Back in his small apartment, Kenichi Tanaka closed the door, shutting out the outside clamor.
He exhaled deeply, finally free to resume his adventure.
On the TV screen, the pixel hero set out again.
Fully immersed, he explored the vast plains beyond Radatome, heading toward the unknown south.
New monsters appeared—stronger "Dracky" bats and fire-breathing "Dragon" creatures.
Each victory's experience and gold brought pure satisfaction.
He calculated the experience needed for the next level, planning to save for a new weapon.
The game's immersion and exploration washed away a week's work fatigue and the odd encounter downstairs.
But as he carefully maneuvered the hero past a formidable "Knight," faint sounds drifted from next door—Mrs. Sato's place. It was the game's opening music, interspersed with her clumsy explanations.
Tanaka's hand twitched, nearly sending the hero into the monster.
A strange, indescribable feeling stirred.
His secret, skip-work purchase was becoming a neighborhood social topic?
He could picture Mrs. Sato, controller in hand, eagerly showing a baffled Mrs. Kawai how to "attack" a Slime.
Sunday afternoon, his fridge's soda stock ran dry.
Tanaka paused his adventure to restock at the vending machine downstairs.
Opening the door, he saw Mrs. Sato stepping out, holding a scrap of paper with a crudely penciled map and some Japanese characters.
Spotting Tanaka, her eyes lit up, as if finding a lifeline.
"Tanaka-san, perfect timing!"
She hurried over, slightly sheepish but earnest.
"In the game, it says to find the 'Fairy Flute.' The map points to a southern cave."
"But I got to the cave—it's pitch black. Even with a torch, I can't find the way. Is there a trick?"
Her tone was as natural as discussing pickling recipes or laundry tips.
She'd fully embraced her "gamer" identity, assuming it was normal to seek help for game challenges.
Tanaka blinked, processing her strategy question.
"Oh, that cave needs the 'Sun Stone' to light up—a torch isn't enough."
"Sun Stone… where do I find that?" Mrs. Sato asked eagerly, poised to jot it down.
"Uh, that's later. You need to head further south to Maira Village for clues."
Tanaka kept it brief.
"Oh, I see! Thanks, Tanaka-san!" Mrs. Sato's confusion cleared, and she thanked him warmly.
Just then, her door opened again.
Mrs. Kawai stepped out, her face thoughtful, no longer fully bewildered.
Seeing Tanaka and Mrs. Sato's note-taking, she hesitated, then asked, "Um… the 'money' dropped by monsters—can you really use it to buy things in the game's shops?"
"It feels so magical…"
Her voice brimmed with wonder at the virtual world's rules.
Tanaka stood in the hallway, clutching a cold canned coffee from the vending machine.
The can's chill snapped him back to reality.
Facing two "newbie players" whose combined age neared a century, and glancing at his TV's waiting pixel hero, he realized this weekend's "solo immersion" had veered off-script.
From Mrs. Sato's direction, faint, off-key hums of the "Heal" spell lingered.
He sighed lightly, his lips curling into a faint smile.
The interruptions weren't ideal, but this odd "neighborhood gaming effect" wasn't entirely bad.
Shaking his head, he popped the coffee can's tab with a hiss and returned to his room, picking up the controller.
Time slipped into late June 1986.
Dragon Quest on the Famicom, like a boulder in a still lake, sent ripples far beyond expectation.
Newspaper social pages, housewives' tea chats, even serious economic talk shows began mentioning the "national RPG" phenomenon.
Long queues for game cartridges, kids chanting "Slime," and adults discussing strategies on commutes became summer's signature scenes.
Nintendo basked in this RPG craze's success and prestige, cementing its home console dominance.
Yet, amidst this sweeping tide, Sega didn't pause.
In late June, Sega arcades across cities unveiled new posters.
A fiery red Ferrari Testarossa, a blonde in the passenger seat, and the dynamic "Out Run" logo announced a new arcade hit.
Smooth pseudo-3D visuals, dynamic background music switching with routes, and the freedom to choose paths were technical triumphs.
Out Run's performance proved its cutting-edge tech and unique appeal.
At Sega's headquarters, in the AM2 team's meeting room, the air carried faint coffee and circuit board scents.
Spread on the table was Out Run's first-week sales report.
Yuji Suzuki nodded slightly, scanning the data charts.
"Revenue from Sega's arcade locations is stable, meeting expectations," a data analyst reported evenly.
A younger team member flipped through notes, adding, "Replay coin rates are high, especially for players choosing 'Magical Sound Shower.'"
"In Akihabara, some high schoolers kept playing to hear all the BGM tracks."
"And couples," a marketing colleague chimed in. "Weekend nights, girlfriends often guide from the side—or kick their boyfriends out to drive themselves."
"Shibuya's store had complaints—the blonde passenger isn't 'kawaii' enough; they want a Japanese-style beauty." Low chuckles filled the room.
"Ikebukuro reported a weird case: a salaryman plays one round daily after work, always picks 'Passing Breeze,' stops at the first fork, listens to the music, and leaves."
"The music's a clear win," someone noted.
But Yuji Suzuki knew this steady growth paled against Dragon Quest's explosive surge months earlier.
The media and public were fixated on that pixelated RPG.
Kids mimicked spells, housewives swapped tips, and train commuters debated the "Resurrection Spell."
Dragon Quest dominated the market's melody; Out Run was a refined side dish—praised but not the centerpiece.
Its technical edge felt… quiet.
Yuji Suzuki adjusted his glasses, fingers tapping the table absently.
Super Scaler tech's speed, switchable music, and branching routes were AM2's pride.
Arcade feedback confirmed Out Run's technical prowess and charm.
But the market was enchanted by a simpler, more direct magic.
Housewives weren't lining up for a Ferrari's thrill.