales, historically surpassed the 1 million unit mark.
And Europe also had sales of over 400,000 units.
Global total sales were approaching the 4 million unit milestone.
Takuya Nakayama picked up a red marker and heavily circled the number "1 million in North America."
The phased victory in the Japanese market was already secured.
The next flashpoint was across the ocean.
His gaze moved to the competitors' section.
NEC's PC Engine, the growth curve had flattened, and the Marketing Department had noted in blue text next to it: Software offensive stalled, lacking staying power.
And on the other side, Nintendo FC, although the basic market share remained huge, the software release list for the past two months appeared somewhat sparse.
The Marketing Department's annotation was: Third-party camp wavering, period of pain, but a counterattack is imminent, requiring high vigilance.
Takuya Nakayama agreed with this assessment.
With the powerful punch of pokémon and the distinctly different conciliatory strategy towards third parties, Sega successfully tore a deep, bone-visible gash into the body of the giant beast that was Nintendo.
Now, the giant beast was licking its wounds, accumulating strength.
Before Nintendo completes its internal adjustments and organizes a truly effective counterattack, Sega also needs to accumulate strength for the next round of market competition.