The fluorescent lights of the unemployment office flickered with the same enthusiasm Marcus Chen felt for his continued existence on this mortal coil—which is to say, barely any at all, sputtering and threatening to give out entirely at any moment, much like his faith in the company that had once defined his entire childhood, adolescence, and frankly embarrassing portion of his adult life.
Marcus sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair that seemed specifically designed by some sort of anti-ergonomic sadist, his phone clutched in his trembling hands as he watched the livestream that would serve as the final nail in the coffin of his twenty-seven years of Nintendo fandom. The stream was titled "Nintendo Direct: Switch 2 Launch Lineup Revealed!" and featured the perpetually smiling face of a Nintendo representative who seemed blissfully unaware that he was about to announce what Marcus would later describe to his therapist as "the gaming equivalent of watching someone set fire to the Mona Lisa while dabbing."
"And we're so excited to announce," the representative said with the kind of corporate enthusiasm that suggested he either genuinely loved his job or had been replaced by some sort of android specifically programmed to deliver bad news with a smile, "that the Switch 2 launch lineup will feature Super Mario Bros. Wonder 2, which features the exact same gameplay as the first one but now Mario can turn into a slightly different elephant!"
Marcus felt his eye twitch.
"We're also thrilled to announce Pokémon Scarlet 2 and Violet 2, developed in an ambitious fourteen-month development cycle that we're sure will result in absolutely no technical issues whatsoever!"
The eye twitch intensified.
"And finally, in response to fan demand, we're releasing a new Metroid game! Metroid Prime 4 has been completely reimagined as a free-to-play mobile gacha game where you can collect different variations of Samus's armor for only $9.99 per loot box!"
Marcus's phone cracked under the pressure of his grip.
But it wasn't always like this. Oh no, dear reader, for to understand the depth of Marcus Chen's despair, the absolute Mariana Trench of disappointment that now resided where his heart used to be, we must journey back through the annals of his personal history and examine the slow, excruciating transformation of a bright-eyed Nintendo fanboy into the hollow, bitter shell of a man currently sitting in an unemployment office because he may or may not have screamed at his boss for saying that "mobile games are the future of the industry."
Marcus had received his first Nintendo console at the tender age of five, when his father had presented him with a Nintendo 3DS and a copy of Pokémon X, and in that moment, something had fundamentally shifted in young Marcus's brain. The dopamine pathways that should have been reserved for normal childhood activities like playing outside or making friends were instead rerouted entirely toward catching fictional creatures and making them fight each other, and Marcus had never been the same since.
Throughout his childhood, Marcus had been what could only be described as a Nintendo evangelical. He had Nintendo bedsheets, Nintendo posters, Nintendo clothing, and a concerning habit of humming the Super Mario Bros. theme song during standardized tests that had resulted in more than one note being sent home to his parents. His room had been a shrine to the company, with carefully organized shelves displaying every Nintendo console ever released, each one lovingly dusted on a weekly basis with a special microfiber cloth that Marcus had purchased specifically for this purpose.
He had written fan fiction. Extensive fan fiction. Fan fiction that explored the deep, philosophical implications of the Mushroom Kingdom's political structure and the existential horror of being a Toad in a world where a plumber in overalls regularly committed what could only be described as mass genocide against the local turtle population. He had created elaborate theories about the timeline of the Zelda games that put most academic dissertations to shame, complete with color-coded charts, mathematical equations, and a PowerPoint presentation that he had, on more than one occasion, attempted to show to dates who did not call him back.
The first crack in Marcus's devotion had appeared in 2022, when he had purchased Pokémon Scarlet with the kind of breathless anticipation usually reserved for religious experiences and the release of a new season of a beloved television show. He had taken the day off work. He had prepared snacks. He had posted on seventeen different social media platforms about how excited he was to explore the new Pokémon region.
And then he had watched his character fall through the floor of the world during the tutorial.
"It's fine," he had told himself as his Pokémon clipped through walls and the framerate dropped to what appeared to be single digits. "Day one patch. They'll fix it. Nintendo always delivers quality."
They did not fix it.
But Marcus had persevered, because that's what true fans did. He had defended the game on Reddit, on Twitter, on Discord servers where people who had never met him in real life somehow seemed to know exactly how to push his buttons. He had written lengthy posts about "artistic vision" and "technical limitations" and "maybe your expectations are just too high," even as the game crashed for the seventeenth time during what should have been an emotional story moment.
Then came the Nintendo legal team.
Marcus had been following a fan project called "Metroid: Chronicles of the Federation," a labor of love created by a group of dedicated fans who had spent four years recreating the Metroid experience in a stunning new engine, complete with original music, expanded lore, and gameplay innovations that made the official Metroid games look like they had been programmed by a committee of people who had never actually played a video game before. It was beautiful. It was ambitious. It was exactly what Marcus had always wanted from a Metroid game.
Nintendo's legal team had sent the cease and desist letter approximately three hours after the project had been announced.
"They're just protecting their IP," Marcus had mumbled to himself, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "It's a legal necessity. They have to do this."
But then the unofficial Super Smash Bros. tournament had happened.
The tournament had been organized by a group of fighting game enthusiasts who had dedicated an entire year of their lives to creating an event that would raise money for children's hospitals. They had secured sponsors. They had rented a venue. They had coordinated with over five hundred participants from around the world, all of whom had paid their own travel expenses to compete in a game they loved, for a cause that mattered.
