Opening the Champagne

You had to understand, in this era, a game selling a million copies was enough for a manufacturer to open champagne and celebrate.

Five million copies—that was phenomenal dominance.

The more crucial data was below.

Jupiter's global cumulative install base had gone from barely crossing five million units in October to already approaching the nine-million mark in early January.

In just over two short months, nearly four million new units had been added.

Nakayama Takuya leaned back against the leather chair and let out a long breath.

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In the 32-bit console war of his previous life, Sony's PlayStation, with the heaven-shaking strike of Final Fantasy VII, had completely ended all suspense.

And now, with a full year still to go before Final Fantasy VII had been released in his previous life, Sega had already seized the decisive match point.

Toy Story had served as the breaker of the deadlock in this time and space.

A family-friendly game had forcibly smashed open the wallets of nontraditional player groups.

Nakayama Takuya twirled the pen in his hand.

It had been ten years since he transmigrated here.

From that Tokyo Tech graduate who had drunk himself into a blackout in 1985 to the executive managing officer now steering the course of a gaming empire.

In these ten years, his greatest achievement had not been using foreknowledge to cut off who knew how many divine titles, nor poaching who knew how many genius producers.

It had been completely changing Sega's genes.

The Sega of the past had been a pure engineering guy.

It only knew how to make fierce, exhilarating, hardcore-difficulty arcade games like Golden Axe, Altered Beast, and Space Harrier.

They knew how to make players drop coins, but not how to make them sit comfortably in the living room