The board meeting adjourned, and Director Hattori, clutching the gold-embossed authorization papers, beamed with excitement. He clapped Takuya Nakayama's shoulder, voice brimming with ambition. "Executive Nakayama, I'm off to Sunrise to hammer out the acquisition price and details!" He practically jogged to the elevator.
Back in his office, Takuya's door was knocked. His assistant entered, grinning, holding two new MD cartridges and a large Sony-logoed box. "Executive, *DDR* home version and *Phantasy Star* development are complete. Production can start anytime!"
The first wave of MD games was ready. Takuya connected a massive LD player peripheral to the MD, spread a custom dance mat on the floor, and powered it up. *Dancing Hero*'s familiar beat filled the office. Shedding his jacket and loosening his tie, he stepped onto the mat, testing a few moves. Despite lacking the arcade's ear-splitting volume and dazzling lights, the experience captured its soul. Satisfied, he nodded.
He called production. "Start *DDR*'s 'Champion Edition' production. Launch on schedule. For the standard version, stick to small-batch distribution with pre-orders." Hanging up, he turned to *Phantasy Star*'s cartridge, inserting it into the MD. The screen lit up with a cosmic backdrop and stylized "Phantasy Star" text, exuding sci-fi flair. The opening animation dazzled, showcasing MD's hardware prowess—spaceships slicing through starscapes, alien vistas breathtaking.
Takuya gripped the controller, anticipation fading to a wry smile as the story unfolded. The combat was crisp, balance solid, but dialogue boxes and character interactions felt stiff. Emotional shifts lacked buildup, conversations were bland, missing the melodramatic hooks that captivate RPG fans. Sega's engineers, masters of algorithms and effects, were craftsmen, not poets. A technically flawless game, but for RPG players spoiled by *Final Fantasy*, "flawless" bordered on mediocre.
He slowed his inputs, stopping the game. Hyping its story would only breed player backlash. He called marketing. "Scrap all *Phantasy Star* story and world-building promos. Focus everything on one tagline: 'The industry's first female-led RPG epic.' Use bold, avant-garde branding to grab attention." Next, he dialed production. "Cap *Phantasy Star*'s initial stock at 70% of minimum projected sales. Create a 'limited stock' buzz to protect market value and minimize inventory risk."
By June, Tokyo's humid rainy season cloaked the city. Two contrasting sales reports landed on Takuya's desk, confirming his predictions. *DDR*'s pricey Champion Edition sold out instantly in North America, the UK, and Spain, becoming a status symbol at wealthy players' parties, its social buzz outshining the game itself. Standard version pre-orders flowed steadily, the small-batch strategy dodging hardware overstock.
*Phantasy Star*'s feedback traced a sharp peak. Its "first female protagonist" hook and MD's technical brilliance drove strong first-week sales, but the hype crashed. Players agreed: "Great systems, solid combat, but the story's lifeless." It lacked lasting buzz. Takuya tapped his desk, relieved risks were controlled but aware this was a bandage, not a cure.
He pushed aside his *Totoro* game draft. A deeper issue loomed: Sega's team needed a "storytelling soul." The newly formed Star Ring Child team's urgency skyrocketed. *Phantasy Star* wasn't yet Sega's flagship RPG—its true pinnacle, *Phantasy Star IV: The End of the Millennium*, wouldn't shine until 1993. How could he forge a standout RPG for Sega and guide its "tech-bro" developers?
Takuya sank into thought.
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