Blizzard
The California sun shone through the car window onto Nakayama Takuya's face, but it couldn't dispel the thoughts in his mind.
Just six months ago, this group of young people based in California almost signed with Davidson & Associates.
That company started as a distributor of educational software and does have some influence in the North America PC channel. If you're only focused on the United States market, selling yourself to them would be a safe and stable option.
But Nakayama Takuya would not allow such a "waste of resources" to happen.
He still vaguely remembered the daily negotiation reports from back then.
Davidson was waving his checkbook, promising a stable acquisition price; while Sega was slamming a ticket to global dominance on the table.
While Sega's PC software distribution network in North America is indeed not as deeply entrenched as Davidson's, which has been deeply involved in educational software for many years, this is only a disadvantage in a localized battleground.
When it comes to global distribution capabilities, that math software company can't even see Sega's taillights.
With its vast distribution network and extensive dealer system, Sega's distribution network has already spread to every corner of Europe, South America, and even Asia. This is a level of dominance that no purely North America publisher can match.
More importantly, it's about attitude.
In an era where Nintendo almost strangles third parties with its royalty system, small and medium-sized manufacturers are not having an easy time.
The stringent review process, the lengthy payment cycle, and the arrogant attitude of "it's an honor to let you publish your game on my platform" have long fueled the resentment of many developers.
Nakayama Takuya instructed his negotiation team to say only one thing to Mike Morhaime: "Sega doesn't lack money, nor does it lack good games; what we lack are potential partners. At Nintendo, you're employees; at Sega, you can be equal partners."
This statement is extremely damaging.
In addition, Sega's promise of a shorter payment cycle compared to other distributors is a lifesaver for independent studios that are constantly under financial strain.
So, even though Davidson later gritted his teeth and raised his offer, trying to overwhelm these young people with US dollar, the guys who later changed their name to "Blizzard" still didn't hesitate to grab Sega's outstretched hand.
After all, who wouldn't want to have a powerful backer for shelter while still maintaining their unique spirit?
The car drove into Irvine.
Here, you won't find the constant tension and anxiety of Silicon Valley; instead, you'll find a unique sense of languor and tranquility characteristic of Southern California.
Sega gave these geniuses the utmost respect and freedom.
As is customary, subsidiaries that receive investment are often required to relocate to a location near the parent company for easier management, such as moving next to Sega of America Headquarters in Redwood City.
The administrative staff had even planned out office areas within the building.
However, Nakayama Takuya rejected the proposal.
"Putting a group of rock stars in an office building will only result in noise complaints, not good songs."
He waved his hand dismissively, letting the group choose their own territory.
So they changed their name from "Silicon & Synapse" to the cool and sharp "Blizzard" brand, and plunged headlong into the Irvine sunshine.
The car stopped in front of an unremarkable building.
Nakayama Takuya got out of the car and glanced up at the new logo that hadn't been fully hung up yet.
The jagged letters exude a chilling aura that keeps strangers at bay.
"Blizzard."
He read it aloud softly, a smile playing on his lips.
Pushing open the door, a unique aroma wafted out, a blend of the heat from electronic components and the smell of Italy spicy sausage pizza.
This taste was all too familiar to Nakayama Takuya —it was the taste of working late into the night.
The office was a chaotic yet orderly mess.
Several desks were pushed together, piled high with CRT monitors, tangled data cables, and leftover pizza boxes.
Several young people wearing large T-shirts and with messy hair were frantically typing on the keyboard in front of the screen, occasionally uttering particles starting with "F".
"Hey Bob, that unit pathfinding logic is stuck again, and that orc is just going around in circles," someone complained loudly.
In the corner, a bespectacled, seemingly well-mannered young man said without turning his head, "Don't make a sound, I'm checking for memory overflow. By the way, the receptionist said someone from Sega Headquarters is coming to inspect today? Who can handle it?"
"Let Mike go, I'm busy." Another person put his feet up on the table, holding a cold slice of pizza. "Anyway, it's just one of those old Japan guys in suits who only know how to look at reports. He'll just come for the show and complain about the smell of our pizza."
Nakayama Takuya stood at the doorway and couldn't help but laugh out loud.
The laughter sounded particularly jarring amidst the clatter of keyboards.
Another young man with curly hair, Mike Morhaime, finally took his eyes off the screen. He turned his head with a hint of impatience.
The moment their eyes met, Mike froze in his tracks.
The man standing at the door was dressed in a suit, but without a tie, his shirt collar was casually open, and he was carrying a dozen bottles of chilled cola.
This face----
He had seen it on the cover of Electronic Gaming Monthly, on CES videotapes, and even in the signature section of some acclaimed design documents.
Mike jumped to his feet, his knee slamming hard against the table leg, but he ignored the pain and pointed at the door, stammering, "Naka- Nakayama? Nakayama Takuya?!"
That shout was like pouring a ladle of water into boiling oil.
The people who had been slumped in their chairs jumped up as if they had been electrocuted.
The guy who was eating pizza with his legs up almost tipped over, chair and all, and the pizza fell to the ground with a thud.
"Holy crap? Is it really that Nakayama Takuya?"
"Alive?"
The previously dull office instantly erupted into chaos.
These proud and arrogant geeks had completely lost their composure.
In their eyes, Sega executives might just be symbols signing checks, but Nakayama Takuya was different.
This is a man who can turn code into gold and pixels into dreams.
He is a true rock star in the gaming world today, a madman who dared to tear open the iron curtain of Nintendo.
Mike Morhaime rushed over, rubbing his hands vigorously on the oil stains on his trousers before excitedly extending his hand. "Mr. Nakayama! Good heavens, we thought—uh, I mean, we never expected you to come in person!"
"What, you're not welcome?" Nakayama Takuya smiled, grasping the slightly trembling hand and handing over the stack of drinks. "You'll like it if you just happen to be passing by a convenience store."