Huh?
I never expected this...
"What, don't believe me?" Tsuda stared intently into his eyes.
"No," Aoki Haruhi shook his head. "It just makes it seem even more precious and worthy of admiration."
"What do you mean?" Tsuda lowered his head coyly.
In Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood, there's a passage that goes like this:
[ It was night, and the melancholic sound of flowing water echoed in the darkness.
There stood an old brick sluice gate, its large handle capable of opening or closing the flow.
This wasn't a mighty river, merely a small stream, its surface mostly obscured by water plants growing along the banks.
Surrounded by pitch-black darkness, if you turned off your flashlight, you wouldn't even be able to see your own ankles.
Yet hundreds of fireflies danced above the sluice gate. Their glowing lights reflected on the water, like burning sparks. ]
Now, with the lights off in the room, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window, Aoki Haruhi inexplicably saw the river and fireflies dancing over the water's surface.
The first sunrise of the New Year holds great significance for the Japanese. They face the rising sun and offer prayers, seeking good fortune for the coming year.
Especially on exceptionally high mountain peaks, the first rays of sunlight are called "Goraiko," a rare and auspicious sight.
Aoki Haruhi opened his eyes, gazing at the beautiful face of Tsuda Nao, who lay asleep before him.
His heart stirred involuntarily.
This must be—
the "Goraiko" of my heart.
Meanwhile, back at Aoki Haruhi's residence...
Two young women rubbed their eyes and emerged from their blankets.
The sunlight outside was perfect, flooding the room with bright light.
"Huh? What happened yesterday? How did I end up sleeping here?" Ayase Akane frowned, puzzled.
"Um... I don't really remember either. I just recall having a few drinks," Ishino Mika said, pressing a hand against her throbbing forehead.
After a moment, they glanced around the room and exchanged bewildered looks.
"Where's the President?!"
January 4th, 1991.
Officially back to work after the Pokeni Festival.
As tradition dictates, Aoki Haruhi led his employees to Senso-ji temple for a collective prayer, primarily to beseech the gods for blessings and a successful year of game sales.
The company was thriving.
It was quite amusing, actually. The Japanese people remained remarkably superstitious in this regard.
Aoki Haruhi had long abandoned beliefs in ghosts and gods, yet these people took it all so seriously.
On the first day back, everyone seemed still immersed in the festive atmosphere, lacking focus on work.
Aoki Haruhi said nothing, understanding this was a typical post-holiday reaction.
That evening, he gathered the team members for a group dinner, including two new faces.
One was Shirakawa Atsushi, and the other was Mikami Shinji.
The new members were clearly brimming with enthusiasm.
During the dinner, the most pressing topic of conversation was the company's future direction and how they could contribute.
Aoki Haruhi waved his hand, indicating there was no need to rush.
"You'll find out everything tomorrow."
Early the next morning, Aoki Haruhi summoned all the staff members for a meeting.
The agenda was to discuss the two game projects that had already been planned.
"The first game will continue the galgame genre. This time, Gen Urobuchi will serve as the main scenario planner, and the game will be titled The Mermaid's Heart."
The Mermaid's Heart wasn't a particularly ambitious project, with a relatively low development difficulty. It was essentially a text-based narrative, similar to a choose-your-own-adventure format where players make choices that affect future story paths. In a way, this game would mark the company's true debut in the text-based romance genre, also known as visual novels.
"Kogahara Tsubakiaki will once again serve as the project producer."
At the mention of Kogahara Tsubakiaki's name, the staff members couldn't help but cover their mouths and chuckle.
"And this time, Mikami-san will be involved as well," Aoki Haruhi said, turning his gaze toward Mikami Shinji.
"Right," Mikami Shinji replied, visibly excited.
To be honest, Shinji didn't believe he had any talent for game development. He had failed the company's written assessment multiple times. But since President Qing had given him a chance, Shinji was determined to work tirelessly and seize this opportunity.
Aoki Haruhi had his own considerations. Genius doesn't emerge overnight, even for future legends like Mikami Shinji. It wouldn't be practical to immediately appoint him as a producer. Starting from the bottom as a planner, gradually working on one or two projects under Aoki Haruhi's guidance, would allow Shinji to grow. Only then would he be ready to handle projects independently.
The second game was naturally the company's flagship project, Aoki Haruhi's ambitious masterpiece to secure his position—
Diablo
However, it differed slightly from the Diablo series of his previous life.
For this iteration, Aoki Haruhi wanted to design the majority of the bosses as female characters.
If the project faltered, he could pivot quickly.
But Aoki Haruhi believed such a setback was highly unlikely.
During this period, Aoki Haruhi spent his days working overtime at the company, ostensibly busy with other tasks.
In reality, he was drafting the Diablo project proposal.
After sending the proposal to the main participants of the upcoming meeting, he pulled over a nearby whiteboard, began writing, and explained the game's mechanics.
"Huh?" Akanishi Ken frowned, clearly concerned after listening to Aoki Haruhi's explanation. "We've never had the foundation for this kind of game before. Developing a real-time combat game is a whole different ball game."
Indeed.
At the time, turn-based games dominated the market.
Real-time combat games weren't unheard of, but they required handling vastly more information and making far more complex judgments simultaneously.
Especially for a real-time combat game on the scale of Diablo.
The computational demands on the program were immense.
It was on a completely different scale from turn-based games.
"This isn't actually that difficult. We can figure it out together when the time comes," Aoki Haruhi said.
In terms of real-time games, Super Mario could technically be considered a 2D platformer with real-time gameplay, though Diablo was far more complex.
