Early the next morning, after handling several urgent documents, Nakayama Takuya headed straight to the Human Resources department.
The pile of uninspired project proposals from the day before had made him realize something clearly: the problem wasn't the employees' execution—it was the source. From the very beginning, they had hired the wrong people, or rather, used the wrong standards.
When HR Director Kitashirakawa saw Nakayama Takuya come in person, he was both surprised and flattered, immediately standing up to greet him.
"Executive Director Nakayama, what brings you here personally? You could've just given us a call if you needed something."
"Director Kitashirakawa, have a seat," Nakayama Takuya waved a hand, cutting straight to the point. He picked up a recruitment document from the desk. "I came to see how we're hiring people."
Kitashirakawa's heart skipped a beat, but he respectfully handed over the detailed recruitment guidelines.
Nakayama Takuya scanned through them at a glance, his brow furrowing deeper with each line.
Just as he suspected—rigid, inflexible, lifeless.
Game planners were required to have majors in literature or economics. Artists had to graduate from fine arts academies. Programmers went without saying—computer science across the board.
This kind of by-the-book hiring might work in traditional industries, but in the ever-changing game industry—especially in an era where creativity reigned supreme—it was nothing short of disastrous.
"Director Kitashirakawa, let me ask you something," Nakayama Takuya said calmly, setting the papers down. "Do you play games?"
"Huh?" Kitashirakawa froze, clearly not expecting that question. "Occasionally… I play some of our company's products."
"What about Nintendo's games?"
A thin sheen of sweat appeared on Kitashirakawa's temple. That was a dangerous question.
At Sega, openly admitting you liked Nintendo's games was politically incorrect, to say the least.
He hesitated. "Well… I'm familiar with them, but I don't play them much."
Nakayama Takuya smiled and didn't press the issue, instead changing direction. "Do you know Shigeru Miyamoto from Nintendo?"
"Of course. His reputation precedes him." Mentioning the rival company's ace producer made Kitashirakawa instinctively straighten up.
"What was his major?"
"Uh…" Kitashirakawa was stumped. He'd never paid attention to such details.
"Kanazawa College of Art, industrial design," Nakayama Takuya said flatly. "By our standards, he wouldn't even qualify for an interview as a game planner. At best, he'd be assigned to peripheral or cabinet design. Do you think that makes sense?"
Kitashirakawa was instantly rendered speechless, cold sweat soaking into the back of his shirt.
A single example—Shigeru Miyamoto—had completely shattered the HR department's proud 'relevant major' hiring standards.
"Game development is creative work, not assembly-line production," Nakayama Takuya said quietly, yet every word struck home. "What we need are people who are passionate about games, who have ideas and unique perspectives—not stacks of pretty diplomas."
He stood up and paced the office for a moment before stopping in front of Kitashirakawa, his tone firm and unquestionable.
"These academic restrictions were set in the past, for reasons that belonged to their time. We won't dwell on that."
"But starting today, all game-development-related positions will remove major restrictions entirely."
"As long as they can pass our professional skills assessments, I don't care if they studied philosophy, history, or veterinary medicine—I want them!"
"Cross-disciplinary backgrounds often bring unexpected chemistry to our games. What we need aren't obedient craftsmen, but imaginative artists!"
His words fell like a gavel, plunging the entire office into a deathly silence.
But Nakayama Takuya wasn't finished. He picked up a pen and wrote a few words on a blank sheet of paper.
"Also, add a questionnaire to the recruitment process."
"The content is simple." He slid the paper across the desk. "Have applicants list their three favorite games and their three most disliked games, and explain the reasons in detail. No restrictions on platform or company—Nintendo, Namco, anything goes. The more they write, the better. I especially want to see what they find unsatisfactory about our own Sega games."
"What?" Kitashirakawa was genuinely shocked this time. "You want them… to criticize the company's products?"
This was unheard of.
What company asked applicants to openly criticize its own products during recruitment?
"Yes!" Nakayama Takuya said decisively. "If someone won't even point out our flaws, am I hiring them to flatter us? People who dare to speak frankly—and hit the nail on the head—are the real talent we need! No matter their background or major, keep those people!"
"Through this questionnaire, we won't just see a person's taste in games, but also their depth of thought and ability to express ideas. That's a hundred times more useful than a résumé line that says 'passionate about games.'"
He paused, then added, "Tell applicants that the questionnaire isn't mandatory. If they haven't played much, they don't have to write it. But strong, insightful answers will be considered in future promotions or opportunities to independently lead game development projects."
Seeing Kitashirakawa standing there dumbfounded, Nakayama Takuya softened his tone. "I know this will greatly increase your workload, but it's necessary. Sega's future lies in the hands of the young people about to join us. We cannot afford to be lax at the hiring gate."
Kitashirakawa took a deep breath and finally snapped out of his shock. Looking at the almost impossibly young executive director before him, his eyes were filled with awe.
At that moment, he finally understood why someone like Yu Suzuki would listen so readily to this young man.
This level of resolve and foresight was something old-guard employees like himself could never have imagined.
"I understand, Executive Director Nakayama!" Kitashirakawa bowed deeply. "I'll revise the recruitment policies immediately and present a new plan today!"
Nakayama Takuya nodded and turned to leave the HR department.
The first blade of reform had been swung. Though it was only a small change in recruitment, it signaled that fresh, vibrant blood would soon begin flowing into Sega's slightly aging machine.
But this was only the beginning.
Nakayama Takuya knew well that recruiting capable people was just the first step. How to change the deeply ingrained, rigid mindset within the company—that was the real challenge ahead.
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