Return to Daily Work

Bandai's president, Yamashina, was sitting in the front row, raising his glass to him. Next to him was Mitsui Chuta, whose calm "I knew it all along" expression didn't last more than two seconds before the barely suppressed smile on his lips betrayed him.

"Minister Sato, you flatter me," Sato Nakayama Takuya said, his tone as relaxed as if they were having a casual chat. "People used to think that movies were movies and games were games, and that they should keep to themselves. But Jurassic Park has shown us that audiences' wallets are actually connected when it comes to various forms of entertainment."

A knowing laugh rippled through the audience.

"Hollywood has paved the way; our job is to widen it." Nakayama Takuya unbuttoned a button on his suit jacket, looking relaxed. "In the future, screen size will no longer be a limitation. Movie screens, television screens, even the small black-and-white screen of a handheld console will all be gateways to traffic. We don't need to fight each other for food; what we need to do is make this pie even bigger."

He paused, his gaze sharpening slightly, before quickly returning to a gentle smile, "Whether it's movie projectionists, toy sellers, or coders like us, as long as we can get audiences to willingly spend their money, we can collaborate like this a few more times."

As soon as he finished speaking, Yamashina Makoto was the first to lead the applause.

Immediately afterwards, applause erupted like a tsunami, engulfing the banquet hall.

There are no profound theories, nor any empty sentiments. The four words "Let's make money together" are more beautiful than any poem in this economic winter.

Several days have passed since the lavish celebration at the Imperial Hotel, but the aftershocks of Jurassic Park continue.

Although the line outside the cinema was shorter, the cash registers in the surrounding shops were still ringing non-stop.

As the first commercial blockbuster in film history to break the billion- US dollar mark at the global box office, this Tyrannosaurus Rex's long-tail effect is ridiculously strong, transferring US dollars to Sega's overseas accounts every second.

The figures in the Finance Department report were astonishingly impressive, enough to keep those old men on the board drinking champagne like water for three days and three nights.

But on Nakayama Takuya's desk, this gold-rimmed financial statement was casually tossed aside, not even managing to cover the thick stack of blue folders underneath.

For him, dinosaurs are a thing of the past.

Counting money while basking in one's achievements is a capitalist's business; as a time traveler, he naturally wouldn't indulge in that.

He shifted his focus back to the development of the new arcade board Model 2 and the next-generation console, as well as the work of various game development teams.

Hardware Development Department.

Various colored wires were tangled like a mess on the exposed circuit board of the Model 2 prototype, and the cooling fan was roughly fixed above the chip with tape, emitting a tractor-like roar.

But this pile of junk that looks like it could short-circuit and start smoking at any moment is currently the treasure that the entire Hardware Development Department keeps on a pedestal.

Although the core is still the standard R3000 commonly used in the market, and not the compatible version customized by SGI, its polygon processing capability is much worse than the final version, but this does not prevent it from building the framework first.

"Don't look at it like that, Suzuki- san." Nakayama Takuya tapped the slightly hot heatsink, stopping Yu Suzuki from trying to overclock again. "It's already close to its limit. We need to consider stability and lifespan. Even if the chip needs to be replaced later, we still need a stable development machine for each development team."

Yu Suzuki reluctantly withdrew his hand, pointing to the wireframe on the screen that only showed a dozen or so frames. "This performance is still pretty bad."

"That's why I had you do the 'invisible' work first." Nakayama Takuya slammed a new schedule on the table. "Collision volume determination, physics feedback logic, input signal delay calibration, and that damn AI behavior tree. These things don't require rendering at 60 frames per second. Once the foundation is laid, we'll replace it with the SGI chip, do some debugging, and it'll be running."

As for deeper graphic manipulation, that's the battleground for Mark Cerny and Yuji Naka.

These two are currently in seclusion, training several elite engineers whose hair is thinning.

Their task wasn't to make games, but to create tools.

In the 3D era, without good graphics libraries and compilation tools, asking ordinary programmers to write assembly code directly on bare metal was no different from asking someone to dig through Mount Fuji with a spoon.

Sharpening your axe won't delay your woodcutting.

This principle applies everywhere, but in the fast-paced world of gaming, the hardest thing is to resist the urge to recklessly attack.

SGI headquarters across the ocean is said to have entered a state of war, with engineers working tirelessly to ensure instruction set compatibility with custom chips.

These things can't be rushed.

After leaving the Hardware Development Department, Nakayama Takuya went to Tetsuya Mizuguchi's racing game development team next door.

Everyone here is sitting like statues in front of their monitors, their fingers tapping away on the keyboard.

Only one figure stood out out of place among this static group of sculptures.

The man was wearing a slightly loose white shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, two folders tucked under his arm, and a stack of fax papers in his hand. He was moving back and forth between several workstations.

One minute he's helping the Art Team coordinate resources, the next he's running to the planning team to check on progress, he's practically flying around, and he even occasionally runs to other development teams.

Nakayama Takuya squinted and recognized the man who was spinning like a top.

Hisao Oguchi.

Looking at this man whose face was etched with the words "hard work," Nakayama Takuya's heart skipped a beat.

Sega employees today probably only see him as a useful "jack-of-all-trades" manager, someone they can bring in wherever there's a shortage of people.

But in Nakayama Takuya's memories of his past life, this man was a lifeline for Sega in the Sega.

In the past, Sega's most difficult period was when Hisao Oguchi was appointed president in a time of crisis. He drastically cut loss-making businesses and managed to pull the sinking giant ship back to the surface.

To throw such a capable leader into the grassroots as a firefighter constantly putting out fires is a complete waste of talent.

Now that Mark Cerny has been promoted to tackle technical challenges, it's time for someone capable of managing the administrative and project coordination aspects of the operation to take charge.

What Nakayama Takuya lacks most right now is time. He needs to extricate himself from the complicated daily approvals and personnel disputes to think about a grander strategic plan.

"Oguchi Mistress."

Nakayama Takuya called out.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was clear enough in the quiet office.

Just as he was about to run towards the sound effects team, Hisao Oguchi abruptly stopped. Turning around and seeing Nakayama Takuya, he hurriedly tucked the messy documents in his hands into his coat and bowed respectfully. "Executive Director Nakayama! I'm sorry, I didn't notice you coming."