With Directors Hoshino and Sugiura bowing their heads and beginning to liquidate their high-leverage assets, the financial risk that had once threatened to shake Sega's very foundation was finally, for the time being, resolved.
Only then did Nakayama Hayao and his son Nakayama Takuya truly breathe a sigh of relief.
The storm had passed.
Rejecting his father's suggestion to take a few more days off, Nakayama Takuya almost couldn't wait to dive straight back into the final development phase of My Neighbor Totoro: The Game.
At last—after countless sleepless nights and endless polishing—the game that carried all his promises and ideas, Bokujō Monogatari: Mori no Deai (Story of Seasons: Encounter in the Forest), was finally complete.
There was no internal celebration. Not even a message was sent to the higher-ups.
Takuya personally packed a Mega Drive console and a simply wrapped game cartridge into a wooden box, then drove alone to Musashino—to the Ghibli Studio.
At this time, the studio was immersed in an atmosphere of intense but orderly creation.
Everywhere one looked, there were setting sketches and storyboard panels featuring a little witch in a black dress, flying on a broom.
The air was filled with the soft scratching of pencils and the quiet murmurs of the artists.
The production of Majo no Takkyūbin (Kiki's Delivery Service) was about to enter its final voice recording stage.
Inside Miyazaki Hayao's office, the master of animation himself was buried in a mountain of original drawings, his brow deeply furrowed.
When he saw Nakayama Takuya, that air of stern intensity finally eased slightly.
"Finished?"
"Yes, Miyazaki Kantoku. I did my best not to disappoint you."
Takuya opened the wooden box, connected the special Mega Drive cartridge and the brand-new console to the office television.
As the game screen lit up, he handed the controller to Miyazaki.
Miyazaki stared at the strange, button-covered plastic device before him. His eyes showed a mix of curiosity and resistance.
He had spent his whole life working with pencils and paper. This was his first time touching a video game.
After a brief hesitation, he finally took the controller.
The game began.
Joe Hisaishi's music played—gentle and melodic—accompanied by the sound of wind and the distant chorus of cicadas.
On the screen, a small pixelated girl appeared in a lush, sunlit countryside.
Miyazaki instinctively moved the D-pad, and the little girl began running along a dirt path.
He saw the wind ripple through the rice fields, creating waves of green.
He saw clear streams where tadpoles swam freely.
Everything felt just like his own animated worlds—and yet, completely different.
Because this time, it was he who was driving the world forward with his own hands.
After a long while, Miyazaki finally put down the controller.
He didn't speak immediately. He removed his glasses, pressed his fingers against his brow, and let out a long—long—breath.
In that breath, there was surprise, release, and a quiet emotion that words could not express.
"Nakayama-kun," he finally said.
"The way you designed those small, unintentional encounters with the forest—the warmth in every moment of connection—I truly love it. It's exactly the feeling I wanted to convey in Totoro."
"And the game is easy to play. Even an old man like me, who's never touched games before, could enjoy it without difficulty."
He put his glasses back on, his eyes burning with intensity as he looked at the young man before him.
"It finally has a hint of what I'd call—art."
Hearing that, the massive weight that had hung over Takuya's heart for months finally fell away.
He smiled—truly smiled, from the heart.
"I'm honored that you like it, Miyazaki-san," Takuya said sincerely. "Though it's still a bit rough. With our current technology, it's difficult to express more delicate emotions. The expressive power of games still lags far behind that of film and animation."
"Still?" Miyazaki caught the word immediately, his curiosity ignited. "You mean someday—games could surpass animation and film?"
"Not just surpass them."
There was a light in Takuya's eyes—something from the future.
"Miyazaki Kantoku, imagine this," he said softly, guiding the master's imagination forward.
"We no longer paint a flat world. Instead, we sculpt a three-dimensional one using computers."
He didn't use a single technical term, only metaphors Miyazaki could fully understand.
"It's like when you sculpt a clay model of Totoro with your own hands."
"Once the model is finished, you can view it from any angle. You can cast morning light, noon light, or dusk light upon it."
"And this 'clay model' made of data can move—just as you wish—even down to the smallest gesture."
Takuya's words weren't rushed. Each one was like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through Miyazaki's heart.
"And the player will no longer be a spectator," he continued.
"They will see the world through their own eyes—step into the world you create."
Those words struck Miyazaki like thunder!
He clenched his fists instinctively, leaning forward. For the first time, his eyes—so used to seeing the world's every nuance—shone with disbelief and yearning intertwined.
Takuya went on, his voice carrying a strange kind of magic, slowly unfolding a picture of the future before him.
"At that time—"
"When the player stands upon the mountain you designed, the wind they feel will be the very wind you wanted them to feel—brushing across their cheeks."
"When the player flies the aircraft you designed, soaring through the clouds, what they'll see are the cities, forests, and oceans you created—"
"Even Laputa, the Castle in the Sky—right beneath their feet."
"The immersion brought by such first-hand experience," Takuya concluded with a faint smile, delivering the final, resounding note—
"—will bring forth an entirely new form of expression—an ultimate experience that belongs solely to games."
Miyazaki was completely captivated.
He sat in silence, dazed, as though a door to a divine realm had just opened before him.
Beyond that door lay the very dream he had pursued all his life—
a world where one could truly live within the story.
He pointed at the storyboard of Kiki's Delivery Service on the desk.
"This technology… could it be used for animation as well?"
"Of course," Takuya nodded. "For complex shots—city panoramas, or repetitive sequences—the computer could assist, allowing you and your team to focus more on the creative heart of the work. For example, animating Kiki flying through a three-dimensional city—
you could set a tracking camera, generate the motion automatically, and still adjust it freely."
"It could even create animated films with real depth—true 3D animation."
"Viewers could wear special polarized lenses and perceive real depth—distance, speed, and space. The immersion would surpass any flat screen projection. It would feel as if a little girl on a broom were flying straight toward you—right above your head."
"That sense of depth—that's also part of what we call 3D technology."
Miyazaki fell silent.
He picked up a drawing of Kiki flying over the city and stared at it for a long time.
After what felt like an eternity, he spoke in a voice that sounded almost like a dream.
"When the technology matures… promise you'll tell me."
"If—if it can really achieve what you've described…"
He smiled faintly.
"Then this old man might just have to start learning all over again."
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