The tournament had been using a modified version of Super Smash Bros. Melee that fixed some longstanding balance issues and added quality-of-life improvements that Nintendo had never bothered to implement because Nintendo didn't seem to actually care about the competitive community that had kept their game relevant for over two decades.
Nintendo's legal team had shut it down the night before the event was scheduled to begin.
The charity had lost $50,000 in non-refundable deposits.
Three children's hospitals had been counting on that money.
Marcus had stood in his apartment that night, surrounded by his Nintendo memorabilia, his Nintendo bedsheets, his Nintendo posters, and he had felt something inside him break with an almost audible snap. It was as if someone had reached into his chest and pulled out the warm, glowing ember of childhood joy that had burned there for nearly three decades and unceremoniously stomped on it while laughing and counting money.
He had not thrown away his Nintendo collection that night. No, that would have been too dramatic, too clean, too much like a character development moment in a coming-of-age film. Instead, he had simply... stopped caring. The posters had stayed on the walls, but he no longer looked at them. The consoles had remained on their shelves, but they gathered dust. The Nintendo Switch that he had purchased on launch day and had once carried with him everywhere like a technological security blanket had been shoved into a drawer and forgotten.
The final straw, the absolute breaking point, the moment that had transformed Marcus from "disappointed fan" to "active Nintendo hater" had come with the announcement of the Switch 2.
The console had been revealed with all the fanfare and excitement of a new iPhone release, complete with flashy graphics and promises of revolutionary gaming experiences that would "redefine the industry." And for a brief, shining moment, Marcus had felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the reset button that Nintendo needed. Maybe this was the moment when the company would return to its former glory and prove that all of Marcus's years of devotion had not been in vain.
The launch lineup had included seventeen ports of games from the original Switch, five mobile game adaptations with "premium" price tags, and a new Mario game that the official Nintendo press release had described as "featuring the beloved gameplay that fans have loved for forty years, completely unchanged because why fix what isn't broken?"
The Metroid Prime 4 gacha game announcement had come three months later.
Marcus had not purchased a Switch 2.
For the first time in twenty-seven years, Marcus Chen had not purchased a Nintendo product on launch day.
And now, six months later, he was sitting in an unemployment office because his boss had made the mistake of saying "You know, I think Nintendo is really ahead of the curve with these mobile game adaptations" during a team meeting, and Marcus had responded with what could only be described as a fifteen-minute unhinged rant about corporate greed, the death of creative integrity, and the fundamental betrayal of an entire generation of gamers who had trusted a company that clearly no longer deserved that trust.
His boss had not appreciated the rant.
HR had appreciated it even less.
And so here Marcus sat, in an uncomfortable plastic chair, watching a Nintendo Direct livestream on a cracked phone, feeling the last vestiges of his faith in the company that had defined his childhood evaporate like morning dew on a particularly disappointing blade of grass.
"I hate this," Marcus muttered to himself, earning a concerned look from the elderly woman sitting two seats over who was clearly wondering whether she should alert security about the strange young man who appeared to be having some sort of breakdown over a children's video game company. "I hate what they've become. I hate what they're doing. I hate that I still care enough to hate it."
He stood up abruptly, his number having been called approximately fifteen minutes ago while he was lost in his spiral of gaming-related despair, and shuffled toward the counter where a tired-looking government employee was waiting with the kind of patience that suggested she had seen many strange young men having existential crises in her unemployment office over the years.
"Chen?" she asked, glancing at her computer screen.
"That's me," Marcus replied, sliding into the seat across from her desk with the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution.
"Reason for unemployment?"
Marcus opened his mouth to say "I yelled at my boss about Nintendo" and then immediately closed it again because that sounded pathetic even in his own head and he had at least a shred of dignity remaining, even if that shred was hanging on by the thinnest of threads.
"Creative differences," he said instead.
The government employee did not look convinced but also did not look like she cared enough to pursue the matter further, which Marcus supposed was one of the few benefits of dealing with bureaucracy.
"Any skills or qualifications that might be relevant to your job search?"
"I have extensive knowledge of video game history and development practices," Marcus said, because it was true even if it was also utterly useless in the current job market. "I wrote my master's thesis on the evolution of game design philosophy in the late twentieth century. I can tell you exactly when and why Nintendo went wrong as a company, with detailed references and a comprehensive bibliography."
The government employee stared at him.
"I also know Excel," Marcus added helpfully.
The meeting continued in much the same vein, with Marcus providing increasingly niche qualifications and the government employee growing increasingly concerned about the state of higher education in this country. By the time Marcus stumbled out of the unemployment office two hours later, clutching a folder full of job listings that he had no intention of applying to and a business card for a career counseling service that specialized in "helping creative individuals find their passion," the sun had set and the streets were dark and empty.
Marcus began the long walk back to his apartment, his mind still churning with thoughts of Nintendo's various betrayals and missed opportunities. If he had been in charge, things would have been so different. He would have given Game Freak actual development time. He would have made Metroid Prime 4 a proper Metroid game instead of a gacha nightmare. He would have—
The bus came out of nowhere.
