"Not only should the pay not be lower, it should be on par with technical positions. Of course, we can lower the overtime rate, since we don't plan to have them work overtime anyway," Takuya Nakayama interrupted bluntly. "This position is all about dealing with the fallout and cleaning up after those genius programmers and irascible artists. It's essentially emotional labor. If we don't pay them well enough, who would want to do this dirty, thankless work?"
Tamura paused, hesitating. "Won't this disrupt the salary structure's balance? Other departments might complain that the Development Department is harboring deadweight—"
"Let them complain. Tell them to come back and lecture me when their efficiency and per capita output reach half of ours." Takuya snorted coldly, his tone domineering and unyielding. "The Development Department is Sega's cash machine, the core of the core. As long as they deliver games on time, I'd even approve keeping cats in the office. I want efficiency, not some abstract notion of fairness."
He paused, his tone softening slightly, but his gaze remained sharp. "Tamura-san, do you know what I hate most?"
Tamura unconsciously straightened his posture. "Unpaid overtime?"
"That's just one of them," Takuya Nakayama said, leaning back in his chair. "I despise that outdated Showa-era practice of forcing subordinates to drink after work to supposedly foster team cohesion. How are you supposed to write code the next day after getting sloshed? Can you write game code while drunk? It's a waste of the company's electricity and manpower. As for the excuse that going home early will make you look weak at home, the salaries and bonuses paid to Sega's Development Department employees are more than enough to dispel that myth. Besides, spending more time with family leads to happier employees, which in turn leads to better work. You don't need me to explain that basic principle to you."
Tamura wiped the sweat from his forehead.
In all of Japan's corporate world, probably only Executive Director Nakayama would dare to speak such blunt truths.
Indeed, ever since Takuya Nakayama took power, the atmosphere in the Development Department had become a breath of fresh air—or perhaps a mudslide—within the industry.
No mandatory "drinking parties," no pointless waiting around to "read the air" for when the boss finally leaves.
As long as the work is done, no one will stop you from leaving at 4 PM.
There's even a rumor that a new mid-level manager tried to pull that "workplace bullying" routine, implying that subordinates would face consequences if they didn't attend the weekend golf outing. The next day, Executive Director Nakayama found out and immediately had Human Resources put the guy on unpaid leave, with the justification, "If he loves golf so much, let him play his heart out."
"We pay them to work, not to make friends." Takuya Nakayama stood up and straightened his collar. "If you want to drink and chat, finish the project, take the bonus, and go drink your heart out in Hawaii. The company will reimburse you. But at work, efficiency comes first. You can't work well if you're exhausted. Is that really so hard to understand?"
"I understand," Tamura said, closing his laptop. This time, his response carried a genuine tone. "This plan not only addresses the placement of our veteran employees but also frees up our core development team. It's a win-win. I'll immediately start drafting new compensation standards to ensure these seasoned professionals feel valued."
In those rigid Japanese conglomerates, veteran employees marginalized by outdated skills often have only one path left: being relegated to the "window tribe"—idling away their days, collecting a salary until retirement.
At Sega, these veterans were experiencing a second spring, even earning substantial salaries.
If this news got out, it would undoubtedly make many envious.
"Also," Takuya Nakayama said, reaching the doorway and placing his hand on the doorknob. He paused, turned back, and smiled. "I heard some former colleagues who were poached by Sony are privately complaining about the rigid rules and the constant need to entertain executives?"
Tamura froze for a moment before breaking into a smug smile. "There is some truth to that. I heard they even have to line up after work to bow to the Section Chief and thank them for their hard work." After being accustomed to our relaxed atmosphere, working there must feel like being imprisoned. Last week, a former programmer who quit contacted me through a friend, asking if he could return."
"That's good," Takuya said, pulling open the door. "Let them regret it. As long as Sega remains standing, these people will eventually beg to come back. When that time comes, these Technical Manager positions will be their last ticket home—of course, they'll have to queue."
The door closed.
Tamura gazed at the closed door and let out a long sigh.
He turned to gaze at the bustling Tokyo cityscape outside the window, the thought growing clearer in his mind: even without considering the young Managing Director's talent for game development, his skill in managing and understanding people alone was enough to make those old fossils sit up and take notice.
The position of Technical Manager wasn't just a title; it was a sharp knife slicing into the rigid, traditional Japanese employment system.
No wonder Sega's Development Department, under this young man's leadership, had remained so powerful and efficient.
Five days later, Oguchi Hisao knocked on the Executive Office door once more.
Unlike his previous disheveled appearance—sweating profusely and clutching a messy stack of fax papers—he had clearly taken care to present himself today.
His shirt collar was crisp, he held a neatly bound file folder, and even his gait had become noticeably steadier.
"Managing Director, here's the list."
Takuya Nakayama took the folder and flipped it open.
Twelve names were listed, each followed by a brief résumé and current assessment.
Oguchi Hisao's efficiency was impeccable. Not only had he shortlisted the candidates, but he had also thoroughly investigated their recent projects and personal circumstances.
Takuya Nakayama's finger paused over several familiar names as he scrolled through the list.
"Watanabe..." He pointed to the name on the third line. "If I hadn't seen this name, I would have forgotten the Hardware Department even had someone like him. He was the main force behind the audio chip debugging for the Mega Drive. What, can't keep up with the Model 2's requirements now?"
"Watanabe's technical skills are unquestionable," Oguchi Hisao replied objectively, without any personal bias. "The real issue is that his wife just had their second child, and his elderly relatives are unable to care for themselves. He's now shouldering all the household responsibilities and is often busy late into the night after returning home. He's severely sleep-deprived; I saw him pinching his thigh to stay awake during last week's meeting. Asking him to compete in overtime with those fresh graduates, full of energy, is simply unreasonable."
"And then there's this—Sato from Arcade Team 2." Takuya Nakayama chuckled. "I remember he gritted his teeth and took out a thirty-year mortgage to renovate his house inside and out, all to make it easier to care for his paralyzed elderly relative, right? People like him dread project delays that could jeopardize their bonuses. Assign him to monitor progress, and he'll be more punctual than an alarm clock."
Please Support me by becoming my patreon member and get 30+ chapters.
[email protected]/Ajal69
change @ with a
Thank You to Those who joined my Patreon