By the time the sun began to set, Tetsu Kobayashi saw his father, Kentaro, return home from work.
Contrary to Tetsu's mental image of a stereotypical "IT guy," Kentaro didn't look frail or geeky. Though he wore glasses, he had a sturdy build and a sharp, confident demeanor. His suit was tailored perfectly—professional, but not stiff. There was a kind of aggression in his presence, a far cry from the usual quiet restraint of most Japanese men.
The Kobayashis were what people called "new immigrants." The family had moved to Brazil before the war, then later to the U.S., where Kentaro became a citizen. As a result, there wasn't much of that old Japanese reserve left in him.
Spotting Tetsu leaning on the upstairs railing, Kentaro casually waved.
"Oh! Tetsu. You're up early today. How's the jet lag? If you're adjusted, it's about time to go back to school, isn't it?"
"Yeah…"
Tetsu's tone was awkward. Merging two sets of memories hadn't exactly been an easy process.
In the boy's memories, his relationship with Kentaro had been… very open. A little too open, maybe.
After a deep breath, Tetsu decided to play along with the identity he now inhabited.
"Hey, Dad, how's work going at Sega?"
Kentaro's face darkened slightly—not because he was angry, but because it wasn't a pleasant topic.
"It's fine, I guess. The department I'm leading is responsible for hardware support for Sega's new home console. I'm only in charge of part of the work, so for now, the pressure hasn't hit me directly."
Without changing shoes, Kentaro flopped down on the sofa with a sigh, his leather soles brushing against the fabric.
Tetsu twitched.
Seriously? The dirt from those shoes was going straight into the couch!
Americans and Japanese really were polar opposites in that regard. Americans wore shoes everywhere, even indoors; Japanese took them off for everything—even classrooms that reeked of polished leather.
Kentaro, fully relaxed, continued rambling.
"How should I put it? Sega's new console isn't doing great. The reviews are lukewarm, and sales are even worse. The executives expected to crush Nintendo easily, but right now, we're falling behind—20,000 units in the first month, compared to Nintendo's 34,000. Clearly, we're losing."
He spoke casually, but Tetsu felt his scalp tighten.
Sega SG-1000.
Nintendo Famicom.
The names matched perfectly with the memories in his mind.
That meant everything he remembered—the history, the technology—was real.
The SG-1000 used a joystick instead of a controller. Sega had modeled it after Atari's design for the Atari 2600, thinking it would appeal to fans of American arcades.
Except… it was awful.
The joystick was tiny—barely larger than a modern computer mouse. Instead of smooth analog control, it was stiff and awkward.
Meanwhile, Nintendo's Famicom came with a rectangular controller—cross D-pad on the left, A and B buttons on the right, and Start and Select in the center. That simple layout became the blueprint for every major controller design for decades.
There was no comparison.
Nintendo had crushed Sega.
By 1984, SG-1000 lifetime sales in Japan wouldn't even reach 500,000 units. Later revisions improved things slightly, but the total series sold only a few million worldwide.
In contrast, the Famicom alone would sell over 10 million units in Japan and 60 million overseas—a total of 70 million.
A slaughter.
Five hundred thousand to ten million.
Nintendo dominated.
After a long silence, Tetsu asked, "Dad, what if you jumped ship? Maybe go to Nintendo… or Sony?"
Kentaro shot upright instantly.
"Jump ship? It's not that simple. I might have a chance at Nintendo, but Sony? What would I even do there?"
Tetsu stopped mid-sentence.
Right. Sony hadn't even entered the gaming industry yet. They were still obsessed with movies and consumer electronics.
In Japan right now, only two companies were making home gaming platforms—Sega and Nintendo.
Tetsu sat quietly, lost in thought.
There was no way his father could just quit. Sega had lured him back from the U.S. with a great offer—high salary, luxury apartment, company car, department head title. Jumping ship now would ruin his reputation.
"So what now?" Tetsu muttered. "Stick with Sega until they shut down the whole division? Guess that means… saving Sega is the only way left."
He almost laughed at himself.
"Saving Sega? Me? Yeah, right."
That idea sounded more ridiculous than electrocuting himself again to see if it would send him back to his old life.
Kentaro, meanwhile, was still talking.
"Sega's higher-ups are trying everything—price cuts, hardware tweaks, outsourcing new games to third-party developers. But unless we fix the core design, it's hopeless. I'll probably be stuck at the office most days. I'm management now, and they just brought me back from overseas—if I don't produce results, I'll lose credibility fast."
Tetsu nodded at first, then froze.
Games.
"Games," he repeated.
Kentaro nodded absentmindedly. "Yeah, games."
"…Hmm."
Tetsu scratched his cheek.
Maybe he could make one himself.
"I've got forty years of future knowledge," he thought. "The old me didn't care about finance, and I'm not exactly Japanese, but I do know vintage gaming tech."
He inhaled deeply.
"Alright then. I'll make a game."
He clenched his fists.
"To save Sega… I'll become a game developer!"
Kentaro nearly choked on his miso soup.
This kid… was he serious?
He pressed a hand to Tetsu's forehead.
Tetsu swatted it away, annoyed. "I'm not sick! I really want to do this!"
"…Is that so? Well, if you're serious, I don't see why not."
Kentaro tapped his fingers on the coffee table, thinking. "I don't need my car for now, so the garage is free. You can use it. I'll have some equipment sent over later. You can do whatever you like with it. But if you plan to hire anyone, you tell me first. I need to meet them."
Then, smiling, he slung an arm over Tetsu's shoulder.
"If you actually make something good, let me be the first to play it. Who knows? Maybe we can even pitch it to Sega's publishing division. You might become famous worldwide!"
Tetsu forced a smile.
"Worldwide? Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Dad. I'll settle for making one decent game first."
After all, Sega's console couldn't even sell in Japan right now.
If he wanted to make something work, he'd have to learn two skills first:
From Sony—how to sell the dream.
From Nintendo—how to bow low enough to make it real.