Later, when Marcus would have time to reflect on the circumstances of his death, he would appreciate the cosmic irony of being hit by a bus that was covered in advertisements for the Switch 2 launch, featuring the smiling face of Mario giving a thumbs up next to the slogan "A New Era of Nintendo Fun!" The bus's front bumper made contact with Marcus's body at approximately forty-five miles per hour, which was significantly above the posted speed limit but which the driver would later claim was "necessary to maintain the schedule."
Marcus felt a moment of intense pain, followed by a curious sensation of floating, followed by the distinct impression that his consciousness was being pulled through some sort of cosmic tube like toothpaste being squeezed from a container.
"Oh," he thought, with the kind of detached calmness that can only come from shock or extremely effective meditation practices. "I'm dying. This is what dying feels like. It's... actually kind of peaceful? Aside from the whole being hit by a bus thing."
The floating sensation continued for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds, and then Marcus became aware that he was no longer in his body. He was in a vast, empty void, completely alone except for a strange, glowing figure that seemed to be made entirely of light and vaguely resembled what Marcus's grandmother would have described as an angel if Marcus's grandmother had believed in that sort of thing, which she had not because she was a very practical woman who believed primarily in hard work, good cooking, and the importance of wearing a jacket when it was cold outside.
"Marcus Chen," the glowing figure said, its voice echoing in the void in a way that was either deeply profound or slightly annoying, depending on your perspective. "You have died."
"I noticed," Marcus replied, because even in death, his instinct for sarcasm remained intact.
"Your life force is strong," the figure continued, either ignoring or not noticing Marcus's sarcasm, which Marcus supposed was fair since he had only been dead for approximately thirty seconds and the figure probably had a lot of experience dealing with recently deceased individuals who thought they were funnier than they actually were. "Your passion, though misdirected, burns with an intensity rarely seen in mortal souls. You loved something with your entire being, and when that something failed you, your disappointment was... substantial."
"Is this the part where you tell me I'm being sent to a fantasy world to defeat a demon lord?" Marcus asked, because he had read enough light novels during his extensive periods of unemployment between Nintendo console launches to recognize what appeared to be a classic isekai setup. "Because I should warn you, I have no combat skills, no useful abilities, and a concerning addiction to video games that probably won't be helpful in a medieval fantasy setting."
The glowing figure made a sound that might have been laughter or might have been the cosmic equivalent of a sigh.
"No, Marcus Chen. You are not being sent to a fantasy world."
"Oh." Marcus felt strangely disappointed. "So is this just... regular death? Regular afterlife? Because honestly, I was kind of hoping for something more exciting. No offense to your void, it's very... void-like."
"You are being given a second chance," the figure said, and there was something in its voice that Marcus couldn't quite identify. Amusement? Curiosity? The cosmic equivalent of someone who had just thought of a really good practical joke? "But not in a fantasy world. In your world. In your past."
Marcus blinked, or at least performed the spiritual equivalent of blinking since he was fairly certain he no longer had eyelids.
"You're sending me back in time?"
"In a manner of speaking. You will not be returning to your own body. Your own timeline has... ended. But another path opens. A new vessel awaits you."
"What kind of vessel?"
The glowing figure seemed to smile, though how a being made entirely of light could smile was unclear and probably involved concepts of physics that Marcus was not equipped to understand.
"Tell me, Marcus Chen. If you could change Nintendo—truly change it, from the very beginning of its modern era—what would you do?"
Marcus's response was immediate, passionate, and approximately fifteen minutes long. He talked about development timelines that actually made sense. He talked about treating employees like human beings instead of content-generating machines. He talked about listening to fans instead of threatening them with lawyers. He talked about innovation, about creativity, about the magic that Nintendo had once represented and had so thoroughly squandered.
By the time he finished, he was fairly certain the glowing figure had either fallen asleep or achieved a new level of enlightenment through sheer exposure to concentrated gaming discourse.
"I see," the figure said eventually. "You have... many opinions."
"I've had a lot of time to think about this," Marcus admitted.
"Then go. Make your changes. Reshape the industry as you see fit. You will awaken in the body of Hiroshi Yamauchi, president of Nintendo, in the year 1984. The Nintendo Entertainment System has just been released in North America. The future is unwritten."
Marcus's non-existent jaw dropped.
"Wait, what? Hiroshi Yamauchi? The actual—"
"Good luck, Marcus Chen. The fate of gaming rests in your hands."
And before Marcus could ask any of the approximately seven thousand questions that were now crowding his consciousness—questions about how this was possible, questions about whether he would retain his memories, questions about the ethical implications of essentially possessing another human being's body—the void collapsed around him and he felt himself falling, falling, falling through layers of reality and time and pure cosmic energy that tasted, inexplicably, like grape soda.
When Marcus opened his eyes, he was sitting behind a massive wooden desk in an office decorated with traditional Japanese art and a surprising number of playing cards. Through the window, he could see Tokyo stretching out below him, but it was a Tokyo that looked subtly different from the one he remembered, with fewer skyscrapers and more of that distinctive 1980s aesthetic that he had only ever seen in old photographs and retro video games.
His hands were wrinkled but strong. His body felt different—older, but filled with a kind of focused energy that Marcus's own perpetually exhausted millennial physique had never possessed. When he looked down at his desk, he saw documents covered in Japanese text, financial reports, and a memo that appeared to be discussing the recent launch of something called the "Nintendo Entertainment System" in North America.
