Limited-Edition Watch
On December 24, 1992, the streets of Tokyo were bitterly cold, but that did not dampen the festive spirit of Christmas Eve.
Casio flagship store in Ginza.
Store manager Yamamoto straightened his tie, then frowned slightly as he looked at the several figures outside the door, bundled up in thick down jackets and hunched over.
These people didn't look like respectable office workers picking out gifts for their girlfriends, nor did they look like trendy young people coming to see the new G-SHOCK.
They would peek through the glass door every now and then, their eyes gleaming with a hungry, wolf-like green light.
"Keep an eye on those guys near the door," Yamamoto whispered to the shop assistant, "They might be here to cause trouble."
At 10:00 sharp, the store doors opened on time.
The figures that had been lingering for a while practically launched themselves into the store.
Just as Yamamoto was about to step forward to stop them, he saw the fat man leading the group rush to the counter, point at the display board in the glass case that hadn't been properly aligned yet, and shout breathlessly, "A Chrono Trigger collaboration item!"
There was no try-on function, no way to ask questions, and they didn't even glance at the price.
The fat man pulled a bulging envelope from his pocket and slammed it on the counter. "Cash."
Yamamoto was stunned.
This watch is priced at tens of thousands of Japanese yen. Combined with the previous game collector's edition, this "faith recharge" would cost more than half a month's salary for an average salaried worker.
"Sir, this watch is not on sale—"
"Who asked you about the discount? Hurry up and issue the receipt! There are other people behind us!" the fat man urged impatiently, his eyes fixed on the box the clerk had just taken out, as if afraid it would grow wings and fly away.
Yamamoto then noticed that the people who had been hunching over earlier had all crowded in front of the counter, each clutching a wallet or envelope.
In just ten minutes, the store's quota of fifty watches was sold out.
Similar scenes were simultaneously playing out at Casio's core stores in major cities such as Osaka, Nagoya, and Fukuoka.
Casio wasn't initially very enthusiastic about this collaboration.
Although Sega is currently riding high, incorporating gaming elements into a watch and selling it at such a high price seems a bit far-fetched.
Just to be on the safe side, and at Nakayama Takuya's insistence, the global limited edition was set at two thousand pieces.
Casio's top management was even prepared for the possibility of six months of inventory buildup, with them eventually having to find a way to dump it on Sega for internal disposal.
However, reality gave them a resounding slap in the face.
At 2 p. m., a staff member at the Shibuya Store, with slightly trembling hands, pasted a note onto the poster at the entrance.
The note contained only two words, yet they carried immense weight: "Sold Out".
Just two minutes after it was pasted up, a taxi screeched to a halt at the door.
A young man wearing glasses rushed down, saw the note, and turned pale instantly, his knees buckling and he almost knelt on the ground.
"Gone? That's it?!" The young man grabbed the shop assistant who had just left, his voice trembling. "I came all the way from Chiba! What kind of stock is this?!"
The shop assistant looked helpless, his professional fake smile almost crumbling, "I'm so sorry, sir. There are only two thousand available in all of Japan, and we sold out in the Tokyo area an hour ago."
"Which stores still have any left? I'm willing to go! Yokohama? Or even Hokkaido!"
According to headquarters, all stores in the Kanto region are sold out.
The young man released his grip, staring blankly at the sky, muttering to himself, "It's over—my Journey Through Time is incomplete—"
The phone of Casio's Marketing Department was ringing off the hook that day.
These aren't complaints; they're all calls from regional managers requesting goods.
"Minister! These gamers are completely insane! They don't even look at the prices! Do you have a list? Could you allocate a few more?"
"What a load of rubbish! Only two thousand units were ever released in all of Japan!" The minister stared at the sales report on the table, his head buzzing. This wasn't selling watches; it was outright robbery.
He immediately contacted Sega to try to discuss additional production.
After all, it's a fool not to make money when there's opportunity. The molds are already made, printing a few thousand more is a piece of cake, isn't it?
However, Sega's response was shockingly cold.
"As Nakayama, the executive director, said, limited edition means limited edition. To produce even one more would be disloyal to the first two thousand loyal customers." Sega's rule is that once they say it will never be reproduced again, it absolutely will. This rule, established long ago for other limited-edition products, cannot be broken anywhere. This is the foundation upon which Sega's limited-edition merchandise has consistently maintained its value and even commanded a premium.
The Sega employee in charge of the liaison even sounded somewhat dismissive, adding, "Furthermore, the executive director also asked us to convey a message: 'What you can't have is always the best.'"
Minister Casio hung up the phone and remained speechless for a long time.
He finally understood that the man named Nakayama Takuya wasn't selling products at all; he was manipulating people's hearts.
Those players who failed to snag a watch, after their initial anger and frustration, turned around and started complaining among the other players.
"Sega, you bastard! Two thousand? Are you feeding ants?"
"Give up, I saw someone list it on a secondhand store as soon as it was released, the price doubled, and it was bought on the same day."
This resentment of not being able to buy it was like pouring hot oil on the already raging flames of Chrono Trigger.
Ordinary gamers who initially thought spending over 10,000 Japanese yen on a game was too expensive suddenly felt that waiting until next summer for the Mega Drive cartridge wasn't so unacceptable after seeing these hardcore gamers fighting tooth and nail for watches worth tens of thousands of yen.
Some people even started to feel that they had hit the jackpot by being able to play a game that even the wealthy were eager to play.
Nakayama Takuya sat in his office, listening to Department Head Tanaka's report, his fingers lightly tapping the table.
"Two thousand watches sold out on the first day in the Kanto region." Tanaka Head Tanaka wiped the sweat from his brow, his face flushed. "Executive Director, Casio is going crazy, constantly asking if we can release a replica or a second batch."
"Reject it." Nakayama Takuya took a sip of his coffee, his expression calm. "Tell them that this collaboration was very pleasant, and we can talk again next time. As for this watch, it's destined to be a collector's item."
"But... won't that make the players too sad?" Tanaka Head Tanaka cautiously asked Nakayama Takuya.
"Sadness?" Nakayama Takuya smiled, his eyes deep. "Tanaka, that's regret." Regret, sometimes, is something that lingers longer than satisfaction. They'll be more attentive when Sega releases another limited-edition item. And when the Mega Drive version comes out next year, they'll channel that regret into purchasing power, venting it on the game cartridges."