The next day, in the garage.
Tetsu Kobayashi finally had everything he needed.
The equipment had been delivered by Kentaro's personal driver, Koizumi—a quiet man with a permanent scowl and the kind of face that screamed "ramen connoisseur." He dropped off the boxes without a word and left.
Now all of it belonged to Tetsu.
A soldering iron, circuit boards, insulation tape, cables—everything he could ask for. There was even a heavy 8-inch CRT monitor included.
That's right—eight inches.
Modern tablets would one day have 10.1-inch screens, meaning this television was actually smaller than a tablet.
And far heavier—impossible to lift with one hand.
Alongside it sat a full Sega SG-1000 development kit.
Development kits were essential—they provided both hardware and software tools to emulate the real console environment. Trying to develop without one was like shooting without bullets. You could solder your own circuits, but there was no guarantee the result would actually run on the target machine.
As for how much this kit cost—Tetsu had no idea. But it clearly wasn't cheap.
Without a father in Sega's management, there was no way an ordinary person could afford something like this.
By the 1980s, programmers had already moved past punch cards. Personal computers were becoming common—still primitive by modern standards, but capable enough for basic coding.
Sitting before Tetsu now was a brand-new Fujitsu PC-8208, released in 1983.
The "82" marked its development year, the "08" its 8-bit CPU.
It came with a built-in display and a horizontal desktop case. Every component inside was fixed—no customization, no easy repairs. Even opening the side panel required a special tool.
The world hadn't yet standardized the modular format we now take for granted—no swappable graphics cards or memory sticks.
The first standardized home computer architecture, MSX, had only just been introduced by Microsoft.
At this time, computers had no graphical interface. Everything had to be typed in via command lines.
Fortunately, Tetsu understood it all.
He opened the command prompt—then froze.
He couldn't type the first line.
Technically, he had everything needed to make a game. He could even do it alone.
In the 1980s, many hit games had been solo projects. Hardware limits were low, and expectations even lower.
After all, the notorious E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial for Atari had been coded by a single developer in just three weeks.
The game was terrible—but it proved that one person could build a full release.
Which raised the real question:
What kind of game should he make?
Before designing anything, he needed to understand the console's limits.
The SG-1000 was built using hardware from Texas Instruments. Its maximum output was 16 colors—not 16-bit color, but literally sixteen shades.
That ruled out anything visually ambitious. Games like Contra or Super Mario were impossible on this hardware.
Tetsu grabbed a whiteboard and scribbled down four points:
Core Elements of a Game
– Story
– Gameplay
– Depth
– Virality
Story – How emotionally engaging is the narrative?
Critical for RPGs. Think of players crying for characters like Aerith or Zhao Ling'er. That's narrative success.
Gameplay – How fun and replayable is it?
Games like Minecraft thrive on creativity; Harvest Moon keeps players grinding for that perfect crop. When a player willingly repeats a task for joy, the gameplay works.
Depth – How rich and explorable is the world?
Series like The Elder Scrolls or GTA invite endless exploration. A world worth exploring creates immersion. Without meaningful discovery, even an "open world" feels empty—like No Man's Sky at launch.
Virality – The social spark that spreads a game like wildfire.
Some games go viral not because they're masterpieces, but because they dominate conversation. Flappy Bird, Travel Frog, Sheep a Sheep—all simple, but instantly addictive.
Achieving even one of these made a game "good."
Two or more—and you had a timeless classic.
Tetsu leaned back, deep in thought.
"It's 1983… what kind of one-man project could I make that's genuinely fun?"
His gaze drifted toward the clunky SG-1000 joystick.
The game would have to work with that awful control stick—ideally something that didn't require multiple buttons.
"Contra? Super Mario? Forget it."
"Bubble Bobble? Zuma? Nope."
"Snake? Wait—that's already a Sega title."
"Pac-Man? Also taken. Namco released it in 1980."
Breakout clones? Ping-pong games? All old news.
Then, slowly, a single idea surfaced in his mind—one word echoing like fate itself:
Tetris.
Yes—Tetris was created in 1983, by a Soviet researcher just looking to pass time.
Under current conditions, that was the best possible solo project.
"Tetris is a great game," Tetsu murmured, "but if I'm making it… I'll give it a new name."
He uncapped his marker and wrote boldly on the whiteboard:
Kobayashi Puzzle
Then drew a massive circle around it—so big the line nearly ran off the board and onto the wall.
"This game," he grinned, "will be called Kobayashi Puzzle!"