Marcus Chen was dead.
But Hiroshi Yamauchi—or at least, the thing that now inhabited Hiroshi Yamauchi's body and possessed all of Hiroshi Yamauchi's memories alongside forty years of knowledge about how the video game industry would develop—was very much alive.
And he had work to do.
The first hour of Marcus's new existence was spent in a state of profound shock and occasional hyperventilation, which probably alarmed the secretaries who kept poking their heads into the president's office to check on him and who had never seen their notoriously stoic boss breathing into what appeared to be an imaginary paper bag while muttering phrases in English that they couldn't quite make out.
But as the initial panic subsided, replaced by the kind of manic energy that only comes from realizing you have been given the opportunity to fundamentally reshape an entire industry, Marcus began to take stock of his situation.
He was in 1984. The Nintendo Entertainment System had just launched in North America, where it was already showing signs of the success that would eventually revive the video game industry after the crash of 1983. In Japan, the Famicom was dominating the market. Nintendo was on the cusp of becoming the most important entertainment company in the world.
And Marcus knew exactly how the next forty years would play out.
He knew about the successes: Super Mario Bros., The Legend of Zelda, Pokémon, the Wii, the Switch. He knew about the failures: the Virtual Boy, the Wii U, the seemingly endless stream of increasingly disappointing games that had characterized the late 2010s and early 2020s.
More importantly, he knew about the missed opportunities.
Game Freak, the developers of Pokémon, would become increasingly overwhelmed by the demands of producing yearly Pokémon releases on ever-shortening timelines, resulting in games that felt rushed and unfinished. Marcus could fix that by establishing a more sustainable development schedule from the very beginning.
Metroid, one of Nintendo's most beloved franchises, would languish in relative obscurity, with gaps of decades between major releases and a legacy tainted by questionable spinoffs and one absolutely catastrophic mobile game announcement. Marcus could change that by investing in the franchise properly, by treating it with the respect it deserved.
The relationship between Nintendo and its fans would deteriorate into something adversarial and toxic, with Nintendo's legal team treating passionate supporters like criminals and shutting down projects that only existed because people loved Nintendo's games. Marcus could prevent that by fostering a different kind of corporate culture, one that saw fans as partners rather than potential lawsuit targets.
And Mario—poor, wonderful, boring Mario—would spend forty years trapped in an endless cycle of identical platformers, occasionally breaking free for a sports game or a party game but never truly evolving as a character beyond "it's-a me, let's-a go." Marcus could give Mario a voice, a personality, a reason to exist beyond jumping on things and rescuing princesses.
The possibilities were endless.
The challenges were equally endless.
Marcus was now the president of a major Japanese corporation in the 1980s, a time period and cultural context that he understood primarily through old business articles and the occasional period drama. He had inherited Hiroshi Yamauchi's memories, yes, but those memories were still integrating themselves into his consciousness in ways that were occasionally disorienting and frequently confusing. He would catch himself humming songs that hadn't been composed yet, or making references to events that wouldn't happen for decades.
He also had absolutely no idea what he was doing from a business perspective. His knowledge was all about games—about what worked and what didn't, about the creative decisions that would define the industry. The actual mechanics of running a multinational corporation in 1980s Japan were slightly beyond his pay grade.
But that's what employees were for, right?
Marcus—Yamauchi, he had to think of himself as Yamauchi now, at least in public—pressed the button on his desk that summoned his secretary, a remarkably efficient woman named Tanaka who had been managing the president's schedule for nearly a decade and who appeared approximately four seconds after the button was pressed, which was frankly impressive given the size of the office.
"Tanaka-san," Marcus said, the Japanese flowing naturally from lips that had been speaking it for decades even if the mind behind them was still adjusting, "I need you to schedule a meeting with our development teams. All of them. Tomorrow morning."
Tanaka blinked, which was the most extreme expression of surprise that Marcus had ever seen from her, though admittedly he had only had access to these memories for about an hour.
"All of the development teams, sir?"
"Yes. I've been thinking about the future of the company, and I believe some significant changes are necessary."
"May I ask what kinds of changes, sir?"
Marcus smiled, and it was the kind of smile that would have alarmed anyone who knew the old Hiroshi Yamauchi, because it contained an enthusiasm and joy that the original had rarely displayed.
"We're going to make games that no one has ever seen before," Marcus said. "We're going to take risks. We're going to fail sometimes, and when we fail, we're going to learn from those failures instead of pretending they didn't happen. We're going to treat our developers like artists instead of machines. We're going to treat our fans like partners instead of enemies."
He paused, considering the full scope of what he was about to attempt.
"And we're going to make a lot of money while doing it, because there's no point in having principles if you can't also sustain a business."
Tanaka, to her credit, merely nodded and made a note on her clipboard as if her boss frequently announced revolutionary new corporate philosophies before lunch.
"The meeting will be scheduled, sir. Is there anything else?"
"Yes. Find me everything we have on a developer called HAL Laboratory. I've heard good things about their president. I believe his name is Satoru Iwata."
"HAL Laboratory, sir. Very well."
