"It looks like you've met your daily exercise quota," Takuya Nakayama said, pointing to the empty conference room beside them. "Put your things down and let's talk."
Oguchi Hisao paused, then handed his work to an assistant nearby and followed Takuya into the conference room.
He seemed somewhat nervous. After all, being summoned for a private meeting with the company's most influential and powerful executive would make anyone uneasy.
"I saw you ran through three different areas earlier," Takuya said, pulling out a chair and sitting down without any small talk. "How many teams are you currently managing?"
"Primarily, I'm handling Waga-san's racing project, plus two other teams working on arcade game ports," Oguchi Hisao answered honestly, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Occasionally, when the review department is understaffed, they'll borrow me to help review third-party cases."
"Juggling multiple roles, huh?" Takuya tapped his fingers lightly on the table, deep in thought. "How do you feel about it? Can you handle it?"
Oguchi Hisao forced a bitter smile, initially intending to offer the usual reassurances of "no problem" and "I can handle it." But as he met Takuya Nakayama's piercing gaze, which seemed capable of seeing through all pretenses, he swallowed his pride.
"To be honest, it's incredibly challenging," he sighed. "The development teams at Sega are somewhat fragmented, operating in silos with limited resource sharing. I've seen two teams argue for an entire afternoon over a single senior artist. Most of my time isn't spent managing projects; it's spent mediating conflicts, preventing the gears from grinding to a halt. Even then, mistakes due to miscommunication are common. Last week, two teams duplicated efforts and developed similar physics engine modules because of poor coordination."
He glanced nervously at Takuya Nakayama, worried that his complaints might make his boss doubt his capabilities.
But this was exactly what Takuya Nakayama wanted to hear.
He wasn't afraid of problems; he was afraid of people hiding them, pretending everything was fine.
The fact that Oguchi Hisao could identify these issues showed that his perspective had transcended mere execution. He was beginning to think about the company's structure.
"Reinventing the wheel and internal resource waste are common ailments in large corporations," Takuya Nakayama said, leaning back in his chair. His calm voice carried an unmistakable authority. "Despite improved communication within the Development Department, we still see isolated efforts and siloed work. We need a more coordinated, military-style approach."
Instead of immediately proposing a solution, Nakayama turned the question back on his subordinate. "If budget and organizational constraints weren't a concern, and you were free to prescribe a remedy, what would you do?"
Oguchi Hisao clearly hadn't expected such a direct question from the Managing Director. He subconsciously rubbed the toner residue on his fingers, a remnant from helping the planning team photocopy documents earlier.
"Managing Director, to be honest, whether it's me alone or a handful of managers like me constantly firefighting, we're only treating the symptoms," Oguchi Hisao said, his tone growing firmer as he carefully chose his words. "Today's games are simply too complex. What used to be accomplished by a few people in three months now requires dozens of people working for a year. To maintain development efficiency, we need dedicated personnel overseeing the process, rather than relying on whoever happens to be available."
He gestured. "Especially large teams like Mr. Suzuki's—we might even need more than one person for that. This kind of work requires dedicated roles and personnel. If you have someone managing the racing team one week and the fighting team the next, they'll do a poor job for both and get blamed on both sides."
Takuya Nakayama nodded, leaning forward. "Dedicated roles and personnel is a good approach. But this job is tedious, exhausting, and might even involve dealing with unreasonable demands from all sides. Brilliant programmers who aspire to be the next Yu Suzuki wouldn't want it, and the proud, talented artists certainly wouldn't either. Who do you think at the company would be suitable for this position?"
The question was somewhat pointed.
At Sega, the culture of technical supremacy was deeply ingrained, to the point of being almost extreme.
A role that didn't involve coding or designing, but focused solely on "hounding people" and "running errands," sounded like a demotion to a pointless position.
Oguchi Hisao fell silent for a few seconds, ruffled his messy hair at the back of his head, and forced a wry smile. "Probably... the older employees who've just become fathers, or those with heavy mortgage pressures at home."
Takuya Nakayama raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Explain further."
"This is actually quite realistic," Oguchi Hisao said, warming up to his subject. "Hardware updates happen so quickly. From 8-bit consoles to 16-bit consoles, and now to the Model 2 and the next generation, the technological threshold doubles every three years. Some senior employees who've been with the company for seven or eight years were great at assembly language, but now they struggle with the screenful of 3D algorithms and polygon modeling."
He paused to gauge Takuya Nakayama's reaction, seeing the young man was listening intently, before continuing. "Forcing them to compete with fresh graduates from top universities in algorithm development is not only difficult, but also inefficient. But on the other hand, these senior employees are invaluable."
"They understand the processes, the rules, and how to deal with those temperamental producers," Oguchi Hisao said, ticking off points on his fingers. "When new hires try to rush production, they get chewed out until they're in tears. But when a veteran goes, even Mr. Suzuki will give them some respect. They don't need to be on the front lines tackling the toughest challenges, but they can keep the logistics stable, freeing up those geniuses to focus without distractions."
"Moreover," Oguchi Hisao sighed, pointing to his dark circles under his eyes, "married people have a different mindset. They're not looking to make a name for themselves overnight; they just want job security and the ability to leave work on time to change their kids' diapers. If we can streamline project management, smooth out processes, reduce pointless rework and finger-pointing, everyone can avoid all-nighters to meet deadlines. That's more appealing to them than a simple raise."
Takuya Nakayama listened intently.
Isn't this the prototype of the "Project Manager (PM)" system that would later become standard in major game studios?
In this era, the Japanese game industry was still dominated by "craftsmanship" thinking. The lead programmer or designer often took on project management duties, resulting in burnout from both coding and managing people.
Oguchi Hisao, approaching the issue from the perspectives of family and veteran employee placement, had inadvertently touched upon a key pain point in modern corporate management.
"Sega doesn't have that rotten seniority-based promotion system," Oguchi added. "We promote whoever is competent. But new hires are inexperienced and easily influenced by office politics or cliques. Veteran employees are like Swiss Army knives—they're versatile and act as lubricants. Having them manage projects full-time not only breaks through their career bottlenecks, but also frees up developers like me from administrative tasks. It's a win-win situation."
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