Yuji Naka joined the group, and the three tech enthusiasts from different countries and backgrounds instantly found common ground over the silicon chips and code.
The atmosphere was electric, as if the sterile laboratory had transformed into a toy room overflowing with treasures.
Takuya Nakayama stood nearby, watching the three heads huddle together, muttering and occasionally erupting into exclamations only they could understand. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
This is the Dream Team I wanted.
"Managing Director, we've just finished the first prototype controller you requested," Department Manager Nakamura said, approaching with a roughly shaped gray plastic shell. "As per your blueprints, it has dual analog sticks and trigger buttons."
Takuya took the controller. It felt heavy and solid in his hand. He gripped it, his thumb instinctively resting on the raised left analog stick, and gave it a gentle push.
Click.
A crisp microswitch sound.
Takuya frowned and rotated the stick again.
Click, click, click, click.
The segmented, stiff movement transmitted directly from his fingertips to his mind.
This wasn't the silky-smooth analog stick experience he envisioned. Instead, it felt like manipulating a miniaturized arcade joystick.
"Screwdriver," Takuya said, placing the controller on the table and extending his hand.
Department Manager Nakamura paused, then quickly handed him a small screwdriver.
Takuya skillfully removed the screws from the back of the controller and pried open the casing.
As expected, the base of the stick was connected to a ring of microswitches—a simple, crude design, essentially just a reskinned D-pad.
"Department Manager Nakamura, this isn't right," Takuya said, pointing to the four microswitches. "This is a digital stick. It can only detect 'pushed' or 'not pushed,' with at most eight directional inputs. I need an analog stick."
"An analog stick?" Nakamura pushed up his glasses, his voice hesitant. "The kind with a potentiometer? But Managing Director, those are not only more expensive but also prone to drifting and have a shorter lifespan than microswitches—"
"Cost isn't the issue; user experience is paramount," Takuya interrupted, his tone firm. "Imagine the 3D games we're developing. When the character is running, a light push on the stick should result in a slow walk, while a full push should trigger a sprint. With this digital stick, the character would either stand still or sprint at full speed—there's no middle ground. Such limited control would make the gameplay far too simplistic."
He picked up the disassembled controller and shook it. "For a racing game where players need precise steering control, how would they operate this switch that only offers 'full left' and 'full right' options? I need linear input—an analog signal that can simulate force levels from 0 to 255."
Department Manager Nakamura didn't understand why such precision was necessary, but he had the virtue of taking advice. He immediately pulled out his notebook and jotted down: "Understood. Replace with a dual-axis potentiometer structure to support linear analog signal input. I'll arrange for the rework immediately."
With the controller issue resolved, Nakamura flipped to another page in his notes. "There's another urgent matter. Silicon Graphics has responded. They've accepted our customization requests, though they're holding firm on the price, which is still within budget. However, they're urging us to finalize the CPU instruction set plan as soon as possible, or the chip fabrication schedule will be significantly delayed."
"That's up to them now," Takuya said, gesturing toward the trio already deep in heated discussion.
By this point, Mark Cerny had completely taken over, dominating the keyboard.
"This R3000 prototype is stable, but its floating-point operations are far too conservative!" Mark shouted without turning his head as he hammered away at the keyboard. "We need to cut out those useless industrial instructions and free up transistors to accelerate geometric calculations!"
"Yu Suzuki, run the Model 2 test program. I want to see where the bottleneck is under full load!"
"It's already running!" Yu Suzuki replied, his eyes glued to the monitor. "Watch the memory bandwidth—that could be a problem!"
"Then widen the bus! Let those Silicon Graphics guys figure it out!"
On the screen, lines of green code cascaded down like a waterfall.
Takuya leaned in for a glance, but the screen full of register addresses and hexadecimal code made his head spin.
Stick to what you know, he thought. This is a battle of gods—a newbie like me shouldn't meddle.
Just as Takuya Nakayama was about to leave the Hardware Development Department, Yu Suzuki's voice called out from behind him.
"Wait, Takuya."
Takuya froze in his tracks and turned back.
Yu Suzuki still held the marker in his hand, but his gaze had shifted from the code on the screen to Takuya. He pointed at the disassembled controller on the table with his other hand.
"This so-called 'analog stick'... have you thought about how you're going to use it?"
"Didn't I just explain?" Takuya asked, puzzled. "For more precise 3D control."
"I understand the theory," Yu Suzuki said, pushing up his glasses with his usual bluntness. "But the only project currently planned for the Model 2 board is my Virtua Fighter 2. Neither movement nor attacks in that game require linear input. For fighting games, digital signals—0 and 1—are far more precise. Adding this analog stick will only increase the chance of misoperation. I see no practical need for it."
Yuji Naka, who had been watching the exchange while holding his coffee cup, nodded in agreement.
Indeed, for Sonic's 2D side-scrolling parkour, the D-pad was more than sufficient—even more agile than an analog stick.
And if there were ever a 3D Sonic game, a character focused on speed wouldn't need linear input either. Just full throttle all the way.
"So," Yu Suzuki said, spreading his hands and looking Takuya straight in the eye with unwavering conviction, "since you insist on pairing our new console with such an expensive input device, you need to give me a game that justifies it. A game that's either unplayable without this analog stick or one where the fun is cut in half without it."
Takuya chuckled in exasperation, turning to lean against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "Mr. Suzuki, I'm the Managing Director in charge of operations, not a wishing well beneath Tokyo Tower. Are you asking me to write a mandatory essay?"
"You could put it that way," Yu Suzuki replied without a hint of embarrassment, his tone almost matter-of-fact. "That's how it's felt ever since you took over. The limitations on your game development have never been creativity, but rather the hardware of the era and that damned code. Now that we're breaking through the hardware bottleneck and Mark and Yuji Naka are handling the code, all you need to do is pour out what's in your head."
The flattery was clumsy yet resounding, yet it carried the genuine sincerity unique to tech enthusiasts.
Even Mark Cerny, who had been working nearby, paused his work, swiveled his chair around with interest, and whistled. "Hey, Takuya, I'm curious too. What kind of idea could you come up with to push this analog stick to its absolute limits?"
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