"First of all, on our side we'll be providing a large number of video game IP licenses. I've already been in contact with several designers—we'll jointly design a set of Olympic-exclusive sports logos that combine video games, anime, and traditional Japanese culture.
At the opening ceremony, video games will take center stage. The opening protagonist will be the Japanese Prime Minister, who has already agreed to make another appearance dressed as Mario when entering the stadium. After that, we will…"
Ono Sano spoke for nearly half an hour, laying out almost the entirety of his planned opening ceremony concept.
It was already the second half of 2019, with less than a year remaining until the Tokyo Olympics.
At first glance, it seemed like there was still plenty of time—but hosting a truly successful Olympic opening ceremony required an enormous investment of time and energy.
By now, the overall structure of the opening ceremony needed to be mostly finalized. In early 2020, rehearsals would begin, with at least three large-scale full-run rehearsals required to ensure everything reached near perfection.
Ono Sano had previously directed several large events, including multiple national-level celebrations.
He was also someone very open to new things and genuinely fond of video games. Takayuki had carefully selected him for the role of Olympic opening ceremony director.
In other words, he was one of their own.
"Very good. I'm quite satisfied," Takayuki said.
Ono Sano's arrangements were solid—using various IP characters as representatives for different countries, playing each country's own theme music during their entrance, with every piece tied to games or anime. It was the perfect opportunity to promote video game culture.
"President, speaking of which, are we really not going to push for video games to become an Olympic event?" someone asked. "A lot of players are hoping esports can be included."
Takayuki shook his head. "No need. The Olympics themselves don't mean that much. Using the Olympics to enhance influence and prestige is fine, but turning video games into Olympic events is not a good idea."
In his previous life, Takayuki had witnessed similar discussions.
At the time, many young people strongly hoped that video games would enter the Olympics, believing it would be a milestone moment.
They thought that once included, video games would finally become part of mainstream society.
But Takayuki knew better.
To become an Olympic event, there were countless restrictions.
First, there could be no violence, blood, or negative themes—instantly eliminating more than ninety percent of video games.
That left only seemingly "positive" genres like racing, football, or basketball games. Yet even those would likely be rejected by the Olympic Committee for various reasons.
As for the exact reasons, Takayuki couldn't say—but one thing came to mind: final authority.
Games were owned by their developers, who could modify them at any time. Even the Olympic Committee would have no power to intervene.
That kind of constant change and uncertainty was unacceptable.
That alone was reason enough.
"We already have our own Gamestar World Cup," Takayuki said decisively. "Let that become a global event on par with the Olympics."
His tone left no room for debate. Once everyone heard it, they knew the matter was settled, and no one brought it up again.
Finally, Takayuki followed up on the development progress of the Olympic-themed game.
Even if video games couldn't enter the Olympics, the Olympics could still become part of video games—and that showcased the inclusiveness of gaming culture.
Besides, this project had been requested by the Japanese government themselves. Takayuki naturally had to show some goodwill.
The Olympic game's title was straightforward: Tokyo Olympics 2020.
It could be experienced on any device—no exclusivity required—but certain gameplay elements would be platform-specific.
Motion-based sports gameplay would be exclusive to Gamestar Electronic Entertainment's consoles, as would VR + motion experiences. These could only be fully experienced on standard PCs or Gamestar home consoles.
Other platforms simply couldn't support them completely.
This wasn't about monopolizing content.
Those features were built using highly user-friendly development frameworks already optimized for PCs and Gamestar consoles.
Platforms like Sury Electronics' consoles did have motion and VR capabilities, but their systems were far more closed. Supporting them would require extensive additional optimization—time Takayuki wasn't willing to spend.
Once the Olympic-related discussions concluded, the meeting ended.
Aizawa Airi pulled Takayuki Aya aside to chat, while the others returned to their respective tasks. Takayuki began his routine inspections of the various development departments.
…
A few days later, in the United States, at Mickford's headquarters, Myron Case sat gloomily staring at the latest data reports.
Games that were originally expected to sell over a million copies were now falling far short of projections.
These titles had been projected to deliver profit margins of over thirty percent.
But now, let alone profits—even breaking even was difficult.
And the culprit behind all of this was Cyberpunk 2077.
It was downright cursed.
Absolutely unbelievable.
A game that had been out for over two months suddenly saw its declining sales skyrocket again.
Daily sales broke one million.
That was performance reserved for top-tier releases—or massive discount events.
But Cyberpunk 2077 hadn't been discounted at all.
It was an already-released game—two months old, no less. By all logic, there was no reason for sales to explode again.
And yet, it happened.
When Myron Case learned of it, he was completely stunned.
He couldn't help but question whether entering the video game industry had been the right choice.
Why did unexpected disasters always appear whenever he tried to make a big move?
He knew the cause of Cyberpunk 2077's sales explosion.
It was an anime.
Just an anime.
The idea was absurd.
Since when did an animation have this kind of influence?