"Mr. Takayuki, you're truly amazing. How on earth did you pull this off?"
Ono Sano was already in his sixties. At his age, there were very few people left whom he genuinely admired.
Before Takayuki invited him, Ono Sano had only thought of Takayuki as a wealthy man who happened to be exceptionally good at making games.
But after working with him, Ono Sano gradually realized that Takayuki possessed some very special qualities.
In the field of cultural creation, Takayuki had his own unique understanding.
And it wasn't limited to video games.
Anime, film, games, visual art, music—
Takayuki's taste was excellent across the board.
When the trouble arose with three directors each insisting on their own vision, Takayuki was also able to resolve the issue in his own way. In just two days, he had actually secured full control over the Olympic opening and closing ceremonies.
Ono Sano couldn't possibly know what had happened behind the scenes, but that didn't stop his imagination from running wild.
In his mind, Takayuki must have used all kinds of ingenious tactics—appealing to emotion, persuading with reason, and finally clashing head-on in fierce confrontation. It must have been an intense and dramatic struggle.
Ono Sano could practically envision turning such a story into a brilliant movie.
Unfortunately, most of his imagined scenes were completely wrong.
Takayuki patted Ono Sano on the shoulder and said, "These are all small matters. From start to finish, all I wanted was a truly spectacular Olympic opening and closing ceremony. Everything else is secondary. My task is done now—I've created a sufficiently free environment for you. What comes next is your chance to show your real strength. I hope you won't disappoint me."
"Mr. Takayuki, you can rest assured," Ono Sano replied confidently. "I'm fully prepared to go all out now!"
With full control of the opening and closing ceremonies now in his hands, he could make all the decisions himself.
That said, according to the original plan, video games, anime, and Japanese traditional culture were meant to be promoted in balance. Video games couldn't completely dominate the Olympic opening ceremony—that would be too deliberate.
But for Ono Sano, this wasn't a problem at all. He already had at least ten different plans for the opening ceremony in mind, just waiting to be put into practice.
There was less than a year left. It was tight, but still within a manageable range.
At this moment, Ono Sano felt both ambitious and deeply respectful toward the man more than twenty years his junior.
He no longer carried any sense of seniority. With Takayuki, he was more than willing to interact as equals—as friends.
After resolving this matter, Takayuki subtly indicated to the IOC that the Facebook recommendation issue could now be reversed.
"The Facebook equipment malfunction and server issues should be resolved in about two hours. After that, Olympic-related information will be automatically pushed again."
That was how Takayuki put it. Those who understood, understood.
Then Takayuki suddenly remembered that the video game developers' competition was about to begin. He needed to prepare to head to London, where he would serve as a judge.
At the same time, before the competition officially started, he still needed to figure out how to address the decline in the average quality of indie games.
Simply offering large rewards wasn't enough to truly improve game quality.
He needed better methods.
Fortunately, Takayuki already had some roughly feasible ideas.
One of them was to add certain constraints to the game development competition.
The competition could be divided into different categories—much like the Olympics.
Video game development contests could be split by genre.
From basic "guns, cars, and balls," to role-playing games, to action games—each category would have its own competition.
For games with very complex designs, developers could even choose to compete in multiple categories. If a game achieved strong results across several categories, that would indicate even greater value.
The competition could also be made more granular. For example, specific development conditions could be given, requiring developers to complete a particular technical task within a limited time. The fastest individual or team to finish could receive a prize.
By subdividing the awards as much as possible, more people would have chances to win different prizes—another form of incentive.
This idea of subdividing competitions was inspired by the Olympics themselves.
The Olympics had strength-based events, track and field, and even purely recreational sports.
Video game development competitions could adopt a similar structure.
This was only a preliminary idea, though. The details still needed careful discussion. Takayuki planned to talk it over with the other competition organizers once he arrived in London and go over specific improvements to the developers' competition.
"Still… this alone probably isn't enough," Takayuki muttered.
Even with these improvements outlined, he felt it still might not fully motivate developers to create better games.
Something was still missing—there was room for further refinement.
But for now, he couldn't quite pinpoint it. He decided to think about it again once he reached London.
This trip to London included Takayuki and several department heads from the game development divisions.
Some of them would serve as judges, while others would act as special guests, providing off-site guidance during development.
With their years of experience, serving as mentors on-site would be extremely beneficial to the developers.
After the private jet's route was arranged, Takayuki boarded the plane to London along with the others.
"President, what kind of good games do you think might come out of this competition?" asked Yabuki Shizuo, head of the Seventh Development Department, seated beside Takayuki.
It was Yabuki's first time participating in a game developers' competition, and he was attending as an off-site mentor. Curious about the event, he couldn't help asking.
Takayuki had his eyes closed, resting, while still thinking about ways to improve game development. Hearing Yabuki's question, he shook his head.
"I don't know. Game development is a very complex process. How could we possibly know what kind of games the developers will end up making?"
"Yabuki, once we get there, just focus on being a good mentor. Afterward, I'll evaluate the games you've guided. Once you've gone through that process, you'll understand the current average quality of games coming out of these developer competitions."
Yabuki turned his head to the other side, where Uchiyama Ei, head of the Ninth Development Department, was seated.
Uchiyama specialized in horror games—Resident Evil was primarily under his supervision. He was the type who genuinely enjoyed watching players break down in despair, finding entertainment in their suffering.
Of course, the games themselves were still fun—but watching players collapse emotionally was his personal amusement.
"I've heard that the average quality of indie games has dropped lately. Do we really have a way to improve that?" Yabuki asked.
"Well…" Uchiyama replied lazily, "of course we do. Isn't that why the president is coming with us? I bet he's already figured out a solution by now."