Kyoto, Nintendo Headquarters.
The excitement filling Sega's headquarters had, here, condensed into a suffocating tension.
Ever since Nintendo decided to downplay the Game Boy's performance, Gunpei Yokoi's days had become miserable.
The once-busy Game Boy development office was now nearly deserted, with only a handful of people remaining behind.
Most of the developers — along with the equipment — had been reassigned directly to the main SFC development division.
As the head of the Game Boy department, Yokoi now looked more like a commander without troops. His daily work consisted of sorting through trivial documents and staring blankly out the window.
The young engineers who once surrounded him, calling him "Mr. Yokoi" with respect, now only gave a hurried bow in the corridor, avoiding eye contact as if fearing any association with him might harm their futures in the SFC project.
That's how it was — failure branded you with an invisible mark.
And all of this was observed keenly by Ken Kutaragi.
As Sony's technical representative, he had been visiting Nintendo Headquarters frequently to coordinate the integration of Sony's sound chip for the SFC.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Yokoi," Kutaragi greeted politely as he passed the dispirited man in the hallway, offering a professional smile and a slight bow.
"Ah, Mr. Kutaragi," Yokoi replied with a forced smile.
As they brushed shoulders, a sharp glint flashed behind Kutaragi's glasses.
He could see it — resentment was quietly brewing within this building.
Those engineers who had been "exiled" from the Game Boy project to the SFC team were the perfect opening.
In Japanese corporate culture, when teams are restructured, internal friction and rivalry tend to appear easily.
Isolation, forgotten achievements, and unrecognized talent — all of it made perfect fuel for defection.
After several "coincidental" lunches and "chance" encounters in the smoking area, Kutaragi and his Sony engineers soon became friendly with several former members of the Game Boy team.
A few drinks later, some well-placed compliments — "Your skills are wasted on something like the Game Boy" — and a few gripes like "President Yamauchi always turns his back the moment something fails," easily loosened their tongues.
A napkin filled with key parameters was quietly slipped into Kutaragi's briefcase.
Back at his hotel, he unfolded the crumpled napkin, his eyes blazing.
"Dual PPU architecture… co-processor… 2 megabits of memory… color output four times higher than the MD!"
Sony's engineers crowded around, their eyes fixed on the specs.
They had already dissected the MD inside and out — by 1989, it was starting to look outdated.
Nintendo's planned SFC configuration, on the other hand, was luxurious — a machine designed to crush the MD completely.
"Nintendo really went all-in this time," one Sony engineer muttered.
"The skeleton is solid," Kutaragi said, tapping the specs thoughtfully. Then his brow furrowed. "But where's the soul?"
Hardware specs were easy to copy. What truly mattered — the system architecture and the development environment that powered it — remained top-secret.
Those secrets were firmly in the hands of Nintendo veterans like Masayuki Uemura and Genyo Takeda — far beyond the reach of a few disheartened engineers.
Sony's subtle probing soon drew suspicion.
Inside the president's office—
"President, Sony's people have been asking too many questions lately," Takeda said seriously. "They're showing abnormal interest in the system's foundations."
Hiroshi Yamauchi sat grimly, his fingers tapping the desk in a slow, heavy rhythm.
He knew Sony was up to something — but he had no proof.
Kick Sony out?
The thought flashed across his mind — then he dismissed it immediately.
Severing ties with a giant like Sony would bring no end of trouble. Worse, it would fatally delay the SFC's development progress.
Nintendo excelled at making software, but when it came to pure hardware research, they couldn't manage without Sony's technical support.
He needed Sony's power — to build a console that could completely dominate the MD and wash away the humiliation brought by both the MD and the Game Boy.
But this was a dangerous partnership — the wolf helping you hunt while eyeing your child in the cradle.
"Let them continue," Yamauchi said finally, his voice dry and cold, squeezed out between his teeth.
"President?" Takeda looked surprised.
