Disaster-Fighting Little Hero Promotion
For these officials, this meant that there was only credit to be gained, and no risk involved.
If they win, it's a political achievement, an innovative disaster prevention approach that "integrates education and entertainment"; if they lose, it's Sega's own business decision, and has nothing to do with the government.
"Those old foxes, as long as the risk is reduced to zero and there are visible benefits, they're still very enthusiastic." Nakayama Takuya tossed the cartridge back onto the table, making a crisp sound. "I heard the testing phase is quite interesting?"
"It's more than just interesting; it's the first time I've ever seen a civil servant act like this."
Yoshikawa couldn't help but laugh as he recalled the days of testing.
At Nakayama Takuya's request, this closed beta test didn't involve any veteran players. Instead, a group of female civil servants from various departments were recruited who usually had no interest in games and were even somewhat resistant to them. Some of them were mothers with children.
Initially, this group of "moms on the judging panel" sat in front of the television with a critical eye.
In their stereotypes, video games are the culprit that causes children to neglect their studies and ruin their eyesight.
However, ten minutes later, the tone changed.
There was no fighting or killing, and no complicated combos.
An earthquake occurs on the screen.
"Mom, should we turn off the gas first or crawl under the table?" The child watching nearby was jumping up and down anxiously.
The usually extremely strict female section chief was frantically operating the control panel: "Stop making noise! The instructions just said to prioritize head protection during periods of violent shaking, and turn off the gas during the lull... Oh no! Why is my health being deducted?"
A warning pops up on the screen: [Incorrect Example: Stepping barefoot on broken glass reduces movement speed by 50% and increases the risk of infection.]
"This game—it's got something special." The female section chief adjusted her glasses and turned to the recorder. "The detail of 'wearing shoes' is well done. During the last exercise, many people ran outside barefoot."
Such scenes are commonplace in the testing lab.
Compared to dry disaster prevention manuals, this kind of immediate feedback that "making the wrong choice will lead to illness, injury, or even Game Over" obviously makes it easier for participants to remember various disaster prevention knowledge points.
What pleased these parents even more was the game's pace.
It discourages prolonged addiction.
A game only takes twenty or thirty minutes to complete, and unlike RPGs, it doesn't require frantic leveling up, nor does it have the adrenaline-pumping action of action games.
After playing a game, children learn a few key points. When they get tired, they can simply be put down, giving parents peace of mind.
April 16th, 7 PM.
This is NHK's News 7, a prime-time slot that Japan families watch without fail. This slot, which usually only features political scandals, royal news, and serious social events, has taken a dramatic turn today.
On the television screen, the usually stern news anchor was holding a black MD cassette tape.
The camera zooms in, revealing an endearingly large-headed cartoon character wearing a yellow helmet on the cassette cover. Above this character's head, a line of small print, even more prominent than the game's title, is prominently displayed. "Recommended by the Fire and Disaster Management Agency and the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology."
"----In response to the frequent natural disasters in recent years and the public's weak awareness of disaster prevention, the Ministry of Ministry of Education, Sports, Science and Technology, in collaboration with Sega Corporation, has launched a special 'teaching material.'"
The host didn't use the word "game," but instead pronounced it clearly as "interactive disaster prevention simulation software."
The scene shifts, no longer showing the dull studio, but a slightly shaky documentary-style shot.
In the video, a group of women dressed in business attire are intently playing the game "Disaster-Fighting Little Hero" on television.
Some of them frowned, frantically pressing the handles; others held notebooks nearby, diligently taking notes on the prompts that popped up on the screen, as if they were taking meeting minutes.
The subtitle reads: [Internal Test Record of Civil Servants and Their Families in a Provincial Department].
Immediately afterwards, a striking bar chart filled the screen.
On the left is a gray pillar labeled "Average score on the disaster prevention knowledge test before the visit: 42 points"; on the right is a bright red pillar, towering significantly higher – "Average score on the retest after the visit: 89 points".
This kind of direct, data-driven impact is more effective than any lengthy explanation from an expert.
The camera then focused on a mother who was participating in the test.
She awkwardly straightened her hair and said into the microphone, "I used to think video games were a scourge, only causing children to become nearsighted and go astray. But this time—to be honest, when I played the 'fire escape' level, my palms were sweating profusely. I didn't realize there were so many nuances to covering your mouth and nose with a wet towel; all my previous understanding was wrong. If I hadn't played this, my child and I might have been in danger if something had really happened."
Sega's subsequent marketing strategy took the word "cunning" to the extreme.
The next day, full-page articles in major newspapers and magazines featured GG, completely abandoning the previous style that emphasized "fun," "exciting," and "cool visuals."
The poster has a solemn black and white background, with a cassette tape of "Disaster-Fighting Little Hero" placed in the center.
There were no exaggerated promotional slogans, only a list of "guiding units" that took up a third of the page.
The list of names— Disaster Prevention Research Institute, Kyoto University, Tokyo Metropolitan Disaster Prevention Center, Ministry of Internal Affairs Fire and Disaster Management Agency —doesn't sound like a game ending, but rather like a serious government document.
At the very bottom, there is only one line of bold black text:
[No gaming experience required, simple and fun, educational and entertaining. It's not just a game for your family, it's a life insurance policy.]
This "GG" phrase precisely broke through the psychological defenses of Japan parents.
Akihabara, Sega's flagship store.
This place is usually a haven for young people, but today it's packed with housewives, and even middle-aged office workers carrying briefcases who just got off work.
A father wearing glasses, holding two boxes of "Disaster-Fighting Little Hero" and a brand-new MD player, was confirming with the shop assistant next to him. "It says 'recommended by the Ministry of Education' on this, is it true? If my child plays this, will he really learn how to avoid earthquakes?"
"Absolutely authentic, sir." The salesperson, having memorized the sales pitch, pointed to the NHK screenshot on the poster. "It's even been reported on the news; this is a disaster prevention textbook approved by the national public sector. Don't worry about your child getting addicted; a game only takes less than half an hour to complete, it mainly focuses on developing knowledge and reaction skills."
The father pushed up his glasses, as if he had finally found a legitimate reason to buy his child a game console. "Okay, then I'll buy two. One for the family, and one for my younger brother who's a teacher. It's for studying, not for playing."
For hardcore gamers who only seek exhilarating gameplay, this game, marketed as "educational software," wasn't initially on their shopping list.
Some hardcore gamers even mocked Sega "falling behind," saying they were actually trying to curry favor with the Ministry of Education to make this kind of childish stuff.