Two days passed since Kentaro's last visit home.
In those two days, Tetsu Kobayashi completely rewrote the Tetris code. Even then, it still took over two hundred lines.
A professional programmer could probably write that much in a single day—but Tetsu wasn't a professional. He was just a hobbyist, so he didn't feel embarrassed about taking longer.
Besides, finishing the job well was what mattered.
Counting every semicolon and bracket, his project totaled exactly 7,166 bytes. One byte more, and it would exceed the cartridge's storage limit.
"Even though I don't have the final assets yet, the test sprites will do for now."
He turned the rough cartridge in his hand.
He had soldered it himself, using a cheap iron and clumsy technique. The storage chip was welded onto the circuit board in a lopsided, almost ugly way—but it worked.
That was enough. He wasn't a pro anyway.
Heart pounding, Tetsu slotted the cartridge into the console.
A low hum filled the room. The fat monitor flickered to life, static electricity dancing across his hair as the screen glowed.
Crude graphics appeared.
Tetsu clenched his fist.
It worked!
His version of Tetris—with seven unique blocks and the original rules—had come to life.
Under the warm yellow light of the garage, the cold monochrome display looked like magic.
He tested it.
"The controls feel good," he muttered. "No drop acceleration, no preview for the next block, but with the hardware limits… this is already great. Smooth controls are what matter most."
That was his definition of a perfect Tetris—fluid, simple, and satisfying.
The game had no story, no fancy visuals. Those were pointless. What mattered was that it felt right—and people would love it for that.
After playing for a while, Tetsu finally put the joystick down.
He was confident. Tetris would definitely become a hit.
Of course, he'd need the right publisher.
…
That evening, Kentaro returned. Tetsu intercepted him at the door.
"Dad, the game's done!"
Kentaro froze, eyes full of complicated emotion.
—No way. Finished in a week? It's gotta be trash.
—Probably unoptimized too.
—Maybe I should skip playing it…
—No, no, I have to play it. I should encourage him.
—But what if it's really bad? How do I criticize him without crushing him?
—Forget it. Even if it sucks, I'll say something nice.
Kentaro sighed inwardly but followed Tetsu to the garage.
One glance at the screen nearly made him choke.
It was 1983. Games already had color. Yet this—this was black and white.
Tetsu scratched his head awkwardly.
"I haven't had time to work on the visuals yet! I'll add color later."
"Right, right… later," Kentaro coughed, gripping the joystick, mentally preparing to make a quick escape.
It wasn't that he looked down on his son—it was just… the graphics were painfully simple.
"So, how do you play this?" he asked.
"It's easy! Blocks fall from the top. Use the joystick to move them left or right. The button rotates them. When a block lands, it fills up a row. Clear a full row, and you get one point. Two rows at once give you three points, three rows give five, and four rows—uh, same as three."
Memory limits had forced him to simplify the scoring system, but he still wanted it to feel rewarding.
Kentaro nodded and started playing.
The long "I" block dropped. He moved it smoothly across the screen.
"Hmm. Feels good. No input lag. That's actually impressive."
Next came the "T" block. Kentaro instinctively rotated it and dropped it neatly beside the line.
A row cleared.
"Huh?"
He leaned back, watching the score "1" flash on screen.
Interesting.
"Wait, let me try again," he said, rolling up his sleeves.
Before long, the middle-aged engineer was sitting cross-legged on the garage floor, completely absorbed.
Tetsu chuckled. "No rush, Dad. Take your time."
Three hours later, when Tetsu returned from a quick walk, Kentaro was still playing.
He barely noticed his son until Tetsu knocked hard on the door.
"This is… incredible!" Kentaro gasped, gripping Tetsu's arm. "I can't describe it in words. This is a game built on strategy—and human greed!"
Tetsu blinked. "What?"
"It's genius!" Kentaro went on. "You can't see the next block, so you have to think carefully. You want to stack higher for more points, but that desire to push your luck—that's greed! This game plays with that instinct perfectly!"
He pointed at the screen, eyes shining.
"The simplicity of it! No distractions. Just pure focus and tension. It's clean, it's addictive—it's brilliant!"
He turned to his son, voice full of awe.
"Tetsu, you might actually be a genius."
Tetsu scratched his cheek, embarrassed. "I just built on what others created."
"Don't be so modest!" Kentaro laughed, giving his shoulder a hearty punch. "Be proud. You're young—have some ambition! Believe that you can be the best in the world!"
He checked his watch—it was getting late.
"Alright, time to rest. Finish up the visuals when you can, and polish the sound too. I'll bring you Sega's licensed sound library. Make the display more comfortable to look at."
He took a deep breath.
"And once everything's ready—we'll pitch it to Sega for publishing."
Tetsu hesitated. "Can't I just release it myself?"
Kentaro shook his head.
"Not possible. Because of the 'royalty system.' Nintendo introduced it, and Sega follows the same rule. Every game must be published and manufactured through an official, approved factory. No exceptions."
Tetsu knew he was right.
The system heavily favored the platform owners. Without the internet, game distribution relied entirely on physical stores, all controlled by the big companies.
Even decades later, Sony and Microsoft would still use the same licensing model.
"Well," Tetsu sighed, "maybe someday. If I ever get a few billion dollars, I'll build my own platform and bypass the whole thing."
For now, though, he returned to work—quietly focused on finishing his dream.
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