Chapter 154 Whether It Adapts or Not
During a certain later period, the gaming industry was one of the most underestimated markets. In reality, it was precisely games—or rather, online games—that pulled the entire Internet industry out of the cold winter.
In 2001, while major websites and portal sites were all wailing and mourning, only online games rose like a sharp blade. Although the so-called "Internet Winter" appeared to be caused by the tulip bubble effect, its essence was the gap between the concept of the internet companies and the profitability they were supposed to achieve.
Games, however, were different. From their birth, they were consumer products, inherently designed to go after the players' wallets.
Of course, as consumer products, games naturally carried controversies—being called "electronic heroin," accused of "destroying youth" and so on—which often overshadowed their cultural output and communicative value. (In fact, I am quite familiar with the online gaming industry. I once wrote a novel about developing games and even joined a major group of top executives in the game operations industry and received considerable help.)
Since he had already stirred the winds with his butterfly wings, Su Yuanshan thought pushing the domestic gaming industry a little further was not a problem at all. After all, this market would eventually surpass a hundred billion U.S. dollars and account for about one-third the size of the semiconductor industry.
Furthermore, at present, the Japanese gaming market was not as closed off as it would be in the future. Seizing the PlayStation opportunity now would be the only chance for Chinese companies to step into Japan's gaming industry.
If they missed this moment, there would be no second chance.
Similarly, in the West, PC games were just emerging. If they didn't seize the moment now, they would be stuck eating leftovers later.
Therefore... Su Yuanshan didn't care at all whether domestic games could adapt perfectly or not.
How would you know if you didn't try?
Kutaragi Ken looked at Su Yuanshan thoughtfully.
He had a habit—whether it was a competitor or a partner, once in contact, he would carefully analyze them. And regarding Yuanxin, not only Sony but all companies involved in semiconductors and software were conducting investigations.
There was no other reason—Yuanxin's rise had been too smooth.
Or more bluntly, Su Yuanshan's vision had been too accurate.
The legendary story of Su Yuanshan investing ten thousand dollars in cordless telephone patents at a café in Silicon Valley had already become a favorite tale among investors.
Thus, Kutaragi Ken took Su Yuanshan's suggestions very seriously. Although, from his current understanding, other than Yuanxin, there seemed to be no real gaming companies in mainland China—or even software companies—he still kept it in mind.
"Mr. Kutaragi, please don't be offended, but I personally feel that the long history and so-called experience of gaming companies, whether in your country or in the West, may in some ways become an obstacle to their own progress," Su Yuanshan said directly.
"Oh? Why is that?" Kutaragi Ken asked curiously.
Su Yuanshan smiled and said, "The PlayStation is positioned as a revolutionary gaming console. It's like handing a new set of paintbrushes to developers. Those old companies that grew up in the eight-bit console era might find it hard to break free from their past habits. In contrast, newcomers who have no fixed mindset might be more likely to bring us surprises."
"Fixed mindsets..." Kutaragi Ken savored these words, then nodded: "Yes, what we need to give players are surprises."
Su Yuanshan smiled: "So personally, I recommend paying attention to domestic gaming companies."
"Are there really gaming companies here already?" Kutaragi Ken asked with a laugh.
"Of course there are. Give it a few more months and you'll see."
After sending off Kutaragi Ken, Su Yuanshan pondered for a long while and decided to bypass the Software Industry Association.
The domestic Software Industry Association had been established eight years ago, but after it was founded, it hadn't done anything meaningful at all—not only did it fail to promote the software industry, but it didn't even organize gatherings. It existed purely for the sake of existing, and wasn't even as effective as a company labor union—which at least gave out apples during the holidays.
Take this upcoming software exhibition for example: it should have been the perfect opportunity for the association to shine. Yet, up to now, it hadn't said a word.
Su Yuanshan compared the exhibition list and directly sent out invitation emails to more than thirty purely private companies.
Immediately afterward, he wrote a report to the Technology Bureau, offering several suggestions regarding the current preferential policies for attracting software companies to settle in the provincial capital.
After reviewing it several times, Su Yuanshan deliberately deleted the part concerning the high-tech industrial park planning.
These reports would be forwarded by Principal Zhou Zhanzhong, and he would carefully read and understand them, often expanding on the ideas and adding his own suggestions. Thus, there was no need for Su Yuanshan to write too detailed a plan—it was important to leave some space for the leadership to contribute their thoughts.
The hottest month of the year finally passed.
EDA had finally been successfully "sold."
Thanks to its monopolistic market position and the overall upward trend of the semiconductor industry, coupled with the strong launch of the general CAD software that worked perfectly alongside EDA's PCB design features, EDA's market value was directly estimated at 8 billion U.S. dollars.
Truthfully, Su Yuanshan was not very satisfied—because, even in the future, companies like Cadence, which occupied only one-third of the EDA market, had valuations of several hundred billion. Yuanxin's EDA had captured more than 60% of the market and had complementary CAD software attached.
However, since they needed investors, some concessions had to be made—investors needed room for appreciation.
Thus, Yuanxin sold off nearly 80% of EDA's shares, successfully turning from the majority shareholder to the minority shareholder. Meanwhile, the newly formed board of directors unanimously agreed to entrust voting rights to the founding team.
The new shareholders included AMD, UMC, Siemens, Sony, NEC, Motorola, Texas Instruments... Unfortunately, IBM and Intel were absent.
Thus, apart from ongoing collaborative projects, Yuanxin no longer had any real business ties or control over Zhiyuan EDA.
Having sold off EDA, Su Yuanshan finally put the long-prepared Yuanxin equity restructuring plan onto the agenda.
After weighing countless options, he decided to use the same method once employed by his old Silicon Valley employer: virtual stock options.
The biggest advantage of virtual stock was that it allowed employee bonuses to be reinvested into the company, serving as a powerful fundraising method when external financing was difficult. Even though Yuanxin currently didn't lack money, planning ahead was always wise.
The downside was obvious: the law hadn't yet caught up. If mishandled, it could easily get classified as illegal fundraising.
His old company had been sued by a competitor because of it.
At that time, they had been terrified, thinking they might end up imprisoned—until a senior leader personally intervened, saving them.
But now, Yuanxin had no fear of being sued.
Nevertheless, formal reports still needed to be made, explaining clearly the advantages and disadvantages of issuing virtual stocks.
Thus, in their family home at the university, Su Yuanshan slowly explained the structure to his father and his uncle.
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