Leaving the hardware department, Takuya Nakayama returned to his office and checked his schedule. His watch showed perfect timing. A car awaited downstairs, gliding toward Suginami. The city's cold commercial towers gave way to lively residential streets. His destination: Studio Ghibli, a rising star in animation destined for legend.
A recent newspaper ad for *My Neighbor Totoro*'s upcoming release had sparked a bold idea in Takuya's mind, prompting him to have his assistant book a visit. Ghibli's modest two-story building was unassuming, easy to miss without its simple wooden sign. Waiting at the entrance was Toshio Suzuki, Ghibli's chairman—a sharp yet warm middle-aged man in black-rimmed glasses.
"Executive Nakayama, welcome," Suzuki greeted with polished courtesy, tinged with business savvy.
Takuya shook his hand, following him to a meeting room. Skipping small talk, he got to the point. "Mr. Suzuki, I'm here to discuss a game adaptation license for *My Neighbor Totoro*." His gaze swept the walls' animation cels, his tone brimming with genuine admiration. "I'm a big fan of your work."
Suzuki's eyes flickered. He knew Sega's business and what a game adaptation meant, but the final call wasn't his. "Mr. Nakayama, thank you for valuing our work. But this decision rests with Director Miyazaki." He stepped out to fetch him.
Soon, a man in a simple apron with a signature beard entered—Hayao Miyazaki, fresh from *Totoro*'s post-production. Suzuki gave a brief introduction. At the words "game adaptation," Miyazaki's stern face creased into a scowl. "No," he said flatly, cutting Takuya off. "Turn *Totoro* into a game? Let kids fight monsters, level up, or chase some pointless treasure? With all due respect, Mr. Nakayama, that's the opposite of what *Totoro* stands for. I can't imagine it, nor will I allow it."
The room's air froze. Suzuki gave a wry, unsurprised smile. But Takuya, unfazed, nodded as if agreeing. "Director Miyazaki, I completely understand your concerns. I expected this reaction before I came." His candor softened Miyazaki's ire, replacing it with curiosity.
"I never planned a game with fighting or violence," Takuya continued. Miyazaki blinked, and even Suzuki looked shocked. "Oh?" Miyazaki leaned forward, skepticism lacing his tone. "A game without fighting? Is that even a game?"
Takuya seized the opening. "Director, to better explain my vision, may I have the honor of reading *Totoro*'s script? It'll help me clarify my concept."
Miyazaki studied the young man—calm, not pushy like most businessmen. The script wasn't public, so he doubted Takuya could craft anything compelling on the spot. After a pause, he handed over a copy. Takuya read swiftly, his mind aligning the text with memories of the film's visuals. The story's essence—childhood innocence, harmony with nature, familial warmth—flowed through him. The room was silent, save for the soft rustle of pages.
Closing the script, Takuya looked up, eyes bright with confidence. "I envision a 'farm management and cozy daily life' game. The protagonist isn't Satsuki or Mei but a young adult, like them, moving from the city to the countryside. Inheriting a grandfather's old house and neglected fields, they start anew, uncertain but hopeful."
Miyazaki's gaze sharpened. "Core gameplay is reclaiming land, planting crops, tending livestock—cows, sheep, chickens, dogs. Players work the fields, feel the seasons change, and savor harvest's joy. They'll bond with neighbors, integrate into a quaint town, and grow to love this serene, fulfilling life."
Miyazaki's brow twitched, silent but attentive. "Where's Totoro?" Suzuki asked, caught up in the pitch.
Takuya's smile turned mysterious. "Totoro and the forest spirits aren't quest objectives. They're 'encounters.' While farming, players might find a peculiar acorn. Carrying it during a post-rain forest walk or a dusk field rest could trigger a chance meeting with Totoro or other spirits. They might even ride the Catbus. These are fleeting, magical moments—no tasks, no rewards, just wonder. Maybe the spirits gift a charming, useless trinket, or the Catbus takes them on a brief night flight. The next morning, it feels like a dream—until they see a strange plant in the yard, proof it was real."
His voice softened, dreamlike. "The game has no end, no 'clear.' Its goal is immersion in pastoral life, the joy of cultivation, harmony with nature, and warm, kind stories."
Takuya's vision painted a vivid, healing game world in Miyazaki and Suzuki's minds. Miyazaki's expression shifted from doubt to focus, then awe. As Takuya finished, silence gripped the room. Suddenly, Miyazaki slapped his thigh, eyes blazing with a creator's passion. "Genius!" he exclaimed, voice trembling. "This is the game *Totoro* deserves!"
Suzuki was stunned. He'd never seen Miyazaki, known for stubbornness, so moved by a game pitch. But Miyazaki's rigor kicked in. "It's a great idea, but can you execute it perfectly? I fear tech and commerce will dilute this vision into something mediocre."
Takuya, prepared, raised two fingers. "Director, to ease your concerns, I'll add two contract clauses. First, all story scripts can be reviewed by you—we'd love your direct input on some. Second, the final game needs your approval before release. If you don't sign off, it won't launch."
This unprecedented deference shattered Miyazaki's last defenses. His sharp eyes softened with pure appreciation. "Good. I agree."
The deal sealed, the mood warmed. Takuya pressed his advantage, smiling. "Director, if you're satisfied with the game's quality, I have one small request: could you introduce us to *Totoro*'s composer, Joe Hisaishi? Only his music can capture this game's soul."
Miyazaki laughed heartily, mood soaring. "No problem! Leave it to me!" Suzuki watched, awestruck. Takuya wasn't just a businessman or tech expert—he understood the soul of art.
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