After Tanaka left, Marcus leaned back in his chair—Yamauchi's chair, technically, but he was trying not to think too hard about the existential implications of inhabiting another person's body—and stared at the ceiling, his mind racing with plans and possibilities.
He had knowledge of the future. He had the resources of Nintendo at his disposal. He had the authority of Hiroshi Yamauchi, one of the most powerful figures in the gaming industry.
All he had to do was completely reshape the trajectory of video game history without causing some kind of temporal paradox or accidentally erasing his own existence or any of the other complications that seemed to arise whenever someone started messing around with time travel.
Simple, really.
The first challenge came sooner than Marcus expected, in the form of a knock on his door followed by the entrance of a young employee who introduced himself as Shigeru Miyamoto.
Marcus's heart—Yamauchi's heart—nearly stopped.
Standing before him was the young version of the man who would create Mario, Zelda, Donkey Kong, and countless other iconic franchises. The man who would become known as the father of modern video games. The man who, in Marcus's timeline, would eventually become a symbol of both Nintendo's greatest strengths and its stubborn resistance to change.
And he was standing in Marcus's office, looking nervous.
"Yamauchi-san," Miyamoto said, bowing. "I apologize for the interruption, but I wanted to discuss the new project you assigned to me last week. The one about the plumber?"
Marcus's brain short-circuited for a moment as he tried to remember what year it was and where exactly in Mario's development timeline they currently stood. The NES had launched. Super Mario Bros. must have been released, or was about to be released, or—
Yamauchi's memories helpfully supplied the context. Super Mario Bros. had launched in September 1985 in Japan, which meant they were still a few months away. Miyamoto was working on the finishing touches.
"Of course, Miyamoto-san," Marcus said, trying to keep his voice steady. "What did you want to discuss?"
"I've been thinking about the character," Miyamoto said, his nervousness gradually giving way to enthusiasm as he discussed his work. "Mario. He's become quite popular since Donkey Kong, but I feel like he's lacking something. A personality. A reason to exist beyond the game mechanics."
Marcus felt like someone had just handed him a gift-wrapped opportunity with a bow on top.
"Tell me more," he said.
"Well," Miyamoto continued, warming to his subject, "in Super Mario Bros., Mario is essentially a cipher. He runs, he jumps, he defeats Bowser, he saves the princess. But we never know who he is as a person. What does he like? What does he dream about? Does he have fears, hopes, relationships beyond his connection to Luigi and Peach?"
"These are excellent questions," Marcus said, leaning forward. "And I think you're right. Mario should be more than just a game mechanic. He should be a character that players connect with emotionally, someone they care about beyond just guiding him through levels."
Miyamoto's eyes widened. "You agree?"
"I do. In fact, I think this should be a priority for our future Mario games. I want you to explore Mario as a character. Give him a voice—not just 'wahoo' and 'let's-a go,' but actual dialogue. Give him motivations, fears, relationships. Make him someone that players would want to have dinner with."
"That's... that's quite ambitious, sir."
"Nintendo should always be ambitious," Marcus said, and he meant it with every fiber of his being. "We have the opportunity to define what video games can be. We shouldn't settle for the bare minimum."
He paused, considering how much he should reveal. He couldn't exactly tell Miyamoto that he was from the future and knew that Mario would become a cultural icon but also never really develop beyond his basic template. But he could plant seeds.
"I've been thinking about a new type of game," Marcus said. "What if we made a Mario game that was also a role-playing game? A full story, with dialogue, character development, exploration. Mario as the hero of an epic adventure, not just a platformer."
Miyamoto stared at him as if he had just suggested that they make a game about a blue hedgehog who could run really fast, which was to say, with a mixture of confusion and intrigue.
"An RPG? Like Dragon Quest?"
"Similar, but different. I want to combine the platforming elements that make Mario special with the storytelling and character development of traditional RPGs. I want players to feel like they're going on a journey, not just clearing levels."
"That would be... unprecedented, sir."
"Exactly." Marcus smiled. "I want us to be unprecedented. I want us to make games that no one else would dare to make. I want us to be so far ahead of the competition that they can't even see where we are."
Miyamoto was silent for a long moment, and Marcus could practically see the gears turning in his head. This was the mind that had created some of the most influential games in history, and Marcus had just given it permission to dream bigger.
"I have some ideas," Miyamoto said finally. "For the RPG. And for Mario's character. May I present them to you when they're more developed?"
"Absolutely. Take your time. I'd rather have a brilliant idea that takes a year than a mediocre idea that takes a month."
After Miyamoto left, Marcus allowed himself a moment of pure, unadulterated excitement. He had just had a conversation with Shigeru Miyamoto about the future of Mario. He had planted the seed for what could become a full-fledged Mario RPG decades before the actual Super Mario RPG would be released.
This was really happening.
But the Mario RPG was just the beginning. Marcus had so many plans, so many ideas, so many ways to fix the future before it could go wrong.
He grabbed a notepad—actual paper, because this was 1984 and personal computers were still the size of refrigerators—and began to write.
OPERATION: FIX EVERYTHING
Priority 1: Game Freak
In the future, Game Freak would become synonymous with rushed, unpolished Pokémon games. The solution was obvious: establish a relationship with them early, before Pokémon was even a concept. Fund them properly. Give them time. Create a development structure that would allow for innovation without burning out the developers.