Yamauchi raised his head slowly. His eyes burned with restrained fury — and ruthless resolve.
"Keep them close. Don't let them touch the core. Until the SFC is complete, this dog stays on the leash."
Meanwhile, as the quiet struggle between Nintendo and Sony brewed, the latest sales report for the GamePocket lay on Yamauchi's desk — its numbers crushing the Game Boy beyond recovery.
The momentum of the handheld war was firmly in Sega's hands.
"The follow-up releases and marketing— proceed as planned," said Takuya Nakayama, closing the report and speaking to his secretary in a relaxed tone.
The battle was won. He could finally step away from business warfare and devote himself fully to developing My Neighbor Totoro: The Game.
Studio Ghibli.
Takuya Nakayama sat nervously across from Hayao Miyazaki. Between them lay a thick stack of design documents — the third version, revised and refined after days of reworking.
Miyazaki said nothing. Wearing his reading glasses, he flipped through the pages slowly, cigarette smoke curling around his weathered face, half-obscured by the haze.
Toshio Suzuki, sitting nearby with a cup of tea, tried to ease the tension — but a single sharp glance from Miyazaki shut him up.
"When the child wipes the dust off the Jizo statue, the next rainy day the lotus leaf above will shield them from the rain," Miyazaki finally said hoarsely, tapping the sketch with his knuckle. "That's a good idea."
Nakayama's eyes lit up.
"When the player saves the stranded tadpole by the river, a smooth pebble appears at their door the next day," Miyazaki continued — then suddenly pushed the papers away.
"But don't you think this feels too much like a transaction?"
Nakayama froze.
"I do something for you, you give me a reward — that's adult logic," Miyazaki said sharply. "Children's kindness isn't like that. They wipe the statue simply because it's dirty. They save the tadpole because it looks helpless. That's all."
"And here," he pointed to another page, "you made the girl chase a hat blown by the wind to discover the forest's secret. Too contrived! Too mechanical!"
"Why can't she just want to explore the forest? Or pick a flower she's never seen before? The story should grow from the heart of the character — not be dragged around by your 'mission system'!"
A barrage of questions left Nakayama speechless.
In previous meetings, Miyazaki's criticism had been gentle. This time, he tore the design apart completely.
Suzuki tried to intervene. "Mr. Miyazaki, Takuya-kun's new to this kind of game, he—"
"Silence, Suzuki!" Miyazaki snapped. "I'm only this harsh because I see potential in him! If it were anyone else, I wouldn't bother."
Then he looked back at Nakayama, his tone softening. "The ideas you drew from your grandmother's countryside — the fox spirits, the Inari legends — those are good. The roots are there. But the branches you've grown are too eager for results."
Nakayama took a deep breath. He didn't feel defeated — rather, he felt clarity.
He finally understood.
He'd been designing with a game developer's mindset — building systems of reward and feedback.
Cleaning the statue, saving the tadpole — they were no different from "kill monsters, get loot" or "complete quest, earn XP."
But that wasn't what Miyazaki wanted.
He wanted a world.
A world where players forget they're playing a game.
"I understand now, Director Miyazaki," Nakayama said, bowing deeply. "I was wrong. Thank you for your guidance."
Seeing the confusion vanish from the young man's eyes, replaced with clarity and resolve, a faint, almost invisible smile flickered across Miyazaki's stern face.
He picked up the manuscript again and tossed it back to Nakayama.
"Go rewrite it. Bring it back when I feel it's not a game anymore — but a story that could've happened in my own childhood."
Stepping out of Studio Ghibli, the sunlight was dazzling.
Nakayama stood by the roadside, watching children play in a nearby park.
"Not a transaction…"
"Grown from the heart…"
He suddenly smiled.
Pulling out his notebook, he turned to a blank page and wrote boldly:
"Delete all 'quests' and 'rewards.'"
"Leave only 'encounters' and 'feelings.'"
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