When the power button was pressed, no cheap electronic chime filled the screen. Instead, a deep, oppressive roar of a Tyrannosaurus Rex echoed, followed by the iconic symphonic melody of John Williams, the audio so crisp it felt like attending a live symphony concert.
This was the advantage of the CD-ROM format, and the confidence that allowed Sega to show off in front of Hollywood bigwigs.
"Try it, Steven," Takuya Nakayama said, handing over the controller. "Don't worry, the dinosaurs here won't bite your hand off."
Spielberg took the controller, adjusted his posture, and his slightly puffy eye bags seemed to tighten with his focused gaze.
On the screen, torrential rain poured down as the player-controlled character was deep in the jungles of Isla Nublar.
It wasn't just the visuals.
When a raptor leaped out of the bushes, Spielberg instinctively flinched.
The dinosaur on the screen didn't move stiffly like in those cheap games, but with a weight and realism that made it feel tangible.
Its tail swished, its hind legs flexed, and even the subtle shift of its center of gravity—all moved with astonishing fluidity, thanks to Mark Cerny's inverse kinematics algorithm.
"Wow, this little guy's ferocious," Spielberg muttered, his thumb tapping rapidly on the controller.
Ten minutes later, as the screen filled with blood-red letters spelling "GAME OVER," Spielberg let out a long breath and set down the controller.
He wasn't frustrated by his character's death. Instead, he turned around, his face lighting up with a discovery-like excitement.
"You've done it," the legendary director said, pointing at the screen, his voice brimming with admiration. "So many licensed games just slap my posters on the walls and have characters jump around in front of them. But this... this oppressive tension, you've captured the primal fear of being prey. This isn't just a game; it feels like fleeing through a ruined Jurassic Park."
This endorsement carried far more weight than any media hype.
The Universal Pictures marketing director, who had been watching from the corner with a critical eye, now lowered his guard.
Though he didn't understand code, he understood Spielberg.
The fact that this notoriously demanding director wore such an expression meant Sega wasn't peddling some money-grabbing gimmick, but a true game-changer.
Takuya Nakayama sensed the subtle shift in the atmosphere and spoke up, turning to the Universal Pictures marketing director. "Since the product is solid, can we revisit the budget constraints? Sega has allocated five million dollars for marketing, specifically to capitalize on the film's release. If we're hamstrung, we won't be able to spend that money."
This money was coming entirely from Sega; Universal Pictures wouldn't have to contribute a single cent, yet they'd reap all the publicity benefits.
Earlier, they'd worried that a subpar game might drag down the film's reputation. Now, that concern had been stomped into dust by the lifelike dinosaur on the screen.
The marketing director glanced at Spielberg, who was still lost in thought about the game, and received a slight nod.
"Alright, Mr. Takuya," the director said, closing the file before him. "As long as the approval process remains intact, we don't object to expanding your marketing efforts. Television, magazines, even the big screens on Times Square—go ahead and do whatever you like."
"That's more like it," Tom Kalinske said with a grin, the look of a hunter watching its prey get caught in the net. "Trust me, by June, every dinosaur in America will be roaring because of us."
The agreement was reached in that instant.
There was no need for tedious negotiations; both sides simply recognized the merit of the proposed content.
On a mid-May morning in San Francisco, the fog had yet to dissipate. Takuya Nakayama had just tossed a schedule for the Jurassic Park promotional tour onto his bedside table when his phone rang shrilly.
Answering the call, he didn't hear the expected grumbling from an executive at the American branch, but instead Tanaka's barely containable excitement, with the background noise of Cantonese street vendors faintly audible.
"Managing Director, just as you predicted!"
Takuya rubbed his throbbing temples and glanced at the clock on the wall—it was 10 a.m. His time, that meant it was already evening in Hong Kong. "Tanaka, if you're calling me across the Pacific to wake me up just because you had a good bowl of wonton noodles, your quarterly bonus is gone."
"How could you think that?! It's about that shipment!" Tanaka clearly didn't pick up on his boss's morning grumpiness, his words spitting out like a machine gun. "Nine-Tattooed Dragon just released those hundred Mega Drives and a thousand game cartridges. They didn't even make it out of Guangdong Province—they were snapped up in Shenzhen and Dongguan. Those guys aren't selling them; they're all using them for 'rent extraction'!"
Takuya leaned back against the headboard, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Just as he'd anticipated.
"Tell me the specifics," he said.
"The current model is practically blooming everywhere," Tanaka said, flipping through his notepad, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Nearby shops—convenience stores, stationery shops—the owners just hide the machines in the back room, set up a TV, and they've got a money-making machine. The moment the school bell rings, students ditch their meals, clutch their crumpled change, and line up. A hundred yen for thirty minutes, fifty yen for fifteen—the business is terrifyingly brisk. On weekends, the machines don't even get a chance to cool down—they run nonstop from morning till night. Word is, some shopkeepers are seeing a significant boost in their overall sales thanks to these machines alone."
"As for the pool halls and video rental shops, which usually only did decent business at night, now they've got two Mega Drives and people lingering all day. They're buying soda and cigarettes to play games, and the shop's overall turnover is skyrocketing."
The shopkeepers who had been watching from the sidelines now saw their peers counting their profits, their eyes turning red with envy as they swarmed the Nine-Tattooed Dragon's subordinates, demanding machines.
Takuya chuckled softly. "This is the embryonic form of what they call the 'attention economy.' Even if the machines themselves don't make much money, just keeping people engaged will naturally bring in revenue."
"Even more interesting is the Nine-Tattooed Dragon's attitude," Tanaka said, lowering his voice and adopting a peculiar tone. "That Triad boss is now much friendlier toward us. Many of his subordinates fled from the mainland and still have impoverished relatives back home. This time, Nine-Tattooed Dragon had them ship the machines back to their hometowns, where relatives could open shops and collect rent. No need for violence, and their families can finally earn money with their heads held high. Now those subordinates are utterly devoted to Nine-Tattooed Dragon; you couldn't drive them away even if you tried."
"Before, giving them money was like feeding dogs," Takuya mused. "Now, giving them business is like nurturing loyal retainers. Nine-Tattooed Dragon is a clever man. He knows this trade is steadier than collecting protection fees." He retrieved a cigarette case from the bedside table, pulled out a cigarette, and tucked it between his lips. "What about the localization efforts? That's the real key to expanding Sega's influence."
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