Takuya Nakayama extended his hands, miming a grip in the air. "For the arcade cabinets, I'll have the Hardware Department create custom dual-stick controllers. Each thumb rest will have four buttons, and the index and middle finger positions will have trigger keys. This way, we can perfectly replicate all the buttons on a home console controller. Left hand for throttle, right hand for aiming—so you can really feel like you're piloting a mecha, you know?"
Several key team members gathered behind Shimizu to take a look, gasping in unison.
"This is way too hardcore! Can players even adapt to this?"
"Don't underestimate men's romance," Takuya chuckled softly. "The more authentic and hardcore it is, the more excited they'll get."
He flipped to the next page, pointing at the mode settings. "Considering the Model 2 motherboard's performance limits—even with a dual-CPU architecture—we can't render this high-precision realistic graphics and physics-based destruction effects with too many characters on screen at once. So initially, we'll only do 1v1 PvP and single-player story-based PvE. Don't try to do too much. Focus on perfecting the metallic textures and lighting in every frame. Even if there are only two mechs clashing, we need to make it feel like a Star Wars battle."
"As for the story..." The veteran scriptwriter hesitated. "We've made some progress with Gundam licensing, but those stubborn old-timers at Sunrise—"
"Sega is now one of Sunrise's major shareholders," Takuya interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I've already given them a heads-up. For this project's mecha design, I specifically requested Katoki Hajime."
"Katoki?" Shimizu's eyes lit up. "The guy with that distinctive, angular style? Right, his meticulous attention to detail and realistic proportions are practically custom-made for this game."
"That's not all." A glint flashed in Takuya's eyes. "The in-game mecha models must strictly adhere to the logic of real-world model kits. I've already coordinated with Bandai. Once the game launches, we can even have them release corresponding model kits."
The room grew tense, breaths quickening.
"And one more thing." Takuya flipped to the last few pages of the proposal and pointed at a rough sketch. "On the arcade cabinet, add a card slot."
"A card slot?"
"It's a specialized memory card," Takuya explained. "This game has a steep learning curve. Players spend a lot of time fine-tuning their mech parameters, upgrading parts, and earning achievement decals. If they don't save their progress, they'd have to start over every time they play. Who would put up with that? Besides, this memory card isn't just for saving games."
Takuya gestured, outlining a rectangle with his fingers. "Go to Department Manager Nakamura in the Hardware Development Department and have him design the memory card to look like a military ID tag—a dog tag. Metal casing, laser-etched text. When players enter the arcade, they'll pull the dog tag from around their neck and plug it into the machine. The screen will pop up with 'Pilot Login'—now that's how you create a sense of ceremony!"
"Whoa—" Shimizu gasped, slapping his thigh. "Brilliant! Wearing this around your neck would be a symbol of being a Mobile Suit pilot! This will drive every otaku kid wild!"
"We can even sell these as merchandise," Takuya added with a grin. "And we'll offer custom team versions. You guys know how to make money, right?"
Shimizu gazed at the young Managing Director before him, his eyes brimming with admiration. The combination of cutting-edge technology, innovative gameplay, immersive peripherals, and clever commercialization had everyone, even the developers, feeling their blood boil with excitement.
Tucking the proposal into his jacket, Shimizu clutched it protectively, like a dog guarding its bone, wary of the eager team members eyeing it greedily.
"Managing Director, this 'Dog Tag' memory card concept is brilliant!" Shimizu's face crinkled into a fawning smile, his features nearly squishing together. "Turning memory cards into status symbols? This isn't just a game accessory—it's an identity badge for those 'chuunibyou' teenagers! I bet this iron badge will be trending before the game even hits the shelves!"
The art director beside him nodded vigorously, pushing up his glasses. "Forget the players—even I want one to wear around my neck. Just imagine flaunting that badge while shopping in Akihabara! It'd be the ultimate street cred. Managing Director, can't we internal staff pre-order a few sets?"
"Enough with the chatter," Takuya chided with a grin, pointing toward the door. "Get back to work. Remember my standards—if the mechs don't feel right, you won't get another project from me."
"Don't worry! I won't disappoint your expectations!"
Shimizu straightened his back and gave a half-hearted military salute before turning and bellowing at his team, "Everyone, back to your groups and get to work!"
The group surged toward the door, jostling to be first out.
Just outside the office, Takuya could still hear muffled arguments echoing down the corridor.
"Team Leader, let me take another look at that joystick design sketch. I didn't get a good look at it earlier—"
"Get lost! Go back, photocopy it, and look at the copy. Don't wrinkle the original!"
"Hey, Team Leader, to get the feel for it, shouldn't we apply for some company funds to get a few Federation Army uniforms to wear?"
The clamor faded into the distance, eventually disappearing entirely as the elevator doors closed.
Takuya looked at the now-quiet office and shook his head, but the smile on his lips refused to fade.
These guys might be undisciplined most of the time, but when they catch the scent of a great game, they become a pack of tireless, frenzied hounds.
March arrived, and while the chill of winter still lingered in Tokyo's streets, the air in Akihabara Electric Town had already begun to sizzle with anticipation.
Overwhelmingly pink posters dominated the prominent displays of major shops, boldly emblazoned with Madhouse's logo beside Sega's iconic blue logo.
For the industry-savvy gamers, this wasn't just a poster—it was a resounding battle cry.
Sega's "Roaming Collaboration" strategy had become a gold-plated brand in the industry.
Seeing those words alone gave players confidence: This game is guaranteed.
While the types of games Sega produced through these collaborations might not appeal to everyone, their obsessive attention to quality control was unmatched.
For anime fans, however, "Sega" carried another implication: "money burning through the screen."
In the era of weekly television anime, the pressure of the serialization system had made rushed, subpar animation a common occurrence.
To stretch out runtime, some production teams would have characters stand motionless for three minutes of internal monologue, or two characters stare each other down for an entire episode.
Especially Toei, next door, which could stretch a single memory scene across half a month, their plot padding rivaling the worst cases of watered-down pork. Viewers watching these shows were tempted to smash their TVs in frustration.
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