"Understood, President," Akanishi Ken nodded.
But inwardly, he was filled with doubt. The President sounded so reassuring, but he wasn't a programmer. In the end, wouldn't it all just be dumped on them?
Aoki Haruhi explained that the most challenging aspect wasn't actually the real-time combat.
Building the combat system was undoubtedly complex, but if handled properly, it wasn't insurmountable.
"The real crux of this game lies in the AI," Aoki Haruhi said.
"Huh? AI?" Akanishi Ken paused, surprised by the remarkably clear pronunciation from a Japanese person.
This AI wasn't like the later ChatGPT; it primarily referred to the "intelligence" of the game's monsters.
In a sense, it could be described as "behavioral strategies."
For example, when would a player be attacked by a monster? If it was a group of monsters, how would they coordinate their attacks?
Different monsters exhibit distinct behavioral patterns and require varied strategies to counter.
For instance, social monsters may swarm you if you attack one of them. In contrast, less intelligent creatures like skeletons operate independently with simpler behaviors, resulting in weaker support among their kind.
Even seemingly decorative elements, like the swings hanging from trees in Diablo, sway when players approach. This is actually the AI of the "swing" object in action.
Of course, these behaviors are all programmed according to design requirements, tailored for different levels and difficulty settings.
"Hmm... you're right," Akanishi Ken said, crossing his arms and pondering deeply. "For this game to succeed, Monster AI is crucial. Unlike 2D side-scrollers, these top-down, real-time games require handling far more complex interactions."
"And player behavior is unpredictable. The President wants to implement free-form dungeons and modular level design—that's a terrifyingly difficult challenge," Sasaki Bunta, a programmer, added from the side.
In those days, there was no distinction between client-side and server-side development; everyone was simply a programmer.
It wasn't until the internet became widespread, introducing the concept of servers and the separation of local and server-side components, that the differences between front-end and back-end development gradually emerged.
Indeed, as they said, creating Diablo was no easy task.
There were countless factors to consider.
Moreover, having never attempted anything like this before, they couldn't even foresee the challenges they would face.
But that didn't matter, Aoki Haruhi declared. "All that matters is that I understand it clearly."
You've got to be kidding me!
I've led major projects too, and developed some seriously powerful game engines.
These accomplishments were etched into Aoki Haruhi's mind, and he could effortlessly recount them for days on end.
All that was needed was for him to outline the requirements and development process. The programmers could then follow his plan without thinking.
To put it bluntly, what makes programming difficult isn't writing the code itself, but figuring out what needs to be done and how to achieve it.
Once those things are clear, there's nothing to fear.
"By the way, during development, I want to avoid hardcoding," Aoki Haruhi said.
"Huh?!" Akanishi Ken, the main programmer, looked puzzled. "If we don't hardcode, how will we develop it?"
Hardcoding, contrary to its literal meaning of "hard core," refers to implementing game content directly through static code.
While coding everything entirely through code would minimize the final file size or cartridge space, it would sacrifice flexibility and extensibility.
To put it visually:
Imagine building a robot.
Hardcoding is like assembling the robot directly from blueprints, welding each part together.
Other methods might involve first creating individual robot components, then assembling the robot from those parts.
Aoki Haruhi envisioned a system where programmers would develop tools, which would then be handed over to designers for use.
Simultaneously, designers would use these tools to create levels and all game content.
Going forward, programmers would only need to maintain the game tools, not the game content itself. This separation of responsibilities would benefit both programmers and designers.
This tool, in the future, would become what we now call an "editor."
Aoki Haruhi spoke passionately and endlessly during the meeting.
The programmers below were stunned.
[ - What? Is this really the President, or some kind of demon possessed by a strange entity? ]
[ - How can the President, an art designer, understand so much about programming? ]
Most importantly, Aoki Haruhi's ideas were incredibly forward-thinking, like a key unlocking the doors in everyone's minds.
The entire world seemed to take on an entirely new look .
At that moment, the programmers were all awed by President Qing.
The President's meticulous thinking, forward-thinking ideas, and profound understanding of code were simply unheard of.
It far exceeded everyone's imagination.
Terrifying.
Akanishi Ken was completely stunned.
Terrifying.
When did the President go back to school to study programming?
No, even studying programming wouldn't be enough to achieve this level.
Because many of the concepts, such as Monster AI, the editor, and even the "Behavior Tree" that the President later proposed—these didn't exist yet.
It was hard to imagine that an illustrator could break down programming logic to such an extent.
Terrifying.
Absolutely terrifying.
Aoki Haruhi discussed the matter with everyone for a long time, and they began to feel somewhat reassured.
"Hmm, if we could really achieve this..." Akanishi Ken's eyes sparkled. "Then we'd essentially be providing a tool for building worlds. This tool could fully meet the President's requirements."
"No, it's not just that. There's potentially vast room for future expansion."
This is simply wonderful.
What a brilliantly ingenious design!
And for the programmers, it was nothing short of a blessing.
Before this, any change in the planners' requirements would practically force the programmers to rewrite the code from scratch.
Not only was it time-consuming and laborious, but it also built up a simmering resentment.
The conflict between planners and programmers had grown increasingly intense.
Now, however, the programmers would only need to develop the tool. In the future, when planners wanted to make changes, they could adjust it themselves.
This would free the programmers from the tedious task of implementing endless requirements, allowing them to focus on optimizing the code instead.
What could be happier than that?
"Yes, exactly," Aoki Haruhi said. "But this will inevitably mean the cartridge capacity will be higher than expected. We must be prepared for future optimizations."
"Understood, President!"
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