After a week-long rural retreat, Takuya Nakayama drove back to Tokyo, revitalized. The weary Sega executive was gone, replaced by a game developer brimming with confidence and creative passion. At Sega's headquarters, he brushed off greetings, locked himself in his office, and poured his Ibaraki inspirations onto paper. The draft avoided complex systems or metrics, focusing on heartwarming scenes and interactions.
He handed it to Yusuke Suzuki. "Suzuki-san, take a look." Suzuki scanned it, brow furrowing. "Cleaning Jizo statues? Helping tadpoles home? Takuya, what's the goal? Scoring? Clearing? Rewards?" The draft defied his game design instincts.
Takuya smiled, anticipating the confusion, and shared his vision with infectious clarity. "This is for *Totoro*. Its core is 'selfless kindness and the world's gentle echo.' No tasks, no rewards—just players' heartfelt choices. The world responds with non-utilitarian warmth. You've seen *Totoro*—doesn't this fit?"
Suzuki fell silent, rereading the draft, then meeting Takuya's clear, resolute eyes. He grasped it: this transcended the "task-reward" loop, chasing pure emotional resonance—bold and ahead of its time. His confusion turned to admiration. Takuya consistently redefined "gaming" from angles others missed.
As they discussed, the phone rang. Masanori Ito, Sunrise's president, spoke steadily. "Executive Nakayama, after careful shareholder discussion, we agree to sell Sega 3% of Sunrise's shares." Though small, Takuya knew this cracked open the door, securing a key piece of Sega's ACGN strategy. His "fanboy visit" had won.
That evening at the Nakayama estate, Takuya shared the news. Hayao Nakayama raised a glass, saying, "Well done," but quickly grounded the moment. "This 3% is just a foot in the door. What's your plan for managing external IPs and protecting our own, like Pokémon, from theirs?"
The question hit like a hammer, snapping Takuya to the deeper challenge. The next day, in Sega's boardroom, the Sunrise investment news sparked excitement. Convention suggested an existing department handle external IPs. Director Hattori proposed, "President, let my business division manage Sunrise's IPs—stable and efficient." Most nodded, seeing his steady hand as ideal.
Takuya stood. "I object." The room froze, eyes on him. Calmly, he explained, "Pokémon is Sega's golden egg, nurtured from scratch. Sunrise's Gundam and other IPs are their lifeblood. This 3% is fine, but what if we fully acquire Sunrise or others later? Mixing all IPs in one basket risks them claiming a stake in Pokémon during asset evaluations, inviting trouble."
The board, seasoned in business, saw the peril instantly. Takuya pressed on. "I propose a new, independent subsidiary, 'Sega Galaxy,' symbolizing our IPs shining like stars. Move Pokémon and future core IPs into it, keeping their assets and operations separate. External IP deals, like Sunrise's, will stay with Sega's main body, ensuring our core assets' safety and a clean platform for future acquisitions."
Hayao's eyes gleamed with pride—his son had not only heeded his warning but crafted a robust framework overnight. "Do it. Let's vote." The board, convinced, passed it unanimously. Hayao announced the subsidiary's formation and, to appease Hattori, appointed him its head. A new internal structure for Sega's IP empire quietly began.
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