But that would have to wait until closer to when Pokémon was actually conceived. For now, Marcus made a note to research Game Freak's current status and begin cultivating a relationship.
Priority 2: Metroid
The original Metroid would be released in 1986. Marcus had two years to ensure that it became the cornerstone of a franchise that would receive consistent support and development, not the neglected stepchild that it would become in his timeline. This meant building a dedicated Metroid development team, establishing a regular release schedule, and investing in the property like it actually mattered.
Priority 3: HAL Laboratory and Kirby
HAL Laboratory would create Kirby in 1992. Marcus wanted to ensure that relationship was strong, but he also had a crazy idea: what if Kirby had more variety? What if, instead of just platformers, they created a Kirby battle royale game? Something that would showcase the character's abilities in a competitive multiplayer setting?
It was insane. Battle royale as a genre wouldn't exist for decades. But that was the point—Marcus knew what worked, and he could implement it before anyone else even thought of it.
Priority 4: The Live Service Question
Live service games were a minefield. In Marcus's timeline, they had become synonymous with predatory microtransactions, endless grinding, and the slow death of creative integrity. But the core concept—a game that evolves over time, that players can return to again and again—wasn't inherently evil.
What if Nintendo created a live service game that was actually good? One that respected players' time and money, that offered meaningful content updates instead of just new cosmetics, that built a community instead of exploiting it?
It would have to wait until the technology caught up, but Marcus made a note to start laying the groundwork.
Priority 5: The Sonic Situation
SEGA would release the Mega Drive in 1988, and Sonic the Hedgehog would follow in 1991. The rivalry between Nintendo and SEGA would define an era of gaming, but in Marcus's timeline, it had also created a weird situation where the two companies' mascots existed in the same universe but only ever interacted through Olympics games.
What if Mario and Sonic actually went on an adventure together? A full-fledged RPG crossover that treated both characters with respect, that explored their world and their personalities, that gave fans the team-up they had always dreamed about?
It would require cooperation with SEGA, which would require diplomacy and patience. But Marcus had time. He had all the time in the world.
Priority 6: The Legal Team
This was perhaps the most important change of all. Nintendo's legal team, in Marcus's timeline, had become a machine of destruction, shutting down fan projects and threatening tournaments and generally behaving as if anyone who loved Nintendo games was a potential criminal.
Marcus was going to change that. He was going to create a company culture that valued fans, that saw passion as an asset rather than a threat. He would establish guidelines for fan projects, create official channels for community engagement, and make it clear that Nintendo's success depended on the people who loved its games.
The list went on and on. Marcus wrote until his hand cramped, until the sun had set and his office was lit only by the glow of Tokyo at night, until his secretary knocked on the door to remind him that he had a dinner meeting that had been scheduled months ago and that he really should attend if he didn't want to cause a scandal.
As Marcus straightened his tie—Yamauchi's tie, but he was getting better at thinking of this body as his own—he felt a sense of purpose that he hadn't experienced in years. Maybe ever.
His old life had been defined by disappointment, by watching something he loved slowly destroy itself while being powerless to stop it. But now he had power. Now he had opportunity. Now he had a chance to make things right.
The Nintendo of the future would be different. Better. A company that innovated, that listened, that cared.
And if he had to inhabit the body of an aging Japanese businessman to make that happen, well, there were worse prices to pay.
Marcus smiled as he headed out to his dinner meeting, his mind already racing with plans for tomorrow's meeting with the development teams.
The future of gaming started now.
And it was going to be glorious.
The dinner meeting was with a representative from a small American company called Microsoft, which in 1984 was primarily known for its DOS operating system and had not yet begun to think about entering the gaming industry. The representative—a young, enthusiastic man named Steve who seemed to believe that personal computers would one day be in every home, which Marcus knew was absolutely correct but which probably sounded insane to most people in 1984—wanted to discuss potential partnerships between Nintendo and Microsoft for future gaming ventures.
Marcus listened politely, made noncommittal sounds at appropriate intervals, and privately marked Microsoft down as a company to keep an eye on. In his timeline, Microsoft would eventually enter the gaming market with the Xbox and become one of Nintendo's primary competitors. Perhaps a different kind of relationship could be established if Marcus played his cards right.
"You seem distracted tonight, Yamauchi-san," Steve observed, his Japanese heavily accented but understandable. "Is everything alright?"
"I've been thinking about the future," Marcus replied honestly. "About what video games could become. The potential is enormous, and I wonder sometimes if we're even scratching the surface."
Steve leaned forward, his eyes bright with the kind of enthusiasm that reminded Marcus of himself before the bitterness had set in. "What do you see? In the future of gaming?"
Marcus considered how to answer. He couldn't reveal too much—even if time travel rules weren't clear, he didn't want to risk accidentally revealing his foreknowledge in a way that could cause problems. But he could share his vision without explaining exactly how he knew it was possible.
"I see games that are experiences," Marcus said. "Not just tests of skill, but emotional journeys. Stories that players care about. Characters that feel like friends. Worlds that feel alive, that continue to exist even when you're not playing."
"That sounds... ambitious."
"It is. But ambition is the only way forward. If we're content with what already exists, someone else will come along and make something better. Nintendo has to lead, not follow."
