The New Year's bells of 1993 had just chimed, and the clamor of the two-month-long commercial war finally subsided.
After the fierce holiday sales battle, both Sega and Nintendo, along with the third-party developers who had cashed in, now resembled pythons that had just devoured entire oxen, coiled in their respective territories and quietly digesting their spoils.
The market entered a brief sage's time.
Players huddled at home, day and night, clearing the discounted games they had snatched up, while in the game companies' development departments, only the rhythmic clack of keyboards echoed.
Takuya Nakayama sat in his office at Headquarters, surrounded by a stack of unapproved samples sent from the American branch.
Outside the window, Tokyo still lingered in the festive spirit of the New Year, but his expression was as sour as someone chewing on stale gum.
"What the hell is this...?"
He casually tossed a disc back onto the desk. Its cover featured terrified teenage girls and a man in a black suit wielding a strange drill-like tool—Midnight Trap.
This was a new Sega CD game submitted by Digital Pictures in the U.S., touted as a "groundbreaking interactive live-action movie game."
Truly groundbreaking—how terribly groundbreaking.
As a time traveler, Takuya Nakayama had long heard of this game's infamous reputation. But actually playing it and experiencing the physical discomfort it caused left him wanting to roast it.
Never mind the awful graphics, which, after being compressed for the Sega CD, looked like they'd been smothered in a layer of mosaic. The game's design logic alone was enough to drive anyone insane.
The development team clearly suffered from a split personality.
They wanted to make a horror game, so they created a horde of drill-wielding vampires called Augers to invade a house.
But as if the director had been drinking on the set, these villains looked like bumbling extras from a cheap tokusatsu movie. Their wobbly, unsteady gait completely lacked any sense of menace.
To avoid censorship, they deliberately reduced the amount of gore. The result was neither scary nor funny, just like a poorly written sitcom.
Even worse was the gameplay.
The screen was crammed with surveillance camera feeds, forcing players to constantly switch between views to spot the drill-wielding invaders, then time their button presses to trigger traps at the right moment.
Want to follow the story?
Sorry, if you focus on watching the blonde woman in her nightgown talk, you'll inevitably miss the invading enemies—and get a Game Over.
If you want to win, you have to keep your eyes glued on those boring corridors and empty rooms, leaving no time to follow the story.
This is a contradictory half-finished product.
"For something like this to become popular, it'd be like the sun rising from the west." Takuya Nakayama rubbed the bridge of his nose, just about to mark an "X" on the approval form when his pen suddenly froze in mid-air.
Wait.
His pupils constricted slightly.
Midnight Trap.
A switch deep in his memory had been triggered.
The reason this game had become infamous in his previous life wasn't because it was fun, but because it caused massive trouble.
In the United States, this game was seized upon by moral guardians for its supposed "violent imagery targeting women" and "voyeuristic tendencies," and was dragged all the way to the Senate.
It was the fuse that lit the powder keg.
Takuya Nakayama shot upright, his fingers tapping rapidly on the desk.
If Midnight Trap was being submitted for approval now, that meant another, much bigger bombshell must have already appeared.
The real culprit that ignited public outrage, terrified American parents, and forced the gaming industry to implement a rating system—
Mortal Kombat.
"Damn it."
Takuya Nakayama cursed under his breath and quickly opened his computer, pulling up the sales records database for Sega of America.
The rapid tapping of his keyboard sounded especially urgent in the quiet office.
The screen flickered as lines of data scrolled by.
There it is.
Mortal Kombat, release date: October 8, 1992.
Just months earlier, while he'd been busy organizing the e-sports tournament, this fighting game had quietly flooded video game stores across North America.
He clicked open the detailed report.
The sales figures were impressive. The arcade version was exceptionally popular, and while the home console version had just launched, its momentum was already explosive.
The review department's comments were brief: "American-style fighting game with realistic graphics and decent gameplay. Approved for release."
"Decent gameplay my ass!" Takuya slammed his fist on the desk.
Those reviewers clearly hadn't played the game to the end, hadn't seen that Finishing Move where a spine is ripped out, skull and all!
The gaming industry was like a lawless Wild West right now.
No ratings, no warnings—anything you could make, you could sell to a six-year-old.
Before Mortal Kombat, pixelated violence was acceptable because it was cartoonish.
Mortal Kombat, however, used digitized images of real people, bringing a visceral, blood-soaked realism that was nothing short of a nuclear-level visual shock for the time.
It was early 1993.
If history followed its course, in just a few months, U.S. Senator Joe Lieberman would brandish Mortal Kombat and Night Trap during a Senate hearing, pointing at Sega and denouncing them as "a cancer corrupting America's youth."
This would be one of the darkest moments in video game history. Nintendo would even seize the opportunity to slander Sega, positioning itself as the victim of family-friendly gaming while heaping all the blame onto its rival.
Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his chair, gazing at the bright sunlight outside the window, yet a chill ran down his spine.
Crisis often lurks not in a direct assault from a rival, but in these seemingly insignificant blind spots.
The wall clock struck 9:45.
Considering the time difference, it was just past 4 PM at Sega of America Headquarters in Redwood City, California—prime time for afternoon tea or wrapping up work for the day.
Takuya snatched up the phone and dialed the international number with practiced ease.
The call was answered after just two rings.
"Good morning, Takuya. Or should I say, good evening?" Tom Kalinske's voice carried an unmistakable cheerfulness, clearly buoyed by the company's strong holiday sales. "If you're calling to praise our Mega Drive sales from the last quarter, I suggest you fax it instead. International calls are pricey."
"Tom, put down the champagne first," Takuya said, his voice completely serious as he twirled the phone cord around his finger. "If you have the Mortal Kombat sales report, you'd better grab two aspirin."
A two-second silence followed from the other end, and Tom's playful tone vanished. "What's wrong? I thought the game was selling well. Arcade owners were lining up to place orders."
"The problem is it's selling too well, and it's too realistic." Takuya stared at the glaring numbers on his computer screen. "I just read the comments from the review department. They clearly didn't tell you about the 'Finishing Moves'—where a player can yank a character's head off, spine and all, like pulling a carrot out of the ground."
"Americans love this stuff—violent aesthetics. Isn't that what Hollywood does?" Tom dismissed the concern.
"Hollywood movies have ratings. R-rated films aren't sold to six-year-olds. But our cartridges are now prominently displayed on Walmart shelves, easily accessible to toddlers who've just learned to walk." Takuya paused, then emphasized his point: "Imagine if a senator's grandson demonstrates how to rip out an opponent's heart and crush it at a family gathering. What do you think the senator will say in Congress the next day?"
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