Kadokawa Shoten moved fast.
Before February even arrived, a trailer was already airing on Asahi TV.
The mysterious Millennium Puzzle.
The Blue-Eyes White Dragon cards, only four in existence worldwide.
An aloof Duel President, and a boy from a small shop.
Yu-Gi-Oh: DUEL MASTER — Coming Soon!
Jointly produced by: Kadokawa Shoten Group and Atlus Studio.
Unlike the art style of the new millennium, animation at this time leaned more toward realism. The characters weren't as exaggerated or stylish, but at Tetsu Kobayashi's insistence, Yugi Muto's spiky hair was preserved.
The hairstyle was the soul of it.
The game was just a bonus.
The moment the commercial aired, some people were stunned.
Wait—hold on!
Since when did a game studio start working with a publishing conglomerate?!
Others were even more shocked.
Holy crap! Blue-Eyes White Dragon!
Isn't that the Blue-Eyes White Dragon that's insanely strong in the card game? Why is it in an anime now?!
No one could answer that question—except Tetsu Kobayashi himself.
"Having money really is great. The efficiency is crazy. Three weeks and they already finished the first episode. From the looks of it, they're planning to promote this aggressively."
Tetsu Kobayashi shook his head slightly.
He didn't really care what Haruki Kadokawa was thinking. In the end, Atlus would get its licensing royalties anyway, so letting the Kadokawa Group handle development freely was fine.
In reality, Yu-Gi-Oh cards were operated by Konami. Konami's strategy couldn't exactly be called brilliant—it basically relied on the market being favorable, not much different from domestic games like Sanguosha. Just the kind of product that earns praise the moment it's released.
Ironically, some online digital versions of Yu-Gi-Oh dueling games turned out surprisingly good, and their monetization wasn't overly aggressive either.
"So lonely," Tetsu Kobayashi sighed suddenly.
He actually wanted to find a card shop, then use his overwhelming experience to duel random people and make them cry.
But now that commercials were already on TV, doing something like that in the future was no longer possible.
Tetsu Kobayashi shook his head again.
That chance was gone. And besides, there were more important things at hand.
Inside the office, Satoru Iwata was explaining the planned draft version of Sonic.
Since the game wasn't launching on the SMS, there were some performance limitations. It couldn't be fully showcased—only one or two scenes could be made playable, and the content itself was incomplete.
Even so, the overall framework was already there.
Sonic shared a visual style similar to Mario, though his design was more exaggerated. Mario looked human; Sonic was merely anthropomorphic. The hedgehog spikes were still intact.
Iwata pointed at the screen as he explained.
"Our current concept is to enhance movement speed to achieve an effect similar to off-road motorcycles, creating Sonic's signature high-speed movement. As for the level content, since we're incorporating intelligence elements, we're placing most of the combat into boss battles. There will be six bosses in total, each with a distinct style and strategy."
Tetsu Kobayashi nodded, then suddenly looked up.
Why does this sound like Mega Man?
"Go on," Tetsu Kobayashi said.
Encouraged, Iwata continued.
"For the regular stages leading up to the boss fights, we're using a continuously scrolling screen. The player must keep moving forward. There will be items, bonus coins, and small enemies placed in certain sections, as well as tougher elite enemies in some areas."
As he spoke, he demonstrated the gameplay.
Iwata was clearly better at playing games than Hideo Kojima. He quickly showcased the intended flow. Since he had helped develop the game himself, he knew the enemy weaknesses well, dispatching an elite enemy with a few running flying kicks.
Tetsu Kobayashi thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"That won't work. There's no need for that. Enemies on the path shouldn't exist as 'obstacles.' They should feel more like rewards that showcase power. Sonic should be able to take them out naturally just by running past."
His hands itched. He suddenly wanted to write something down.
The others in the office exchanged looks. Yuji Naka reacted quickly and pushed the whiteboard in front of Tetsu Kobayashi.
"If the core of the game is speed and parkour, then aside from boss battles, the rest of the content isn't that important. Level design should focus on environmental layout—making parkour more challenging. Small enemies should die from a single hit when Sonic brushes past them."
"Of course, those enemies can still interfere with parkour—firing projectiles, blocking movement paths, and so on. But don't introduce elite enemies along the route. At least not at this stage."
For a game built around parkour-style exhilaration, flow was everything. Getting stuck on elite enemies mid-stage would seriously disrupt that feeling.
After a brief pause, Tetsu Kobayashi asked Iwata, "Have you thought about what happens if the player loses a boss fight?"
Iwata replied, "They restart from before the battle. Three lives total—once they're gone, it's game over."
"No. The game doesn't end."
Tetsu Kobayashi interrupted.
"Home consoles aren't arcades. You can't design them with arcade logic."
Early video games borrowed heavily from arcade design: high difficulty, few lives, score-based progression, death equals restart.
Contra's stages were actually very short—they just felt long because you kept dying and restarting.
Tetsu Kobayashi wrote another line on the whiteboard.
Continue Codes.
"If the player clears a stage, we can give them a continue password, allowing them to restart from the beginning of that stage. They re-experience the parkour sequence and then face the boss again."
For home consoles, continues were crucial.
That's why many later games included password systems, letting players input specific codes to restart from the beginning of a stage.
Iwata looked enlightened, as if a door to a new world had just been opened.
Yuji Naka crossed his arms nearby.
Who cares if it's Iwata or not—he was clearly smarter!
Look at that whiteboard timing. Perfect.
Tetsu Kobayashi didn't say much more, giving Iwata time to digest it all.
After a moment, he spoke again.
"Let's revise the design along these lines. The continue system can be discussed later. For now, simplify the first stage and turn it into a demo. In a few days, we'll run an internal test."
Everyone looked up at once.
Internal test?
Another new term.
Tetsu Kobayashi shrugged.
"Meaning, once it's ready, we test-play it internally and share our feedback."
That was also why he used to hang around game shops, watching players firsthand.
Seeing immediate reactions was the fastest form of feedback.
But given the current situation, it wasn't suitable to let external players test it. Otherwise, a closed test would've been ideal.
There was just one big problem.
If players leaked anything, it would be disastrous.
Last time, with Jörmungandr, the testing was fully under Tetsu Kobayashi's control—and he even reported bootleg cartridge dealers in advance. This time, things weren't controllable.
If anything leaked, it would be a huge mess.
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