The dinner continued, and Marcus found himself enjoying the conversation more than he had expected. There was something refreshing about talking to someone from this era, someone who didn't carry the weight of decades of accumulated disappointment. Steve saw the future as full of possibilities, not as a series of opportunities that would inevitably be squandered.
When Marcus finally returned to his apartment—Yamauchi's apartment, a surprisingly modest residence for someone of his status—he was exhausted but energized. The body he inhabited was older than his original one, less tolerant of late nights and heavy thinking, but it still had plenty of years left in it.
As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant sounds of Tokyo at night, Marcus allowed himself to think about what he had left behind.
His old life. His friends—well, the few friends he had maintained after his obsession with Nintendo had driven most of them away. His apartment with its dusty Nintendo collection. His cynicism, his bitterness, his certainty that everything good was destined to become disappointing.
That version of Marcus Chen was dead, literally hit by a bus covered in advertisements for the console that had finally killed his faith. And maybe that was okay. Maybe that version of Marcus needed to die so that something better could take its place.
Tomorrow, he would begin the process of revolutionizing an industry. He would meet with developers who would go on to create some of the most beloved games in history, and he would help them avoid the mistakes that had plagued Nintendo in his timeline. He would plant seeds that wouldn't bloom for years, maybe decades, but that would eventually grow into something beautiful.
It was terrifying.
It was exhilarating.
It was, quite possibly, the best thing that had ever happened to him.
As Marcus drifted off to sleep, his mind still buzzing with plans and possibilities, he found himself humming a tune. It took him a moment to recognize it—the theme from Super Mario Bros., a song that wouldn't technically be composed for another year but that was nevertheless burned into his memory like a brand.
In this timeline, Mario was about to be born. And Marcus was going to make sure that he was born right.
The next morning came too quickly, with sunlight streaming through windows that Marcus wasn't yet used to and alarm clocks that made sounds different from the ones he remembered. But he dragged himself out of bed, performed the morning rituals that Yamauchi's muscle memory supplied, and headed to Nintendo's headquarters for what was probably going to be the most important meeting of his new existence.
The development teams had been assembled as requested, filling a conference room that suddenly seemed much smaller than it had looked the day before. Marcus recognized some faces from his memories of Nintendo's history—young developers who would go on to become legends, support staff who would form the backbone of the company's creative output for decades to come.
They all looked confused. Hiroshi Yamauchi rarely addressed the development teams directly; he preferred to work through intermediaries and let the creative staff handle the creative decisions while he focused on the business side. For him to call a meeting with everyone was unprecedented.
Marcus took a deep breath and stepped up to the front of the room.
"Thank you all for coming," he began, his voice steady despite the hurricane of nerves swirling in his stomach. "I know this is unusual. I know you're all wondering why you're here. The answer is simple: I want to talk about the future of Nintendo."
He paused, scanning the room, making eye contact with as many people as he could.
"We are standing at a crossroads. The video game industry nearly died last year. The crash that devastated American gaming could have been the end of everything we're trying to build. But we survived. The Nintendo Entertainment System is proving that there's still a market for quality games, that players haven't given up on gaming—they've just given up on mediocrity."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
"But survival isn't enough. I don't want Nintendo to survive. I want Nintendo to thrive. I want us to create experiences that will be remembered for decades, that will inspire generations of creators, that will prove beyond any doubt that video games are an art form worthy of respect."
He could see curiosity replacing confusion on many faces. This was not the Yamauchi they knew—the stern, business-focused president who viewed games primarily as products to be sold. This was something new.
"To do that, I need to make some changes to how we operate. First: development timelines. I know many of you have felt pressured to finish games quickly, to meet arbitrary deadlines at the expense of quality. That ends now. If a game needs more time to be good, it will get more time. I would rather delay a game than release something we're not proud of."
A gasp from somewhere in the back of the room. This was heresy by 1980s game development standards.
"Second: creative freedom. I want you to experiment. I want you to take risks. I want you to try things that might not work, because that's how innovation happens. If you have an idea that seems crazy, bring it to me. Let's talk about it. The worst thing that can happen is that we learn something."
"Third: collaboration. I want our teams to work together more closely. Share ideas. Share techniques. Share knowledge. We're not competitors; we're colleagues. Our real competition is everyone else in the industry, not each other."
"And finally: our relationship with the people who play our games. They're not just customers. They're partners. They're the reason we exist. I want us to treat them with respect, to listen to them, to value their passion for our work."
The room was silent. Marcus could practically feel the weight of forty years of gaming history pressing down on his shoulders. Everything he was saying ran counter to how the industry would develop, counter to the corporate logic that would eventually turn Nintendo from a beloved company into a cautious, legal-team-driven monolith.
But it was also exactly what the industry needed.
"I know this is a lot to take in," Marcus continued. "I know some of you are probably wondering if I've lost my mind. But I've been thinking about these things for a long time, and I believe with absolute certainty that this is the right path forward."
He smiled, and this time it was a genuine smile, not the practiced expression that Yamauchi had used in business meetings.
"Now. Who has an idea they've been afraid to share?"
There was a moment of hesitation, and then a young developer in the back raised his hand tentatively. Marcus recognized him from Yamauchi's memories—a junior designer who had been hired less than a year ago and who had shown tremendous potential but had been too afraid to speak up in meetings dominated by more senior staff.
