Takayuki watched the young man with the frizzy hair walk onto the stage and felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity.
But for the moment, he couldn't recall where he had seen him before.
One thing he was certain of: this was someone he had encountered recently.
The frizzy-haired young man looked a bit stiff the moment he stepped onstage—clearly inexperienced with such a grand setting—but the light in his eyes was unmistakably confident.
That confidence came from belief in his own game.
He then unveiled the project he and his team had painstakingly developed.
It was a large-scale sandbox adventure game.
That alone wasn't particularly surprising. Open-world sandbox games were everywhere these days, and every company had its own interpretation of how to make them.
But this one… seemed a little different.
This was an infinite world.
Every world would be procedurally generated. Each generated world would have its own landscapes and terrain, along with unique ecosystems.
All of this was made possible by the powerful AI computation capabilities built into the Unreal Engine.
Through this AI processing, combined with a procedurally generated ecological system the young developer had researched himself, the game claimed to offer limitless exploration.
The moment the concept was revealed, both the live audience and viewers watching the stream—those who understood games—fell into brief silence.
Then the venue erupted in a wave of audible astonishment.
It was a mix of surprise, disbelief, and excitement.
"Looks like the reaction is excellent," Myron Cass smiled. His investment in these young people had clearly been the right choice.
He didn't understand the technical details, but the reactions of the game-savvy audience were enough to tell him this game was something special.
Perhaps he could rely on this title to secure Mickford a stronger market position.
After all, hadn't Gamestar Electronic Entertainment once established itself with games like Super Mario?
His game department head had even said this project's pioneering significance was on par with Gamestar's Super Mario.
On stage, seeing the intense reaction from the audience, the frizzy-haired young man grew visibly excited, his earlier nervousness completely swept away.
"My game is called Infinite World," he said. "In this boundless world, you can explore freely. You can discover all kinds of novel and fascinating things across countless worlds. And because everything is procedurally generated, even I—the game's creator—experience a constant sense of novelty when I play. This game offers endless exploration."
Endless exploration.
To many players, those words were irresistibly tempting.
At this point in time, players hadn't yet been completely worn down by formulaic game design. Many still loved open worlds.
Some companies had already begun releasing "open-world canned games" reminiscent of Ubisoft's style from Takayuki's previous life. Even though critics complained about their heavy homogenization, those games still sold well.
So now, seeing a game like this, players felt as if they had discovered a treasure.
"Procedural AI-generated worlds… That's a brilliant idea. How did I never think of that?"
"Yeah, this kind of generation has huge potential. How hard would it be to do something like this with Unreal Engine?"
"Not that hard, actually. You just need the right constraints. You definitely can't just embed the entire engine into the game—that would be putting the cart before the horse. This kid's idea is great: developing a brand-new procedural generation toolkit and integrating it into the game so it can generate infinite worlds on the fly. That's impressive!"
"This kid's a genius game developer!"
Inside Gamestar Electronic Entertainment's office, Takayuki watched Mickford's launch event in silence.
Around him, several department heads wore looks of amazement.
"Takayuki, you don't seem particularly surprised," Hayasawa Airi said, sitting beside him. "Isn't a game like this impressive?"
She didn't fully understand the technical details of game development, so when others were amazed, she simply felt that it sounded incredible.
But she also noticed that Takayuki's reaction was surprisingly muted, which piqued her curiosity.
From everyone else's response, the game seemed amazing. Yet Takayuki looked as if he wasn't surprised at all—almost as if he had expected something like this.
"Or… has something like this appeared before?" she asked.
Takayuki had been lost in thought. Hearing her question, he snapped back to reality and turned to her.
"No," he said. "This kind of technology definitely hasn't appeared before."
At least, not in this world.
But in his previous life…
It absolutely had.
And it had emerged alongside sandbox-building games.
Procedural generation wasn't actually that complicated, and recreating it wasn't especially difficult either.
There had simply been too many games in his previous life—even Takayuki himself couldn't possibly remember every single one.
So it wasn't strange that this world would independently give birth to a procedurally generated sandbox game.
Even without Takayuki's influence, this world's game technology was constantly advancing.
Seeing this game merely reminded him of something from his past life.
Judging by the technical route and overall framework, it strongly resembled a game he knew very well.
That game was No Man's Sky.
Its core gameplay revolved around piloting a spaceship through an endless universe.
The developers used a procedural generation system to claim that the game contained billions of planets, each with its own ecosystems, terrain, and cultures.
The game had a main storyline—traveling toward the center of the universe to uncover the ultimate secret.
But along the way, players could explore countless planets, collect resources, encounter different cultures, learn alien languages and technologies, and acquire more advanced ships.
Initially, however, the game's quality was terrible—borderline deceptive.
Before release, the marketing had been spectacular. With Sony's heavy promotion, many players were led to believe it would be a masterpiece.
