Winning this would revolutionize the film industry; losing would paint Universal Pictures' financial reports red for the next five years.
That's why they nitpicked Sega's marketing efforts, fearing the game developers would tarnish the film's prestige.
"Let them do as they please, Tom," Takuya Nakayama said, patting the American CEO on the shoulder. "This time, we don't need to take the lead. We just need to hitch a ride."
"A ride?"
"Steven Spielberg is the world's greatest salesman. When the movie premieres, media outlets worldwide will go wild over the resurrected prehistoric beasts. When audiences leave the theaters, their minds will be filled with dinosaurs, and they'll crave outlets for that excitement—anything related to dinosaurs. That's when they'll notice Jurassic Park, developed by Sega, prominently displayed on store shelves. That's all we need."
This was precisely why Takuya had previously wrested the licensing rights for East Asian dinosaur models from Universal Pictures and generously transferred them to Bandai.
It was a deeply calculated move.
On the surface, it seemed like Sega was simply doing Bandai a favor, helping them secure this lucrative opportunity.
But in reality, this made Bandai President Makoto Yamashina deeply indebted to Sega, even after Bandai had paid Sega a substantial sum.
Dinosaur toys were guaranteed to sell like hotcakes in the coming year. The more Bandai profited, the more Yamashina's allegiance would tilt toward Sega.
And when the time came to discuss a merger, this "dinosaur dividend" would be the final straw that broke the camel's back.
"Speaking of which, Bandai has been moving quickly," Takuya casually remarked. "President Yamashina called me just the other day. Their production lines are fully operational, and they've even halted some Gundam model production to prioritize the dinosaurs."
"A wise decision," Bernard commented. "Gundam models come and go every year, but real dinosaurs only return once every sixty-five million years."
As the three entered the conference room, the Universal Pictures marketing executive was already waiting, the table piled high with legal documents and review checklists.
Though restrictive, this "conservatism" was precisely the protection they needed.
Bernard had previously analyzed the situation with Tom, explaining that for a film destined to become a historic milestone, any flashy marketing would be superfluous.
Sega's strategy had to be steady—steadily capturing the massive overflow of traffic generated by the movie.
As long as the game's quality was solid, word of mouth would naturally spread.
On this point, all three present were utterly confident.
Although Mark Cerny had been transferred to Japan, the version he left behind—the Mega Drive version that used inverse kinematics to make the raptors' movements unnervingly fluid—was already a game-changing marvel.
At noon, the sun blazed down on Universal Pictures' glass facade, its glare almost blinding.
The conference room door swung open, and Steven Spielberg strode in. The legendary Hollywood director looked less like a tyrannical studio boss wielding a billion-dollar budget and more like a middle-aged office worker who had just run a marathon. His tie hung loose around his neck, and dark circles marred his eyes.
He bypassed the pleasantries, strode to the small refrigerator in the corner, grabbed a can of Coca-Cola, and with a sharp pop, pulled the tab and took a long, deep swig.
With a long, unrestrained burp, Spielberg slumped back into the leather chair and sighed heavily. "Thank God for caffeine and sugar."
Bernard Stora, observing his friend's disheveled state, couldn't resist teasing, "Steven, you didn't look this worn out even when you were filming Jaws and spending all day in the ocean. What's up? Are those talk show hosts tougher to deal with than mechanical sharks?"
"Much tougher, Bernard," Spielberg said with a wry smile, rubbing his temples. "This morning's interviews were like a cross-examination. The hosts kept trying to get me to reveal the full image of the dinosaur, while I had to cling to my secrets like a miser guarding his treasure. I had to tell the audience, 'Hey, this thing is insanely cool,' without showing them just how cool it is. This constant teasing without delivery is torture."
This "hunger marketing" strategy was a direct order from Universal's top brass.
The dinosaur was their trump card, and they wouldn't lift the dust cover until the moment of its grand reveal.
"However, not everyone buys into this mystique," Spielberg said, abruptly changing the subject. He crushed an empty soda can and tossed it into the trash. "These past few days, I've been hearing a few flies buzzing around my ear. Some columnists are dredging up old grudges, digging up the Atari E.T. debacle buried in the desert and kicking the corpse, saying that all movie adaptations make for garbage games." He implied that the Jurassic Park game would be a similar joke.
"Hmph!" Tom Kalinske scoffed, leaning forward with disdain. "No need to guess. It's definitely those gray-suited guys from Redmond. Minoru Arakawa only has this petty trick up his sleeve. He can't beat the Mega Drive in a fair fight, so he resorts to these conspiracy theories. Classic Nintendo tactics."
In the United States, the war between Sega and Nintendo had long since reached a fever pitch, with both sides' media black ops becoming a daily ritual.
Spielberg shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "Universal's PR team isn't to be trifled with. They simply presented them with the sales figures for your previous games, Urgent Crisis and Captain Hook. Facts speak louder than words, and those naysayers shut up immediately."
Takuya Nakayama, who had remained silent until now, gently tapped the black cassette tape on the table, his voice steady and confident.
"Steven, E.T. was a disaster because it was rushed garbage from Atari. This time, the game is being developed by Sega. Sega has already invested over a year into this project, and we won't disappoint you."
He stood up, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the room.
"Those of you waiting to scoff will soon find yourselves too busy picking up your jaws from the floor to even muster a laugh."
Spielberg, watching Takuya's unshakable confidence, felt much of his weariness dissipate, replaced by the unique excitement of a creator.
"I love your audacity, Takuya." Spielberg stood up and gestured invitingly. "Let's go to Universal's conference room. I can't wait to see what that Mark guy has done with our dinosaurs."
In the conference room at Universal Pictures headquarters, the curtains were tightly drawn shut, blocking out the blinding California afternoon sunlight.
Tom Kalinske skillfully connected the black Sega CD console to the projector.
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