Entertainment Software Rating Board
Two weeks later, one morning, the fax machine at the Tokyo headquarters buzzed and spat out a stack of still-warm papers.
That was good news from Redwood City.
Takuya picked up the stack of densely packed English documents and quickly scanned them.
Tom Kalinske's efficiency was astonishing, or rather, the fear of "being regulated by the government" among those United States game companies was even deeper than Takuya had anticipated.
The phone rang at just the right moment. Tom's voice sounded like he'd just downed two large cups of black coffee, excited but slightly hoarse.
"Done, Takuya. Although the process was more difficult than pulling a tiger's tooth."
"What did Trip Hawkins and his gang say?" Takuya casually flipped through the documents, his gaze lingering on the draft structure diagram of the Entertainment Software Rating Board (ESRB).
The founder of 3D0 has always been shrewd; he won't act until he sees a clear benefit.
"At first, everyone was complaining about being broke, saying that such a non-profit organization would only increase operating costs, and some even suggested just going through the motions," Tom scoffed. "But I only said one thing—do you want to spend tens of thousands of US dollar a year to maintain a committee, or do you want to go to Washington and kowtow to those senators every time you release a game?"
"That's a bit of an exaggeration, but it's certainly a vivid description," Takuya laughed.
No one understands cost accounting better than United States businessmen, and they are willing to pay this protection fee when faced with a survival crisis.
"All major terms have been approved. We referenced the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) rating system, dividing games into EC (Early Childhood), E (All Ages), T (Teenage), M (Adult), and AO (Adult Only). The mechanism is simple: developers voluntarily submit games for review, the committee assigns a rating, and retailers decide whether to sell to minors based on the rating."
"Voluntary?" Takuya raised an eyebrow. "That's a good word."
"It's nominally voluntary, but we've already spoken with major retailers like Walmart and Toys "R" Us"R" Us. Once the system is implemented, games without that black-and-white rating won't be allowed on the shelves." Tom's tone held a sly glint. "That's the industry standard we want."
This means that no matter how unwilling Nintendo is, they have no choice but to get on this ship.
"What's Minoru Arakawa's reaction?" Takuya asked, getting to the most crucial point.
"Don't even mention it. Nintendo North America Division is still stubbornly denying it. They insist that all Nintendo games are family-friendly and don't need this kind of thing at all, and they're even implying that we're trying to pull a 'legalize violent games' stunt to drag them down with us."
"Let them say what they want." Takuya slammed the documents on the table, his tone relaxed. "Once the press conference is held next week, parents across America will see who is proactively taking on social responsibility and who is arrogantly refusing regulation. At that point, the 'family-friendly' label might not be on anyone's head anymore."
"The press conference is scheduled for next Tuesday in Washington, D.C.., just a few blocks from the Capitol Building," Tom added. "We've got a retired Secretary of Education to endorse us; the old man has an upright air about him, and you can't help but believe him."
"Well done."
Takuya leaned back in his chair, gazing out the window.
Although things were calm outside, he knew that a storm was brewing on the other side of the ocean.
Senator Lieberman's hearing was inevitable, but this time, Sega had secured its strongest protection.
"Oh right, that ' Night Trap ' and ' Mortal Kombat'— " Tom suddenly remembered something, "According to the new standards, this thing is definitely M-rated, maybe even bordering on AO. Should we really put it on the first list?"
"We absolutely have to put them out. Not only do we have to put them out, we have to put them out in a big way. We Takuya need to take all the Mortal Kombat off the shelves and put on their rating labels." Takuya answered decisively, "We want to tell everyone: Look, Sega never hides its oversights. We're willing to accept public scrutiny, and we can even buy back Mortal Kombat already sold to minors at full price. It might cost a lot of money, but you definitely understand the consequences of doing so better than I do."
Tom's laughter came from the other end of the phone. "Sometimes I think you know more politics than those politicians. Okay, I'll go prepare the press release."
After hanging up the phone, Takuya looked at the draft of the rating system in his hand, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.
The hidden danger was finally eliminated. Even though the Mortal Kombat on the market was still being targeted by that meddlesome senator, Sega was prepared to minimize the negative impact.
In Chicago in 1993, the winter seemed longer than usual.
The federal courthouse was always underheated, and the air was thick with the smell of stale wood and the acrid smell of burning expensive legal fees.
The "PlayStation" trademark case, which lasted for more than half a year, finally came to an end one afternoon in January.
The moment the judge struck the gavel, Ken Kutaragi's tense shoulders relaxed for a fleeting instant.
We won.
At least nominally, the federal judge ultimately ruled that the ownership of the "PlayStation" trademark belongs to Sony.
Nintendo's attempt to strip Sony of its naming rights through allegations of commercial fraud has not been entirely legally sound.
But as they walked out of the courthouse, Sony's delegation did not show any joy of victory. On the contrary, Nintendo's legal team, the losing party, looked relaxed, as if they had just bought a sandwich at a convenience store.
The real strangulation happens not in the courtroom, but at the negotiating table.
Three days later, a brand-new cooperation agreement, two hundred pages thick, was presented to Sony.
Minoru Arakawa sat at the other end of the conference table, toying with a pen in his hand, without even opening the documents in front of him.
He didn't need to look at it; every clause was added at his personal instruction.
"Sony can use the name PlayStation; that's what the court granted you, Nintendo respects the law." Minoru Arakawa's voice was calm, revealing no emotional fluctuation. "But if you want to stay in this industry, there are some rules you have to follow."
The Sony North America head sitting opposite him had a livid face, his fingers pressing hard on page fourteen of the agreement, his knuckles turning white.
The terms on that page were simple yet brutal: Sony -manufactured PlayStation consoles must retain the SFC cartridge slot and be perfectly compatible with all Nintendo cartridge games.
This means that Sony's proud "next-generation console" is, in the eyes of gamers, nothing more than a slightly more advanced Nintendo- compatible machine with a Sony brand on it.
Even in terms of appearance design, the conspicuous cassette slot acts like an ugly scar, constantly reminding consumers: who truly owns this place.