Takuya Nakayama slipped on his suit jacket and dialed his secretary's extension. "Book me the earliest flight to San Francisco. Also, tell Tom to have that big project ready for inspection."
June marked the release of Steven Spielberg's Jurassic Park. As a reborn soul, Takuya understood better than anyone the significance of this film. It wasn't just a box office juggernaut; it was a milestone that would revolutionize Hollywood's visual effects industry.
For the next year, dinosaurs would be nothing short of money-making machines.
Sega held this scalding-hot brand in its grasp. If they botched it, players' wrath would drown Sega of America Headquarters long before Spielberg could lift a finger.
Fortunately, Mark Cerny had been at the helm during the project's early stages.
Though this technical genius had been transferred back to Tokyo by Takuya's decree, tasked with burning the midnight oil over the Model 2 prototype and piles of MIPS chips, he hadn't left in a hurry.
Before Mark's arrival, he had already completed the game design for Jurassic Park and verified most of its core features.
Especially the inverse kinematics program that brought the Tyrannosaurus Rex and raptors to life—it practically squeezed every last drop of performance out of the Mega Drive's Motorola 68000 processor.
That's why Takuya felt confident in boldly transferring Mark to another project. The toughest challenge had already been conquered by Mark; the remaining tasks of filling out the levels and adding textures could be handled by the American branch's programmers, who had been thoroughly trained by Mark.
The sunlight in San Francisco was blinding, casting dappled shadows through the slats of the blinds onto the carpet in the office of the president of Sega of America Headquarters.
Takuya Nakayama sat on the sofa, toying with a black cartridge fresh off the production line. It felt surprisingly heavy in his hand.
This was the Mega Drive version of Jurassic Park, containing a shockingly large Read-Only Memory (ROM) capacity that would make the accountants in the Finance Department pale at the cost reports.
"To be honest, when you first insisted on simultaneous release, it was like you'd swallowed a steelyard weight and become stubbornly determined," Takuya said, casually tossing the cartridge up and catching it as he looked at Tom behind the desk. "My original plan was to use the Sega CD version as an exclusive for two months, leveraging the movie's popularity to force those hesitant players into buying the peripheral."
This was the successful strategy recently validated by Chrono Trigger: first satisfy the hardcore players with meaty content, then let the casual players have their soup, all while giving a boost to CD console sales.
Tom, who was busy adding his third cube of sugar to his coffee, paused mid-motion at these words. He looked up with a grin. "Takuya, that approach might work in Japan, or for RPGs that require slow, careful savoring. But in the United States? Hah, American players have memories that aren't much better than a goldfish's."
He picked up his coffee and settled into the single armchair opposite Takuya, his tone turning pragmatic and sharp. "Action games are fast food—they're all about instant gratification. Players just left the theater, their minds buzzing with Tyrannosaurus Rex roars. If you tell them, 'Hey, you need to buy a $300 CD console to play this' or 'you'll have to wait two more months for the cartridge version,' do you think they'll turn around and rent Terminator instead?"
The American market was as brutally competitive as a meat grinder.
The world's top entertainment products all clashed here, vying for a slice of young people's weekend time.
Fads are like wildfires in California—quick to ignite and just as quick to die out.
By the time the movie leaves theaters and the buzz fades, no one will care about a cold, outdated game cartridge, even if it's made of solid gold.
We need to strike while the iron's hot.
We have to get the game into players' hands while Steven Spielberg's film has their adrenaline pumping.
"So we created this monster," Takuya said, pointing to the cartridge in his hand with a resigned smile. "To avoid cutting corners, we somehow squeezed an enormous amount of data into this Mega Drive cartridge. The production cost is higher than Chrono Trigger's Mega Drive version, so we'll probably have to set a record with the price."
Normally, cartridge versions are the mass-market "budget" editions, with graphics compromises being the norm.
But this time, to preserve Mark Cerny's stunning inverse kinematics effects—so the dinosaurs wouldn't run like marionettes—we didn't dare touch the visuals on the Mega Drive version.
This means, although the Mega Drive version lacks the Sega CD version's CD-quality John Williams soundtrack, full voice acting, and movie-quality cutscenes, the core gameplay experience remains nearly identical. But the price had to go up accordingly.
"Price increase? That's no problem." Tom waved his hand dismissively, his expression calm and unruffled. "Look outside—the Soviet Union has collapsed, we won the Cold War, and Americans now think they're the kings of the world. The economy's booming, the stock market's soaring, and even gas station attendants have Franklin bills in their pockets. As long as the product's cool, shelling out an extra ten or fifteen dollars is no big deal to them."
That blind optimism was spreading across the continent, and the carnival of consumerism had only just begun.
"Sounds like I don't need to worry about overstock," Takuya said, standing up and straightening his suit jacket. "Let's go to Hollywood and see how Steven and the others are preparing."
California's sun baked the asphalt as the black Lincoln smoothly glided into Burbank, finally pulling up beneath the iconic arches of Universal Pictures.
"These Hollywood guys are guarding this film roll like it's the launch code for a nuclear weapon," Tom Kalinske grumbled, tugging at his tie as soon as he stepped out of the car, his voice tinged with exasperation.
As the head of Sega of America, Tom Kalinske was accustomed to bold and daring marketing campaigns. But this time, Universal Pictures had shackled Sega with layer upon layer of restrictions.
"No explosions, no screams, and they won't even let us use aggressive slogans in our TV commercials," Tom grumbled to Bernard Stora beside him. "They're even reviewing the content of our posters."
Bernard, however, remained calm and composed. He straightened his suit, embodying the demeanor of a classic Hollywood gentleman.
"Tom, you need to understand Steven's perspective," Bernard said. "This isn't just a movie. This is about dinosaurs—living, breathing dinosaurs." He gestured toward the heavily guarded studio building in the distance. "My friend at Industrial Light & Magic told me that when he first saw the rendered scene of the Tyrannosaurus Rex roaring in the rain, he forgot to breathe. Universal has staked everything on this. They won't tolerate even the slightest hint of cheap commercialization."
Takuya Nakayama, walking between the two men, simply smiled at their words.
He knew exactly what Universal was afraid of.
In an era when CGI technology was still in its infancy, Jurassic Park was a monumental gamble.
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