Mid-March in Tokyo — the chill was finally fading.
In the top-floor conference room of Sega's headquarters, the presentation for the handheld console's launch lineup was underway.
On both sides of the long conference table sat the board members and heads of each core department.
Most of them were veterans who had followed Takuya Nakayama in building the company from the ground up. Yet today, not one face showed joy; instead, every brow was furrowed in worry.
The continuous bleeding of the arcade business was like a dull knife, cutting at everyone's nerves day after day.
As for the handheld project that was about to consume massive resources, they felt both anticipation and deep unease toward the unknown.
Takuya Nakayama walked to the front of the room and personally projected two gray prototype units' screens onto the display.
"Let's begin," he said calmly to his assistant.
The first screen lit up.
A wild roar and intense heavy-metal soundtrack, converted into unique 8-bit electronic tones, instantly shattered the suffocating silence in the conference room!
On-screen, three axe-wielding barbarians were locked in fierce battle against skeletal soldiers.
"Golden Axe…" murmured one director from the arcade division, his tense shoulders finally relaxing a little.
That game was one of Sega's most profitable machines in its arcades.
Next, the screen changed. Against the deep backdrop of outer space, an armored man with a jetpack weaved through a storm of missiles.
"Space Harrier," another voice whispered — another one of Sega's trump cards!
When the directors saw these familiar, successful arcade hits running smoothly on a small black-and-white screen — while still preserving their core gameplay and appeal — the tension in the room began to ease.
Many furrowed brows slowly relaxed.
So this wasn't just a pipe dream.
Sega's signature arcade games had already been fitted inside this tiny device. That first step alone calmed the board for the moment.
Noticing the change in their expressions, Nakayama motioned to his assistant to switch to the next demo.
Accompanied by a rousing background theme, enormous mechas slowly rose from the bottom of the screen, striking iconic battle poses before assembling at the center.
"This is Super Robot Wars II," Nakayama explained. "It's not a port — the participating robots and storyline have all been newly designed."
"Though the handheld's performance and display can't compare to the Mega Drive, we've kept the core style of its battle animations."
His eyes swept across the room.
"It will appear on commuter trains, during short lunch breaks, even under children's blankets after lights-out."
His words made many attendees picture those scenes vividly.
They no longer saw it as a "miniature arcade," but as a brand-new, omnipresent world of entertainment.
Then Nakayama picked up two prototype units and signaled to Team Leader Shimizu from the Pokémon project to come forward.
"Gentlemen, allow me to demonstrate the communication feature of this machine."
Nakayama operated his game character, sending a Kadabra into the in-game communication center.
On the other unit, Shimizu performed the receiving operation.
A virtual data cable connected the two screens.
The Kadabra turned into a stream of data that slowly "flowed" from Nakayama's screen into Shimizu's.
When the transfer completed, Shimizu's unit suddenly flashed with bright evolution light!
Before everyone's focused eyes, the creature's body elongated, its single spoon became two, and its gaze grew sharper — finally evolving into Alakazam!
"Communication evolution!" a director blurted out in amazement.
"That's the evolution from the anime — but realized in the game!"
Excited whispers spread throughout the room.
Nakayama and Shimizu continued showcasing other communication-related functions.
Then Nakayama raised the handheld and concluded:
"Our communication features are designed to create new topics and tools for social interaction among players. That's also the reason this game has two different versions."
"I believe its vitality will surpass any game we've ever made. This is a social fuse that will ignite an entire generation of young players."
The whispering turned into animated discussion.
One director eagerly raised his hand. "I propose we produce fifty thousand units for the first batch — we need to flood the market as soon as possible!"
That number would've been bold enough under normal circumstances.
But Nakayama slowly shook his head.
He raised two fingers — and spoke a number that froze the entire room.
"The first batch, I propose… two million units."
"Two million?!" The finance director practically jumped out of his chair, his voice cracking. "Executive Nakayama! Do you realize how much startup capital two million consoles — plus launch stock for six game cartridges — would require? The arcade division's cash flow is nearly exhausted! You're putting the whole company on the gambling table!"
"That's far too aggressive! Do we really need to rush this much?" another conservative board member objected.
Voices of doubt rose one after another — the room verged on chaos.
Through it all, Nakayama remained perfectly composed.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, raised his hand, and pointed to the cold, gray city outside — Tokyo still subdued under the "self-restraint" atmosphere.
"Gentlemen, what do you see?" His voice was calm but clear. "What I see is a perfect curtain."
"This curtain called 'self-restraint' hasn't just bought us precious development time."
His tone rose, brimming with confidence.
"It has cleared the entire market for us — and built up the players' hunger for something new!"
"When our rival, Nintendo, wakes from its silence and starts to prepare its own launch, they'll find that an entirely new platform has already captured everyone's attention."
Nakayama turned back, looking each director straight in the eye.
"We're not fighting for the existing market. Before they even react, we'll use two million machines to create a new one entirely our own!"
"Two million units aren't a risk."
"They're our first — and final — saturation strike to end this war!"
The room fell silent — pin-drop quiet.
Ambush, blitzkrieg, saturation assault — one bold, flawless logic chain.
Then, after a heartbeat of stunned silence, someone began to clap.
The applause spread quickly — scattered at first, then thunderous.
Except for a few cautious abstentions, every other board member voted in favor.
With the biggest production issue resolved, the atmosphere finally lightened.
President Hayao Nakayama smiled. "Well then, it's time to name our new baby."
"How about 'SEGA-GO'? Simple and clear!"
"'MINIMASTER' sounds powerful — Mini Master System!"
"'HANDY-GAME' emphasizes portability."
Ideas flew around, but none felt quite right.
"I propose we call it 'GAME POCKET,'" said Takuya Nakayama, drawing everyone's attention once again.
He smiled and explained, "It has two meanings."
"First, it's literal — a game machine that fits in your pocket."
"Second…" His eyes shone with quiet passion for the future.
"I hope it can be like Doraemon's four-dimensional pocket — endlessly bringing out new, fun games for players around the world."
GAME POCKET.
A game machine for your pocket.
Infinite fun in your pocket.
The name was simple, friendly, and full of imagination.
"Good! Then let's call it GAME POCKET!"
Every board member voted in favor.
The name passed — unanimously.
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