On a weekend in Akihabara, the streets pulsed with the heat of bustling crowds.
At the entrance of Sega's Arcade Hall No. 1, the scene was strikingly different from usual.
Gone was the sea of male faces. Among the throng, young women in groups stood out, their chatter lively as they headed straight for the new machines—the arcade version of Tetris.
Vivid blocks fell on the screens, accompanied by crisp, pleasing clear sounds, instantly capturing their attention. The area, once dominated by gunfire, explosions, and roaring engines, was now filled with Eastern European electronic melodies.
The girls waiting in line radiated excitement and curiosity, chattering about strategies or gasping at friends' missteps, contrasting sharply with the serious, hardcore players nearby.
"Oh no, you misplaced the long piece!"
"Look at me, I got a four-line clear!"
"The next one's a Z-shape, save a spot!"
Their cheerful voices replaced the usual joystick clacks, button smashes, and intense game soundtracks. The liveliness was almost disruptive.
A few chain-smoking, leather-jacketed arcade regulars glared at these "intruders," annoyed and baffled by the "childish" game. One guy even paused mid-cigarette, unsure whether to light it.
But soon, the addictive music and fast-paced, reaction-testing blocks drew their eyes. The grumbling guy found himself at the back of the crowd, tiptoeing to watch, engrossed.
Nearby, young men hooked on Space Harrier's high-speed shooting were lured by the commotion, joining the onlookers. Their interest in the girls playing wasn't just about the game.
A Sega technician in a work uniform, patrolling the floor, grinned at the unprecedented scene. Women who typically ignored arcades were now arguing over Tetris turns. He jotted notes, asked about coin sales, and the figures he got made his heart race.
Akihabara's arcade ecosystem was quietly undergoing a profound, unprecedented shift, sparked by these Tetris machines.
The ripple effect of those colorful blocks spread rapidly within Sega, stirring waves.
The arcade operations and sales teams felt the impact most directly.
Feedback from partnered Akihabara arcades poured in, strikingly consistent—Tetris's coin-in rates were skyrocketing. Surprisingly, the surge wasn't limited to peak evening or weekend hours. Even typically quiet daytime slots buzzed with new female players.
"Minister, Arcade Hall No. 1's Tetris daily coin-ins have surpassed Space Harrier!"
"Not just No. 1—major partner arcades report a 50% rise in female players!"
"Some say players come specifically for Tetris, or for the girls playing it, even boosting other games' coin-ins…"
In the office, phone rings, printer whirs, and excited, incredulous chatter mingled. This windfall came almost too suddenly. Operations staff, initially skeptical of the "simple" game, now stared at soaring charts with mixed feelings—embarrassment at being proven wrong and elation at the performance boom.
This surge validated Takuya's strategy and provided timely market backing for his upcoming proposals.
"The Nakayama heir has a sharp eye."
"Who'd have thought a simple game could draw girls to arcades?"
"I heard he personally handled the rights negotiations."
"Takuya… Takuya Nakayama…"
His name began circulating within Sega, especially among younger staff.
No longer just "the president's son," he was now tied to "keen insight" and "sharp market sense."
Some jokingly called it the "Takuya Effect," crediting him with reshaping arcade demographics.
Skeptical mid- and senior-level managers, who once saw him as a "parachuted" figurehead, now reconsidered.
Tetris's success wasn't luck—it reflected a precise grasp of market gaps.
Insiders learned Takuya's role in the Tetris rights talks wasn't just "lucky." He offered practical suggestions, avoided stealing credit, and showed negotiation skills and decisiveness beyond his years, hinting at his "prince" stature.
The upcoming "team leader-level game development seminar" took on unusual weight.
Typically a forum for progress reports and project discussions, this time, several rarely seen senior executives planned to attend, creating an unusual atmosphere.
"I heard President Nakayama's son, Takuya, will pitch new game proposals?"
"Seems so. I heard the president specifically asked to take his ideas seriously."
"What ideas could he have? Just leveraging his dad's position to shine?"
"Don't say that. Tetris was a hit—maybe he's got something."
"Hmph, arcade games are all the same. What new tricks could he pull?"
Rumors swirled with varied speculations.
Some saw it as Hayao paving the way for Takuya to build credibility.
Others scoffed, doubting his experience and ability to deliver valuable proposals.
Some, resentful of perceived nepotism, quietly planned to challenge him at the seminar.
The development department head, notified of the expanded attendee list with rare senior figures, felt subtle pressure.
He privately asked Hayao about Takuya's proposal direction to prepare.
Hayao only smiled enigmatically, saying, "Watch and see."
That brief reply fueled more speculation and anticipation among executives.
Amid the external buzz and undercurrents, Takuya seemed unfazed, diving fully into refining his proposals.
His office lights burned late into the night.