After returning from Sunrise, Nakayama Takuya hadn't even warmed his seat when his office door was suddenly pushed open from the outside.
"Executive Director Nakayama, I'm back!"
The person arrived after the voice.
Yu Suzuki burst in energetically, his face carrying the healthy glow unique to someone who had just finished a long vacation, brimming with vitality.
Yet in his eyes, there wasn't the slightest spark of newfound inspiration—only a hint of idle confusion.
"Mr. Suzuki, how was your vacation?" Nakayama Takuya set down the documents in his hand and joked with a smile. "Judging by your complexion, I'd say inspiration must be overflowing."
Instead, Yu Suzuki dropped heavily onto the sofa opposite him, let out a long sigh, and completely slumped.
"Don't even mention it, Takuya," he said, wearing an utterly defeated expression. "I accompanied my wife through every department store in Tokyo. Right now, my brain is filled with nothing but cosmetics and women's fashion brands. Inspiration? What's that supposed to be?"
Nakayama Takuya barely managed to suppress his laughter.
This technical genius of Sega, after completing the groundbreaking Virtua Fighter, had been specially approved by the company to take a long vacation to search for a new direction.
In the end, he fully repaid the "family debt" he'd accumulated from last year's business trip to the U.S., but came back without a single new idea.
Still, this was exactly what Nakayama Takuya had expected.
For someone like Yu Suzuki, asking him to find a project on his own was like asking a tiger to stroll through a garden—stifling.
What he needed was a clear goal filled with technical challenges, something he could dive into headfirst and squeeze every ounce of his energy into.
"In that case," Nakayama Takuya leaned forward slightly, wearing an expression that said I knew it, "I happen to have an idea here. I wonder if you'd be interested in returning to your old specialty and making another racing game?"
"A racing game?" Yu Suzuki's eyes lit up instantly, and he straightened unconsciously.
He had always excelled at motion-based racing games, and now, with the monster-level 3D hardware of Model 1, the possibilities were entirely different.
"That's right," Nakayama Takuya said patiently. "But as for what kind of racing game, I'd like to hear your thoughts."
He raised three fingers.
"First option: rally racing, like WRC. Battling mud, gravel, snow, and harsh natural environments—testing the driver's adaptability and control over complex terrain."
"Second option: American NASCAR racing. Dozens of cars packed onto oval tracks, pure speed duels filled with raw power and steel-crashing destruction."
"Third option: F1—Formula One." Nakayama Takuya's voice grew steady and enticing. "The pinnacle of racing technology. A perfect blend of precision, strategy, and cutting-edge engineering. Every corner, every overtake is an extreme duel decided in milliseconds."
Yu Suzuki fell silent, his fingers unconsciously tapping against his knee as his mind began racing.
Rally? The environments were too complex. For Model 1 to perfectly render constantly changing terrain—and even weather—was impossible, not to mention all the scenery along the way.
American racing? Explosive and exciting, but all those collisions would be brutal, and the hardware demands would still be extremely high.
F1—
Yu Suzuki's eyes grew brighter and brighter, his breathing quickening.
"This is it!" He slapped his thigh and sprang up from the sofa, pacing back and forth across the office, muttering excitedly. "F1! Yes, F1! Fixed tracks, controllable environments, simple backgrounds—we can focus all of Model 1's power on the car itself and the sensation of speed!"
The more he spoke, the more excited he became, as if he could already see the final form of the game.
"We can create unprecedented smooth visuals and let players truly feel the lightning-fast rush of two to three hundred kilometers per hour!"
Watching Yu Suzuki enter full "technical fanatic" mode, Nakayama Takuya smiled and delivered the final push.
"Visuals alone aren't enough, Mr. Suzuki," he said, picking up a pen and quickly sketching a steering wheel on the paper in front of him. "We need to make players feel like they're actually sitting inside that priceless machine. We can build a full-scale cockpit and recreate the highly integrated steering wheels that F1 has just started using—complete with paddle shifters!"
"Paddle shifting! A cockpit!"
Yu Suzuki snatched the sketch away, his eyes blazing, as if he weren't looking at a simple drawing but at a gold mine.
"That's it! Exactly! Immersion! This is what 3D games are supposed to be!"
He waved his arms excitedly, all traces of his earlier lethargy gone, his entire body burning with creative fire.
"Takuya! I'm going to gather the team right now! Chassis structure, physics engine, and that steering wheel you mentioned—just wait for my good news!"
Before his words had even finished, Yu Suzuki was already gone like a gust of wind, leaving behind only a highly motivated silhouette.
After seeing Yu Suzuki off, new development teams finally began submitting their project proposals one after another.
Most of them, however, were merely variations on existing game genres.
There was nothing particularly eye-catching or innovative about their gameplay.
For a first project—whether due to inexperience or a desire for stability—that was understandable.
But some couldn't even manage a proper reskin, which seriously called their competence into question.
Nakayama Takuya immediately instructed his assistant to send all those proposals back for revision, demanding that they introduce distinctive features and avoid excessive similarity with existing market offerings. Otherwise, there would be no compelling reason for players to buy them.
If the next submissions were still homogenized, those development teams would first be assigned to assist teams whose projects had already been approved.
Additionally, game scripts were not to be treated perfunctorily. They could seek help from Children of the Star Ring. If a game turned out well and later became a series—or expanded into animation, manga, or other media—a strong script would provide far richer and more exciting room for development.
Only after issuing all these directives did Nakayama Takuya slump back into his executive chair with a look of utter exhaustion.
"As expected, talent doesn't just fall from the sky. It has to be cultivated slowly," he complained inwardly. "The decision-makers are stubborn, and the people below are just as rigid. No wonder Sega, in its previous life, never learned how to turn—this single-track mindset really runs in the bloodline."
He couldn't help but continue grumbling to himself.
"Tomorrow I'll go check the HR department and see what kind of hiring standards they're using. How do they manage to recruit so many single-minded people who think they're far more capable than they actually are? Honestly, it feels like a miracle that Sega is still alive at all…"
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