With that in mind, Nakayama Takuya returned to his executive office.
Reforming recruitment was only the first step—bringing fresh blood into the company.
The harder challenge lay in the entrenched, rigid mindsets within the organization.
If those single-track ways of thinking couldn't be overturned, then no matter how many geniuses like Shigeru Miyamoto were recruited, they would simply be assimilated into mere cogs on an assembly line.
He turned on his computer screen and skillfully opened Sega's internal electronic bulletin board system—the BBS.
This system had been set up last year when the company connected to the network, as an internal communication platform. It had been given the rather grand name "Sega Academy," with the hope that employees could freely discuss ideas and progress together here.
But ideals were plump; reality was skeletal.
Nakayama Takuya scrolled casually through the latest posts: "Notice on This Week's Snack Adjustments in the Break Area," "Public Disclosure of Team-Building Expenses for the Seventh Development Group's Project Completion," "Technical Department Announcement on Updates to the C Language Function Library"—
The entire board was lifeless. Calling it an "academy" was overly generous; it might as well have been renamed the "Logistics and Technical Support Bulletin Board."
Discussions about game creativity or gameplay design were virtually nonexistent.
This wouldn't do.
Nakayama Takuya's fingers paused over the keyboard for a moment before he began typing.
He created a new post and entered the title: "[Notice from the Executive Office] All Development-Related Questions Must Be Posted Here from Now On."
In the body, he added:
"Dear colleagues,
To improve communication efficiency and spark creative discussion, effective immediately, the Executive Office will no longer provide one-on-one, closed-door responses to questions, ideas, or criticisms related to game development.
Please post all such matters directly in this section of the Sega Academy BBS, using the tag [Executive Game Discussion].
I will personally review and reply. If a question pertains to a specific field, I will also invite the relevant expert to join the discussion (for example, Mr. Yu Suzuki for arcade hardware technology).
The goal of this initiative is to promote knowledge sharing and invigorate the creative atmosphere within the company. I encourage everyone to participate actively and speak freely.
Additionally, do not fear asking 'naive' questions. There are no stupid questions—only the silence of those who dare not challenge convention."
Click. Send.
The instant the post went live, it was like a pebble dropped into a still pond.
The first to notice was Takahashi, a programmer from the First Development Department. He was racking his brain over a stubborn bug when a BBS notification flashed in the corner of his screen. Irritated, he moved to close it—but the bold title stopped him.
"[Notice from the Executive Office]—"
He read it word for word, eyes growing wider. Suddenly he leapt from his chair and slapped the partition beside his neighbor.
"Hey! Check the BBS! Executive Nakayama just posted!"
"So he posted something. Why the excitement? He's not some idol," his coworker muttered without looking up, though he still clicked over to the BBS.
Seconds later, the office echoed with shifting chairs and muffled gasps.
"Public questions? Answered personally by the executive?"
"You've got to be kidding. If I ask something dumb, the whole company sees it—career suicide!"
"Read carefully—he'll even pull in experts like Yu Suzuki. That's like raising your hand in class while the homeroom teacher invites the subject specialist to listen in!"
Soon every development office was buzzing.
Some suspected it was a performance, a way for the executive to spotlight underperformers. Others felt sudden pressure, as though unseen eyes were now scrutinizing their every move.
Rumors spread fast.
Well-connected employees quietly pried information from the executive's assistant.
"Heard the latest?" a planner whispered to a cluster of coworkers after returning from the break room. "Yesterday the executive rejected every single proposal from the newly promoted development team leaders!"
"All of them?" someone asked incredulously.
"Not one survived!" The planner made a sweeping chopping motion. "Word is his exact comment was 'conservative, dull, and utterly lacking highlights.' Thank goodness it came through the assistant—who knows what a direct meeting would have been like."
Everything suddenly made sense.
So that was the reason!
The executive was profoundly dissatisfied with the company's current creative output. This "open class" was his response.
He wasn't merely reforming recruitment; he was issuing a wake-up call to every developer in the building.
The post wasn't just a notice—it was a declaration of war against every rigid mindset in the company.
Seen in this light, the final line—"There are no stupid questions—only the silence of those who dare not challenge convention"—carried an icy sting.
Almost instantly, the online count for Sega Academy soared. Nearly every developer kept the thread open, fingers poised over the refresh key.
Yet the minutes ticked by.
The executive's post sat atop the front page like a solemn statue. Views climbed relentlessly, but the reply count remained stubbornly at zero.
An eerie quiet settled over the development floors.
Everyone pretended to work diligently at their desks, yet the minimized BBS window lingered in the corner of every screen, eyes darting toward it repeatedly.
Refresh—still 0.
Refresh again—still 0.
"Hey… think anyone will actually post?" a young planner whispered, nudging his neighbor.
"Who'd dare be the first to stick their neck out? One dumb question and the executive calls you out—good luck surviving here afterward," the coworker replied, typing furiously while producing nothing.
"But he said there are no stupid questions—"
"That's just polite rhetoric. You're supposed to read between the lines with leadership. Basic workplace survival."
Such hushed exchanges echoed in every corner.
Everyone felt conflicted—curious to see someone break the ice and reveal the young executive's true intentions, yet terrified that person might be themselves.
Then, amid the suffocating silence, a new reply notification flashed unannounced across every screen.
"1"
The glaring "0" had finally changed.
In the same instant, countless cursors clicked refresh.
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