Mark Cerny Returns to America

"Spare me." Mark Cerny tilted his head back, gulped down a large mouthful of soda, and let out a loud burp. "All I want to do right now is enjoy the California sunshine and greasy burgers. Staring at that pile of boring code on the R3000S every day, my stomach needs some high-calorie food to soothe it."

"Looks like the results are good?"

When work was mentioned, Mark Cerny's previously unfocused eyes lit up.

He pulled a crumpled notebook out of his pocket and waved it. "Mission accomplished. The Jupiter prototype test was perfect. Because it uses the same architectural logic as Model 2, we also adapted the development tools."

For third parties, making games for Jupiter will be much simpler in the future.

This was exactly what Nakayama Takuya wanted to hear.

The biggest mistake of the Saturn was the development hell caused by its dual-CPU architecture, which drove countless programmers crazy.

With this user-friendly development environment, Sega has essentially built a moat around its competitive advantage in advance.

"However—" Mark Cerny changed the subject, crushing the can in his hand, "This kind of custom chip work only needs to be done once. To squeeze out that little bit of graphics performance, we have to grind at the instruction set level, which is too inefficient and too costly."

Nakayama Takuya leaned against the vending machine, his fingertips lightly tapping the can. "You felt it too?"

"It's hard not to feel it," Mark Cerny sighed. "There's been a lot of activity in the PC market lately; some manufacturers are starting to develop dedicated 3D graphics accelerator cards. Although they're still quite rudimentary, that general-purpose approach is the right one. With hardware standardization in the future, our kind of laborious and thankless deep customization development will eventually be phased out."

He truly is a top-tier technical genius; his intuition is frighteningly sharp.

Nakayama Takuya carefully tossed the empty can into the trash can, dusted off his hands, and said, "Since you think so too, then this is easy to handle. After your vacation, I have some money that you need to spend."

"Spend money?" Mark Cerny raised an eyebrow.

"Go check out those small graphics accelerator card companies in California," Nakayama Takuya said in a low voice, as if he were plotting something big. "The rise of PC games is an inevitable trend, and many PC games are entirely based on keyboard and mouse controls. For example, the game that Blizzard, the company I previously invested in, is currently developing is like that. Consoles can't reach that area, but we can enter the market in a different way. Find a promising one, Sega Investment Department will invest based on your suggestion."

Mark Cerny became interested. "Blizzard? I'll have to check it out sometime. As for graphics card companies, do you have any in mind? There are tons of graphics card companies these days, most of them are just trying to scam venture capitalists."

"You could consider keeping an eye on a company called NVIDIA."

"NVIDIA?" Mark Cerny searched his memory, then shook his head in confusion. "Never heard of it, is it a new name?"

"It was just established last year, and the founder is a Chinese man named Jensen Huang." Nakayama Takuya had a meaningful smile on his lips. "I heard they like to conduct business at Denny's restaurant; their burgers should suit your taste."

NVIDIA is still just a seedling, only a year old. Who could have imagined that this small company, whose name is barely known to anyone, would become a trillion-dollar AI empire in the future? Entering now, even if you only acquire a small stake, will yield returns that will allow Sega to sit back and count their money.

"Alright, since you specifically asked for my name, I'll go meet these guys who're starting out in the fast food industry." Mark Cerny stretched, his joints cracking. "But I'll have to sleep for three days and three nights first. Right now, everyone looks like a line of error code."

Watching Mark Cerny's unsteady departure, Nakayama Takuya headed towards the CEO's office on the top floor.

Sunlight streamed through the blinds of Redwood City, cutting strips of light that fell on Tom Kalinske's large desk.

When Nakayama Takuya pushed open the door, the head of Sega of America was staring blankly at the calendar, his red pen drawing a heavy circle on a certain date.

"What, counting down the days?" Nakayama Takuya pulled out a chair and sat down, casually taking a cigar from the cigar box on the table, sniffing it. "If you're worried about the hearing, you might as well save this cigar for a celebration."

Tom snapped out of his reverie, tossed his pen aside, and rubbed his temples. "There's still a little over a week left. Although the ESRB has been established and public opinion has shifted, you know those guys in Washington —they won't let go until they've taken a bite out of us. Mortal Kombat is, after all, the eye of the storm."

"It's precisely because we're in the center that we're safe." Nakayama Takuya toyed with his unlit cigar, his tone as casual as if discussing tomorrow's weather. "Whether it's the ESRB rating system or that accidental sale recall program," we've reinforced every possible defense to the teeth. If they can still find fault with this, then we might as well quit playing games and go sing hymns in church.

Tom couldn't help but laugh when the "recycling program" was mentioned.

This was definitely Nakayama Takuya's most brilliant move in this matter. On the eve of the establishment of the ESRB, Sega of America suddenly issued a statement, claiming that in order to comply with the rating system, Sega was willing to buy back the Mortal Kombat cartridges that had been "mistakenly sold" to minors at the original price and give away an all-ages Kirby as compensation.

This move completely stumped the lawmakers who were planning to launch an attack at the hearing.

The original intention was to accuse Sega of being profit-driven and poisoning the minds of teenagers, but they not only took the initiative to implement a rating system, but also funded the recycling program out of their own pockets.

Although very few kids actually came to return the game—who would hand back an R-rated game they'd gone to so much trouble to buy?—the gesture was certainly convincing.

The media praised this move, calling Sega a "truly socially responsible company."

In contrast, Nintendo, which continues to turn a deaf ear and insists "there are no violent games in my house," seems rather embarrassed.

"The Finance Department is grappling with the loss of the budget, but the Public Relations Department is practically worshipping you." Tom leaned back in his chair, clearly much more relaxed. "That million- US dollar sum was more worthwhile than losing the Super Bowl."

"Since I can already guess the outcome, there's no need for me to stay and watch this show." Nakayama Takuya stood up and straightened the hem of his suit jacket. "My plane ticket is booked; I'm heading back to Tokyo tonight."

Tom was somewhat surprised. "So hasty? I thought you'd want to see Senator Lieberman get his comeuppance."

"Imagining that scene is enough; there's no need to waste time," Nakayama Takuya waved his hand.

"Wait, Takuya."