This clever approach, in the early days of the next generation when technology was still limited, was practically a genius-level game changer.
It preserved the freshness of the next generation while perfectly masking its technical shortcomings. It maintained the adorable visual style that was most fitting for Pokémon, without looking out of place.
"What about the gameplay?" Takuya Nakayama continued flipping through the document.
"It's no longer just turn-based battles," Eiji Ogasawara said, clearly more confident about this part. "We're focusing on adventure and puzzle-solving. The protagonist isn't a human trainer, but the Pokémon themselves. Pikachu can use its electric attacks to activate machinery in abandoned factories. Charmander can burn away thorns blocking the path. Squirtle can cross rivers or extinguish fires. Players will need to switch between different Pokémon, using their unique abilities to progress through levels."
The latter half of the proposal was filled with sketches of various level designs.
There were ideas like "sidestepping through narrow gaps" using the paper-thin characters' properties, using wind to blow the paper-thin characters to higher places, and even folding the entire scene like origami to create a path.
This isn't just a simple children's game; it's a masterful distillation of the essence of Dungeons & Dragons puzzles, all packed into a fairy-tale shell.
"The backstory is simple," Eiji Ogasawara explained. "The human trainer, the protagonist, gets captured by the villain, and the Pokémon team up to rescue him. It's a cliché, but it's perfect for our target audience."
Takuya closed the proposal document, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk.
These guys, through a series of fortunate accidents, had stumbled upon a truth Nintendo didn't fully grasp until the N64 era: when functionality falls short, compensate with art; when polygons are scarce, creativity fills the gap.
In an era where developers boasted about polygon counts like badges of honor, this counterintuitive "paper-thin" art style would stand out like a refreshing breeze.
Moreover, this aesthetic is remarkably timeless. Even after ten or twenty years, it won't feel outdated.
"Very well done," Takuya concluded.
Eiji Ogasawara let out a sudden sigh of relief, the flesh on his face trembling slightly.
"But I have a few requirements," Takuya said, raising a finger. "First, camera language. Since this is a 3D environment, scene exploration must be completely free, and perspective transitions must be smooth. Don't make kids want to puke after ten minutes of play. If you can't get smart camera following right, just lock the view to the best angle and give the right stick's control back to the player."
"Understood. We're planning to implement a semi-fixed track camera," Eiji Ogasawara said, scribbling notes rapidly.
"Second, combat feedback," Takuya continued. "Even though they're paper-thin characters, the battles can't feel floaty. When a hundred thousand volts blast out, the screen needs to vibrate, the sound effects have to be explosive, and when a paper-thin character gets hit, it should have that exaggerated snap deformation. I want the kind of satisfaction you get from watching an American cartoon."
"Third, and most importantly," Takuya leaned forward, staring intently into Eiji Ogasawara's eyes, "don't treat players like idiots. 'Child-friendly' doesn't mean 'dumb'. Puzzles should have depth, but the guidance must be intuitive. Don't use long text pop-ups to tell players what to do—use the level design itself to suggest it."
Ogasawara put down his pen and nodded solemnly. "We understand. Just like how Mario never teaches you how to jump, but you instinctively know to press A when you pick up the controller."
"Go ahead." Takuya waved his hand, signing his name on the cover of the proposal. "If this game is done right, it could become Sega's flagship title for all ages. Even if hardware advances through several generations, this 'paper-thin' gameplay concept could be developed as an independent branch for years to come."
Watching Eiji Ogasawara leave gleefully, clutching the proposal like a sacred decree, Takuya leaned back in his chair, feeling quite pleased.
So Sega finally has a development team that can compete with Mario in children's entry-level games, even without my direct involvement.
The next morning, just as Takuya was pouring the remaining half-cup of cold coffee from last night into the sink, someone knocked on the office door.
Rieko Kodama walked in again.
Takuya paused, setting down his Mark cup. "Didn't I approve the budget for Phantasy Star III last night? If you're here to request additional funding, this isn't the best time."
"We have enough funds. That's not why I'm here." Rieko turned sideways, revealing several men standing behind her.
The men looked vaguely familiar, but they all hung their heads dejectedly, as if recovering from a hangover. Their cigarette smoke was palpable even from two meters away.
The leader was a burly man with a full beard, currently staring at the carpet pattern like a chastised elementary school student.
"This is—" Takuya was momentarily taken aback.
"Makoto Uchida, a key member of the First Development Department." Rieko Kodama didn't hesitate to deliver a forceful slap on the man's back. Staggered by the impact, he reluctantly looked up at Takuya. "We used to work together on the Arcade Team. Beast King's Chronicle and Golden Axe were their creations."
Takuya suddenly understood.
No wonder they looked familiar—they were the heroes of Sega's arcade era in the 80s.
"What brings you here? To reminisce?" Takuya moved around his desk, gesturing for them to sit down.
The group hesitated, remaining awkwardly standing.
Rieko sighed, glaring at them in exasperation before turning to Takuya. "Last night, I ran into these guys at a izakaya after work, moping and drinking. After a few cups of sake, they were sobbing like children who'd lost their favorite toys."
"Keiko, stop talking—" Makoto Uchida's face flushed crimson as he tried to cover Rieko's mouth, only to be glared back into submission.
"What's there to be afraid of? If you're embarrassed, don't howl about it in a bar." Rieko Kodama crossed her arms, her words rapid and sharp. "Since Beast King's Chronicle, they've made two 2D platformers in a row, both with lackluster sales. Now that the whole company is aiming for the next generation, these old-timers who've grown comfortable with 2D pixel art are completely panicked. Last night, Uchida even told me he's considering resigning to go back to farming."
Takuya understood immediately.
This was classic "technological transition anxiety."
The helplessness and terror of former masters facing unfamiliar 3D technology could indeed drive anyone mad.
Especially when witnessing geniuses like Yu Suzuki mastering 3D with such effortless brilliance—the contrast was devastating.
"Farming?" Takuya looked at Makoto Uchida and suddenly chuckled. "Those hands are meant for coding. Wouldn't it be a waste to use them for a hoe?"
Makoto Uchida scratched his messy hair, his voice hoarse. "Managing Director, we want to learn, but our minds are like mush. Last night, we tried brainstorming 3D concepts, but the more we thought, the more it felt like forcing Golden Axe into 3D—it just looked awkward no matter how we tried. We... might really be outdated."
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