At the time, the idea of a procedurally generated universe with countless planets was astonishing, and Takayuki himself had been one of the early players who bought into the hype.
But once the game launched, players quickly realized how hollow it was.
Yes, the billions of planets existed—but they were all painfully similar, nothing more than variations generated from a handful of fixed rules.
What had players actually wanted?
They wanted a vibrant, diverse universe.
They wanted each planet to have its own civilization, with societies developing to different levels, each offering unique cultural experiences.
Instead, what they got were barren planets.
Lifeless worlds, with only the occasional procedurally generated ancient structure to guide players along the main storyline.
Beyond that, there was nothing.
"Procedural ecosystems" and "procedural civilizations" were pure hype.
That team simply hadn't had the capability to deliver such things at the time.
To achieve that vision required not only advanced technology, but massive investments of money, manpower, and time.
To truly create the No Man's Sky players had imagined might not have been feasible even in that era.
Takayuki believed that even with today's technology, it still wasn't realistically achievable.
This wasn't underestimating developers—it was acknowledging real technological bottlenecks.
Some limitations came from software, others from hardware.
After No Man's Sky launched, the developers were heavily criticized and attacked online. Even Sony took collateral damage for having promoted it so strongly.
Yet the development team didn't give up.
Despite the backlash and rumors, they persevered, continuing to pour resources into the game's development.
People eventually move on—especially with entertainment. If one game is bad, players simply play something else. At most, it becomes an occasional joke.
A bad game doesn't kill anyone.
Over the following years, the No Man's Sky team steadily updated the game, adding more content.
All of it was free—perhaps to atone for their earlier mistakes, or perhaps to fulfill the promises they had once made.
They kept working. Relentlessly.
Years later, the game—once forgotten—no longer seemed so bad.
Players returned and discovered that the content had grown incredibly rich, to the point where it almost felt like a completely new game.
Base building, more diverse ecosystems, multiplayer, combat systems—each update brought players back with a better experience.
Eventually, thanks to the developers' persistence, the game's reputation was completely reversed, becoming a positive example often cited by players.
A bad game redeemed through relentless effort—almost like a feel-good story.
Takayuki genuinely admired that team. Under immense pressure, they had continued developing the game instead of disbanding and burying No Man's Sky as a black mark in their history.
They were people with ideals.
Hayasawa Airi frowned. "You say this technology hasn't appeared before. Then shouldn't this pose a threat to us? Aren't you worried?"
"A threat?" Takayuki smiled and shook his head. "Not really. It's just one game."
"Boss, did you notice something wrong?" asked Ariga Fuyujirō, head of the Sixth Development Group, keenly picking up on Takayuki's reaction.
The Sixth Group specialized in cutting-edge game technologies, often supporting Gamestar's development teams when they hit technical roadblocks. While they weren't as strong as the Stanford Corps, their understanding of game design itself was deeper.
The Stanford Corps excelled at solving isolated technical problems but often struggled to integrate them meaningfully into gameplay. They were pure technologists.
The Sixth Group focused on practical application.
Takayuki asked, "From a technical perspective, what do you think of the way this game presents itself?"
Ariga thought for a moment. "It's very innovative. Developing sandbox games like this creates an incredibly vast world with infinite possibilities."
"And then?" Takayuki pressed.
"Huh?"
Takayuki continued, "And then what? The world becomes vast, infinitely possible—then what? What do players actually get out of it?"
"Well… players can experience endless content and constant novelty… I guess."
Ariga spoke hesitantly, thinking as he talked. Gradually, realization dawned on him.
"Player experience can be quantified. What kinds of games bring enjoyment to what kinds of players—those things are definable. But this infinite world game… where exactly is the fun? Pure exploration? Exploration gets boring eventually. If all this infinite world offers is exploration, then it's not that interesting."
Ariga fell silent.
The other department heads, having recovered from their initial amazement, also overheard the discussion and began to think deeply.
"This game has a very obvious problem," Takayuki said. "It's hollow—too empty."
"Why do players love Super Mario, The Legend of Zelda, and similar games?"
"Because they tap into humanity's instinctive desire to explore."
Discovering new, interesting things and feeling joy each time—that's the core.
"But this infinite world, at least as it's currently presented, offers nothing beyond 'infinite.' I don't see anything else that would delight players."
"Hollow…"
Yes. Hollow.
Several people's eyes widened slightly.
Now they understood what Takayuki meant.
Takayuki continued, "I'm not saying the technology is bad. I'm saying that right now, it's too empty. But you can study how a game like this could be made less hollow."
"Alright, let's study it," the department heads said, immediately gathering together—so absorbed that they forgot to keep watching the livestream.
In their view, this so-called infinite world was intriguing enough to merit serious research.
And as they analyzed it, they arrived at a conclusion.
This technology, by itself, could not solve the problem of hollowness.