Soccer Game
"Get the Japan Team in." Nakayama Takuya's tone left no room for argument. "If the national team makes it in, the whole country will celebrate, and our game will benefit. If—" He paused, then spread his hands, "If they don't make it in, then all the fans in Japan need this game even more, because only in our game can they control the Japan Team to lift the FIFA World Cup Trophy."
"This is called... spiritual comfort?" Ono Hiroshi suddenly realized.
"I guess so." Nakayama Takuya nodded, seemingly unsure whether to agree or disagree.
Ono Hiroshi and his friends huddled together and quickly exchanged a few glances.
When it comes to making sports games, they have a thorough understanding of the underlying collision volume and physics feedback logic, but that's not the only challenge.
What's even more difficult is getting the filling measurements right beneath that skin.
"Executive Director, the architecture and AI are fine. Whether it's the stun detection for tackles or the goalkeeper's reaction to saves, we can train them all." Ono Hiroshi raised his head, but his brows were furrowed. "But these 24 teams, hundreds of players. Strong teams like Brazil and Italy are relatively easy to find data on. But where do we get the data for those Africa and Middle East teams? We can't just be looking at newspapers with a magnifying glass and guessing, can we? The workload alone, just collecting the data, could wear us down to death at our desks."
Nakayama Takuya smiled upon hearing this, tapping his fingers lightly twice on the mahogany table, producing a crisp sound.
"Don't worry about that, everyone has their own expertise." Takuya seemed confident. "I'll ask Director Yoshikawa to handle it. He has excellent relationships with government departments and major associations. Having him knock on the door of the Japan Football Association and ask for some technical guidance and player data support will be good publicity for the association; they'd love for someone to come and support them. As for the expenses involved—"
He waved his hand dismissively. "Anything used to establish data channels, no matter the quantity, I'll approve it."
Upon hearing "funding is plentiful," Ono Hiroshi's apple bobbed.
"However, this money wasn't spent in vain." Takuya's smile faded, and he leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed intently on his subordinate. "Do you know why I spent so much money on this?"
"To ride the wave of popularity next year?" the planner asked tentatively.
"The hype is only temporary," Nakayama Takuya said, his tone becoming somewhat somber.
Based on past experience, in the European and American markets, where game spending power is the strongest in the world, the best-selling and most frequently released games are racing, shooting, and sports games.
We have the car and the Sega, all we're missing is the ball. Now is the perfect time to get in.
He paused, then drew a circle on the table with his finger. "Spending huge sums of money upfront to build an intelligence network and buy data might seem like a waste, but once this system is up and running, it will be our exclusive moat. If other companies see the profits from football games and want to get a piece of the pie, this pile of precise data that only we have will be enough to keep them out of the game."
Ono Hiroshi listened in a daze, taking notes rapidly. This "moat" theory was something he, a pure technical person, had never considered before.
"And there's one more crucial point." Takuya suddenly remembered something, tapped the table, and his tone became more serious, "Our game absolutely cannot have 'World Cup ' or FIFA in its name, and the trophy in the game can't be made to look like the FIFA World Cup Trophy."
"Huh? Why?" Ono Hiroshi paused, "Wouldn't that make it more immersive?"
"Because FIFA has already sold the exclusive license to EA in the United States." Takuya curled his lip, a glint of shrewdness flashing in his eyes as he recalled EA's monopolistic attitude in his previous life. "But that doesn't stop us from making money. EA took the shell of the tournament, we're going to grab the flesh of the content."
"Your task is to negotiate licensing agreements with each national team as much as possible. As long as you can get the actual team names and permission for the jersey designs, that's enough."
Takuya stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. "As long as the players on the screen are wearing their favorite team's jerseys, players won't care whether the trophy they're holding has two fewer rings of pattern than the original. This sense of immersion brought by 'real names' is our true brand moat."
Ono Hiroshi closed his notebook with a soft click.
The executive director has paved the way for him to this extent; if he still can't make a name for himself, he might as well quit Sega as the team leader.
"Understood! We'll go back and start by building the framework of the plan."
Late June, Chiyoda Ward, Tokyo.
Inside the Toho Film headquarters building, Sato, the Marketing and Publicity Department, stared at the North America box office weekly report that had just come out of the fax machine, his fingers unconsciously tapping a rhythm on the table.
To him, the ever-rising curves on the screen looked like dinosaurs laying golden eggs.
"Things are already booming in North America." Sato slammed the thin sheet of thermal paper onto the center of the conference table, glancing around at his section chiefs. "Universal Pictures has informed us that Spielberg's film might break all box office records. Now the pressure is on us; we absolutely cannot afford to mess up the Japan premiere in July."
In the past, Toho always kept a tight rein on the promotion and distribution of Hollywood blockbusters in Japan, fearing that its partners would overshadow the main event.
But this time, the situation is a little different.
Sega and Bandai are both too "sensible".
The conference room door was knocked open, and the secretary led in representatives from Sega and Bandai.
Sato was prepared for a lot of wrangling, since game companies and toy manufacturers usually want to plaster movie posters with their own logos and turn movie theaters into huge shopping malls.
But Sato was stunned when Sega's PR manager spoke.
"This is our second wave of TV GG (Ghosting) advertising plan." The other party handed over a thick proposal. "For all GG segments, the first fifteen seconds will be filled with highlights from the movie, and the Sega logo will appear in the last three seconds."
Sato opened the proposal, his eyebrows raised high.
He had never encountered such a generous and virtuous partner in his three thousand years in the business—no, such a condescending and selfless individual.
Before he could even process what was happening, a representative from Bandai chimed in, "Bandai is doing the same thing. Our model kits will be released in sync with the movie's schedule, emphasizing that they're 'movie-compatible,'" promising no spoilers and avoiding any childish promotions that would spoil the movie's atmosphere. Director Mitsui specifically instructed us to maximize audience anticipation for the film.
Sato closed the file, leaned back in his chair, and rested his head on the chair.
He was a seasoned veteran, and naturally understood that there's no such thing as a free lunch.
Sega and Bandai are doing this simply to capitalize on the movie's popularity to sell their merchandise.
But this attitude of treating the film with utmost care and respect certainly gave Toho face.