Not Just a Game

The lead planner's eyes lit up.

This is no ordinary disaster drill; it's practically a highly strategic survival game.

"The third phase is rescue and settlement," Takuya continued. "After 72 hours, the Self-Defense Forces will enter the fray. The system will provide a comprehensive rating based on the player's survival status, remaining resources, and the number of people rescued. Different ratings will be awarded different rewards."

"Don't make the first level too difficult." Nakayama Takuya turned a page of the project proposal, pointing to the difficulty curve. "First, let the players become familiar with the gameplay and main elements, so they can recognize and interact with them. Starting with a magnitude 8 earthquake and a tsunami would just push the players outwards. Lower the initial earthquake magnitude to give them enough reaction time; don't let the ceiling flatten them right away. Also, reduce the probability of secondary disasters, so everyone can get used to crawling under tables first."

The lead planner scratched his still-dripping hair, clearly not fully recovered from the Okinawa sea breeze. He stared at the flowchart on the whiteboard. "Executive Director, since it's a survival game, shouldn't we include eating, drinking, defecating, and sleeping? Hunger, thirst, bladder capacity—how messy will the UI be?"

"Simplify," Nakayama Takuya, holding up two fingers. "Just two bars: Energy and Health."

He picked up Mark and drew two long strips on the whiteboard.

"Eating and sleeping restore energy, but to prevent players from turning this game into a gluttony contest," add a cooldown. Repeated eating or sleeping within four hours will no longer restore energy. We're simulating survival, not a buffet."

"What if the energy level runs out?" a programmer chimed in.

"Slower, dumber." Nakayama Takuya tapped the whiteboard. "Slower movements, shorter QTE timings. If you get a red screen, you can't even run, you can only crawl."

The lead planner stroked his stubble, seemingly lost in thought, "That makes sense. But, Director, you mentioned rescuing people. In that environment, rescuing people is purely a waste of resources, isn't it? The motivation to rescue people just for a high score isn't strong enough. Players are very pragmatic."

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"Who says there's no reward for rescuing people?" Nakayama Takuya smiled, the kind of expression a hunter has when their prey is caught. "For each neighbor rescued, the player gains 'Mood Boost,' which directly restores stamina."

"Return to mana?" The lead planner's eyes widened.

"Yes, restore mana. But don't be too greedy. After saving three, stop adding extra mana to avoid people digging through ruins to farm mana." Nakayama Takuya paused, then dropped the bombshell that made everyone sit up straight. "Besides, these NPCs aren't just for show. Write them some simple AI."

"What would normally take you ten minutes to move a roof beam, you can do in three minutes with two strong men working together. A nurse can treat your wounds. An older woman can help you organize your food."

A few soft gasps were heard in the conference room.

This is what we call a snowball effect.

Resources were invested in the initial rescue efforts; later, the sheer number of people made a difference.

"That's a choice for the players themselves." The lead planner's mind was now completely clear, and he excitedly twirled his pen. "Is it better to save the doctor whose leg is trapped first, or the crying elementary school student first—this isn't just a moral question, it's also a math problem."

"That's right." Nakayama Takuya nodded in approval. "As for health, it's not that simple. It's not like you can just eat a first-aid kit and be fully healed. If you get injured, you have to treat it first: stop the bleeding, immobilize it, bandage it. If you get soaked in the rain, you have to change into dry clothes. If you get choked by smoke, you have to open the windows for ventilation. After that, health recovers slowly. Don't expect a wounded person who has just been bandaged to immediately go and help dig through the rubble. That's Superman, not a disaster victim."

He tossed the Mark back into its slot with a crisp sound.

"Excessive cold, excessive heat, injury, and exhaustion will all deduct from your health. The core of this game isn't about being a hero, but about surviving like a tightrope walker amidst this mess, carefully managing your resources."

The lead planner's expression, which had previously seemed somewhat perfunctory, completely vanished as he looked at the densely packed mechanism diagrams on the whiteboard.

This is hardly a public service software; it's clearly a resource management game with a rigorous logic and even some hardcore gameplay.

If the settings are adjusted well, making it easy to learn but difficult to master, it can be absolutely addictive.

"One more thing, about the art style." Nakayama Takuya tapped his finger on the table, drawing everyone's attention from the numbers back to the visuals. "Don't give me any next-gen lighting and shadow effects; we want 'foolproof' clarity."

The lead planner was about to suggest that the MD's capabilities could be further optimized when he heard this and froze. "Executive Director, if the graphics are too rough, we'll be accused of ripping people off, right?"

"You still don't understand." Nakayama Takuya pulled a hand-drawn sketch from the paper bag, depicting a fire extinguisher and a flashlight with rough lines. "If you draw a bunch of realistic textures on that palm-sized monochrome screen of a handheld console, players in an emergency won't be able to tell whether the thing on the ground is a life-saving compressed biscuit or an inedible piece of broken brick."

He slammed the sketch down in front of the art director. "I need high contrast and high recognizability. The fire extinguisher must be a blindingly red, and the emergency exit green must be blindingly bright. So that even children can see at a glance—oh, this red cross is for saving lives, and that skull is for danger."

The Art Team picked up the sketch, and his brows relaxed.

This design actually requires more skill, as it demands maximum accuracy in information within just a few pixels, which is much more challenging than drawing high-resolution textures.

"This is the core." Nakayama Takuya looked around. "This isn't about appreciating the aesthetics of ruins; the goal is to etch these icons and operational logic into our minds. When a real earthquake strikes, they won't need to think; muscle memory will tell them what to do."

The meeting room fell silent for a few seconds.

Originally, everyone thought this was just a political task to be done perfunctorily, or a gimmick to make quick money.

But now, looking at the intricate logic of the gameplay on the whiteboard, and then at the compromises and insistences made in pursuit of ultimate ease of use, the whole feeling has changed.

This isn't just a fun game; it might actually save your life.

The chief planner snapped the cap back onto his pen with a crisp "click."

He took a deep breath and solemnly placed the proposal, which he had initially somewhat disliked, in the very center.

"Executive, we'll take this job." He grinned. "And the numerical debugging might take a long time."

"As long as we can make this game well, the development timeline won't be a problem." Nakayama Takuya stood up and straightened the hem of his suit jacket.

"Clear!"

The responses were uniform and even louder than when they were discussing where to go for drinks.

These tech-savvy guys, who usually only care about games, now had a glint in their eyes that looked like a sense of "mission".