"I, um, I've been thinking about a game where the player takes care of creatures," the young man said, his voice trembling slightly. "Like pets, but in a video game. You would raise them, train them, maybe have them battle each other. But the focus would be on the bond between the player and their creature, on friendship and responsibility."
Marcus's heart skipped a beat. This couldn't be—but no, it wasn't Satoshi Tajiri, wasn't Game Freak, wasn't the origin of Pokémon. But it was the same idea, the same fundamental concept that would eventually revolutionize gaming.
"Tell me more," Marcus said encouragingly.
The young designer—his name was Akira, Marcus remembered now—seemed to grow more confident as he spoke. He described a system where creatures could evolve based on how they were treated, where battles were strategic but not violent, where the ultimate goal was not just to win but to build relationships.
"It's probably too complicated to work," Akira finished, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"That's one of the best ideas I've ever heard," Marcus interrupted. "I want you to develop a full proposal. Take your time, make it detailed, and bring it to me when you're ready. I think there's something really special there."
Akira's face transformed from embarrassment to shock to joy in the span of about three seconds.
"Y-yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"
The floodgates opened after that. Developers who had been sitting on ideas for months, years even, suddenly felt comfortable sharing them. There was a proposal for a game where the player was a detective solving mysteries in a surreal world. There was a concept for a multiplayer game where players would compete to complete tasks in a shared environment. There was a pitch for a narrative-driven adventure that would require players to make moral choices with lasting consequences.
Not all of them were good ideas—some were confused, some were technically impossible with current technology, some were just genuinely bad—but the creative energy in the room was palpable. For the first time in what Marcus suspected was a very long while, Nintendo's development teams felt like they had permission to dream.
The meeting ran three hours over schedule. By the end, Marcus's voice was hoarse and his hand was covered in ink from writing notes, but he felt more alive than he had in years—possibly more alive than he had ever felt in his original life.
As the developers filed out, still buzzing with excitement and possibility, Miyamoto approached Marcus with a thoughtful expression.
"That was quite unexpected, sir," Miyamoto said. "I don't think I've ever seen a meeting like that."
"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?"
Miyamoto considered the question carefully. "I think... good. Very good. I've been at Nintendo for several years now, and I've never felt so motivated to create something new."
"That's what I was hoping for," Marcus said. "We have an opportunity here, Miyamoto-san. We can define what video games will become. But only if we're brave enough to try things that might not work."
"May I ask... what prompted this? The change in approach?"
Marcus was silent for a moment, considering how to answer. The truth—that he was a time-displaced gamer from 2025 inhabiting the body of the company president—was obviously not an option.
"I had a dream," he said finally. "About what Nintendo could become. And what it might become if we're not careful. I saw two futures: one where we play it safe and gradually become irrelevant, and one where we take risks and change the world."
"And you chose the second future."
"Wouldn't you?"
Miyamoto smiled—a rare expression for him, Marcus realized from Yamauchi's memories. "I would, yes. And I think everyone in that room would as well."
As Miyamoto left, Marcus allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. This was only the first step, the very beginning of a journey that would span decades. But it was a good first step.
He returned to his office to find his desk covered in notes, memos, and requests for meetings. Word of the unprecedented development team gathering had spread through the company like wildfire, and suddenly everyone wanted to talk to the president about their ideas, their concerns, their hopes for the future.
Marcus smiled and got to work.
The days that followed blurred together in a whirlwind of meetings, proposals, and increasingly ambitious plans. Marcus found himself working longer hours than Yamauchi ever had, fueled by a combination of excitement and the desperate awareness that every decision he made could change the course of gaming history.
He established a new development philosophy that prioritized quality over speed, innovation over imitation, and player experience over pure profit. He created dedicated teams for franchises that would become important in the future, ensuring that properties like Metroid and Kirby would have the resources and attention they deserved.
He reached out to HAL Laboratory, beginning the relationship that would eventually bring Satoru Iwata into Nintendo's orbit. He made discreet inquiries about Game Freak, learning that they were still primarily a game journalism outlet but were starting to develop an interest in making their own games.
And he began work on what he privately called "Project Odyssey"—a game that would combine the platforming gameplay of Mario with the narrative depth of an RPG, featuring a fully voiced Mario character who had actual personality, actual motivation, actual relationships.
It was ambitious. It was terrifying. It was exactly what Nintendo needed.
Three months after the development meeting, Marcus stood on the balcony of his office, watching the sunset over Tokyo and reflecting on everything that had changed.
He still missed his old life sometimes. He missed modern conveniences, missed the internet, missed being able to look up any piece of information in seconds. He missed not being responsible for an entire company and the livelihoods of thousands of employees.
But he didn't miss the disappointment. He didn't miss watching Nintendo make the same mistakes over and over, didn't miss the slow erosion of hope that had characterized his final years as a fan.
Here, now, in this timeline, hope was abundant. The future was unwritten. Every day brought new possibilities.
And tomorrow, Marcus had a meeting with a young game designer named Satoshi Tajiri, who had apparently heard about Nintendo's new openness to unconventional ideas and wanted to pitch a concept about collecting and battling creatures.
Marcus smiled as the sun dipped below the horizon.
The future of gaming was going to be very, very interesting.
End of Chapter 1