Building Momentum
As the power button was pressed, instead of the cheap electronic synthesized sound, a deep, imposing roar of a Tyrannosaurus Rex appeared on the screen, followed by John Williams' signature symphonic melody, the sound so clear that it felt as if you were sitting in a live symphony concert.
This is the advantage of the CD-ROM media, and it's also the reason why Sega dared to challenge Hollywood bigwigs.
"Give it a try, Steven." Nakayama Takuya handed over the controller. "Don't worry, the dinosaurs here can't bite your hand."
Spielberg took the handle, adjusted his posture, and his slightly puffy eye bags seemed to shrink as he focused his gaze.
On the screen, torrential rain is pouring down, and the player-controlled character is trapped deep in the jungle of Nublar Island.
It's not just about the visuals.
When a velociraptor darted out of the grass, Spielberg instinctively ducked his neck.
The dinosaurs on the screen didn't glide stiffly like in those video games with only one leg; instead, they had a realistic sense of weight.
Its tail swishing, the contraction of its hind leg muscles, and even the moment of weight shifting are all rendered with astonishing smoothness through the inverse kinematics algorithm written by Mark Cearney.
"Oh, this little guy is fierce," Spielberg muttered, his thumb rapidly tapping on the keys.
Ten minutes later, as the screen displayed a blood-red "GAME OVER," Spielberg let out a long sigh and put down the controller.
He wasn't upset about the character's death; instead, he turned around with a look of surprise and delight, as if he had discovered a new continent.
"You did it." The director pointed to the screen, his tone full of admiration. "Many licensed games just stick my poster on the wall and have people jump around in front of it. But this—this sense of oppression, you've captured that fear of being 'preyed upon.' This doesn't feel like playing a game; it feels more like escaping from a ruined Jurassic Park."
This assessment carries more weight than any media praise.
The Universal Pictures marketing director, who was sitting in the corner, also withdrew his scrutinizing gaze.
He may not understand code, but he understands Spielberg.
The fact that this discerning director could elicit such an expression suggests that Sega isn't dealing in some cheap cash grab, but rather a true bombshell.
Nakayama Takuya noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere and spoke up at the opportune moment, looking at the marketing director. "Since the product is fine, I think we can renegotiate the restrictions on the marketing budget. Sega has prepared a five million US dollar marketing budget, just to capitalize on the hype surrounding the movie's release. If we're held back, we won't be able to spend that money."
Sega for it; Universal Pictures didn't have to spend a penny and still got free publicity.
Previously, they worried that the poor quality of the game would drag down the movie, but now that concern has clearly been shattered by the lifelike dinosaur on the screen.
The marketing director glanced at Spielberg, who was still savoring the game, and the latter nodded slightly.
"Alright, Mr. Takuya." The PR director closed the document in front of him. "As long as the review process is still in place, we don't object to you expanding your advertising scale. Television, magazines, even the Times Square screen—it's up to you."
"That's more like it." Tom Kalinske grinned, the kind of grin a hunter has when his prey is caught. "Believe me, by June, all the dinosaurs in United States will be roaring because of us."
The consensus between the two sides was reached at this moment.
There were no tedious negotiations, only a shared recognition of good content.
It was a mid-May morning in San Francisco, and the fog hadn't yet lifted. Nakayama Takuya had just tossed a schedule of promotional roadshows for Jurassic Park onto his bedside table when the phone rang shrilly.
When I answered the phone, instead of the expected complaints from some senior executive in the United States branch, I heard Tanaka's barely suppressed excitement, with what sounded like noisy Cantonese vendors hawking their wares in the background.
"Executive Director, just as you predicted!"
Takuya rubbed his throbbing temples and glanced at the wall clock—ten in the morning. It seemed it was already evening in Hong Kong. "Tanaka, if you woke me up from across the ocean just because you ate a delicious bowl of wonton noodles, your quarterly bonus is docked."
"No way! It's that batch of goods!" Tanaka, clearly oblivious to his boss's morning grumpiness, spoke at breakneck speed, "Nine-Tattoo Dragon just released those hundred MD players and one thousand cassette tapes. They weren't even outside Guangdong Province; they were completely sold out in Shenzhen and Dongguan. Those guys weren't selling them; they were all going to 'collect rent'!"
Takuya leaned against the headboard, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Just as he had predicted.
Tell me the specifics.
"This model is practically everywhere now." Tanaka flipped through his notebook, his voice tinged with disbelief. "The convenience stores and stationery shops near schools—the owners just hide the machines in the back room, set up a TV, and it's a goldmine. As soon as the school bell rings, students don't even eat; they clutch their crumpled change and line up. One dollar for half an hour, fifty cents for fifteen minutes—business is frighteningly good. On weekends, those machines don't even have time to cool down; they run from morning till night. I've heard that some shop owners have seen their other businesses do significantly more than usual just from these few machines."
"And those billiard halls and video arcades, business was only good at night. Now that they have two MD players, people stay during the day and don't leave. They buy a soda and a pack of cigarettes while playing games, which has increased the store's revenue quite a bit."
Those shop owners who were initially hesitant are now green with envy seeing their competitors making money, and they're blocking the doors of Nine-Tattoo Dragon's underlings demanding goods.
Takuya chuckled softly, "This is the rudimentary form of the so-called 'traffic economy.' Even if the machines themselves don't make much money, just keeping people engaged will naturally bring in the revenue."
"What's even more interesting is Nine-Tattoo Dragon's attitude," Tanaka lowered his voice, his tone becoming somewhat strange. "That gang leader's attitude towards us is much better now. Many of his underlings used to be fugitives from the mainland, with poor relatives back home. This time, Nine-Tattoo Dragon had them transport the machines back to their hometowns, letting their relatives open shops and collect rent. They don't have to fight anymore, and their families can earn money with their heads held high. Now those underlings are completely devoted to Nine-Tattoo Dragon; we can't get rid of them even if we try."
"Giving money used to be like feeding dogs," now giving business is like feeding warriors. Nine-Tattoo Dragon is a smart man; he knows this deal is more reliable than collecting protection money. Takuya reached for his cigarette case on the bedside table, pulled one out, and put it in his mouth. "What about the localization side? That's the key to expanding Sega's influence."