Serving as a judge in a game development competition was nothing like judging other cultural contests, where judges could simply sit in their seats and wait.
At least, that wasn't how Takayuki did things.
He went straight into the venue, personally checking what kinds of games everyone was making.
With "Wings" as this year's theme, Takayuki was genuinely curious to see what kinds of game worlds these developers would create.
That said, the competition had only just begun. Most participants were still clustered together, discussing how they would approach their game development.
Only a small number of developers seemed to have already found their direction and had begun furiously typing code at their seats.
Usually, these were solo developers or pairs—teams small enough that they didn't need much discussion.
Takayuki headed straight toward them.
Some developers became noticeably more serious and cautious the moment they noticed Takayuki approaching, even lowering their voices when they spoke.
Takayuki, however, didn't pay much attention to them. Unless they had already started developing, he simply passed them by.
He first stopped behind one particular developer.
This developer looked roughly the same age as Takayuki.
Although Takayuki was already fairly old by now, his appearance was still quite youthful, as if time had left very few marks on him.
In earlier years, few people had commented on it, but recently more and more discussions had popped up about whether Takayuki had some kind of "ageless" genetics.
The man in front of him, by contrast, was the textbook image of a middle-aged man in his forties.
His expression was intensely focused on the screen. His fingers never paused, rapidly typing line after line of code onto the keyboard, completely unaware that someone had appeared behind him.
Other developers nearby also noticed Takayuki's presence and glanced over curiously.
"Hey, who's that developer? Is he close with Takayuki?"
"No idea. He looks like an ordinary developer. Takayuki probably just noticed him because he's already coding."
"Starting development this fast—that's some impressive efficiency."
"But starting so early can also mean unclear direction and having to scrap everything later, right?"
"Who knows? Maybe he came prepared, or the theme happens to match what he already wanted to make."
Takayuki's actions drew some attention and discussion, but soon everyone went back to their own development talks.
After all, this was a competition—time couldn't be wasted.
Takayuki quietly stood behind the developer, watching his code take shape.
This man wasn't using any existing game engine at all. He was writing the game program line by line, manually.
That alone was impressive.
It was like pursuing classical craftsmanship in a modern age—abandoning the most convenient tools in favor of meticulous, hands-on work.
It could be a personal obsession, or simply that the developer wasn't comfortable using engines.
Still, writing everything from scratch had its advantages—chief among them being greater control over stability.
Using an engine meant many built-in systems and functions could be called directly.
The downside was that calling too many systems inevitably caused conflicts, which then tested the developer's ability to resolve them.
At Gamestar Electronic Entertainment, the so-called "Stanford Legion" existed specifically to solve these kinds of internal development issues.
After a brief glance, Takayuki could tell this man had real programming skill—likely a senior engineer from a major company.
The game itself didn't reveal many details yet, but judging from the code structure, it appeared to be a flight-focused game, fitting the "Wings" theme perfectly.
Takayuki then moved on, stopping behind other developers who had already begun work.
Anyone willing to participate in this competition had at least some level of skill.
Otherwise, they wouldn't have had the confidence to show up.
Those who dove straight into development from the start—regardless of final quality—were undeniably strong in execution ability.
Just then, Takayuki heard someone shouting loudly in the distance.
"Everyone! I've got a great idea, but I'm missing teammates! I need two programmers, one artist, and one sound designer—who wants to work with me?"
Takayuki looked in that direction. A young man was standing on a chair, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Several people around him turned to look, wearing strange expressions.
"Forming a team on the spot at this stage?" Takayuki found it interesting.
Normally, there wouldn't be anyone forming teams this late—most people already had their groups. Trying to form one now was pretty late in the game.
But since the participant count had ballooned to over a thousand, there really were a few people who still hadn't found teams.
Those without teams weren't too anxious. If they couldn't find one, they treated this as an experience—an opportunity to exchange ideas with peers. Winning wasn't the priority.
That was another benefit of the game developers' competition.
With so many developers gathered together—famous indie creators, newcomers, and professionals from large studios—everyone brought different valuable experiences to share.
In that sense, the competition also functioned as a large-scale development exchange event.
After shouting for a while, the young man actually managed to attract a few interested people. About ten minutes later, he successfully formed a team and prepared to start development.
Takayuki didn't go over to join the crowd. Development there clearly hadn't begun yet, so waiting was better.
He continued checking on other developers who had already started.
Most were still in early stages, but even now, Takayuki could already gauge their technical skill.
As for finished games, he wasn't expecting to see anything yet.
Once he was done observing, Takayuki returned to the judges' table to exchange impressions with the other judges.