Chris had pondered these questions before, but they had always been fleeting sparks of inspiration. Now, they were coming together in a way he had never imagined.
"What force is truly driving the orcs? Is it solely the Burning Legion? Or does this world itself harbor a secret that even the Titans covet?" Takuya Nakayama skillfully guided Chris, breaking down the grand lore of later eras and feeding it piece by piece to the future "Father of Warcraft."
"The Burning Legion—the Titans—" Chris muttered the words, his hands unconsciously sketching on the table. The light in his eyes grew brighter. "If we give the orcs such a tragic backstory, they'll become more than just simple monsters! That's where the conflict and drama will lie!"
Watching Chris fall into a feverish state of creative fervor, Mike Morhaime looked troubled.
As the company's manager, he was far more sensitive to the bottom line.
"Mr. Nakayama, your ideas are certainly—impactful. But this means a massive amount of work." Mike gave a wry smile. "With our current staff, just getting the game out will require overtime. To build such an expansive world, the budget and timeline will probably—"
"Who said we have to cram everything into this generation of the game?" Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his chair, twisted open a bottle of Coke, and took a sip. "For this generation, we just need to build the framework and leave a few openings. The grand backstory can be presented in other ways."
"Other ways?"
"Like novels," Takuya Nakayama said, gesturing toward Chris. "Text is the cheapest and most expensive medium. Find a good writer, or have Chris himself do it, and turn these settings into stories. Bundle them with the Collector's Edition of the game, or publish them separately. This way, players will know it's a living, breathing world before they even start playing—not just a game about commanding armies and hacking and slashing. Or, after playing the game, they can flip through the novel and delve into the hidden stories."
Mike's eyes lit up. This was indeed a cost-effective way to kickstart the project.
"And don't worry about the money," Takuya Nakayama said, seeing through Mike's concerns. "This project isn't urgent. Your primary focus should still be on finishing Warcraft: Humans and Orcs. The world-building expansion is for Warcraft II and Warcraft III, and some of it could even be adapted for other game genres. Since Sega has invested in you, they won't pull their funding just because you want to tell a good story."
He paused, his tone becoming more serious. "I want Blizzard to sell more than just game software in the future—I want it to sell a culture. This will not only create more revenue streams for your games but also help you withstand greater risks. Once Warcraft is globally recognized, we might even be able to make a movie."
These words struck the two men like a hammer blow.
In an era when most games still revolved around "saving the princess" and "slaying monsters," the vision Takuya Nakayama painted was too visionary, too alluring.
Mike Morhaime took a deep breath, the worries about investors meddling or coveting shares completely vanishing.
This man before them had not only provided the money but also given them something they desperately needed: direction.
"Understood," Mike nodded solemnly. "We'll thoroughly review the documentation. If we're doing this, we'll create a true Azeroth."
Chris's cheeks flushed crimson with excitement, and he couldn't wait to rush back and rewrite the script.
He grabbed the sketches on the table, his hands trembling slightly. "Regarding the Burning Legion... I just had an idea. What if—"
"Save your thoughts. Write them down and refine them," Takuya Nakayama said with a smile, standing up and patting Chris on the shoulder. "Take your time. We have plenty of time."
Watching the two men immerse themselves in their work, Takuya Nakayama's lips curved into a slight smile.
Without the bothersome investors stirring things up, Blizzard might become even stronger in this lifetime.
After bidding farewell to the Blizzard team, who had already plunged back into pizza and code, Takuya Nakayama drove straight back to Redwood City without delay.
Compared to Blizzard's geek-centric "workshop," the current Silicon Valley Online headquarters exuded a Wall Street-like solemnity and order.
As soon as he entered the conference room, Frank Marshall handed him an espresso instead of a cola.
"It seems you haven't had an easy year, Frank," Takuya Nakayama said, accepting the coffee and glancing at the mountain of data reports piled on the table.
"It's been a bittersweet journey. Especially last month, after the 42nd U.S. President, Clinton, detailed his ambitious vision for building the 'Information Superhighway' in his State of the Union Address, proposing to connect every classroom, clinic, library, hospital, business, store, bank, news organization, TV station, conference hall, entertainment venue, and computer data in America by the year 2000. That's when our valuation soared past $300 million."
Frank unbuttoned his suit jacket, sat down, and pointed to the candlestick chart on the wall. "Over the past year and a half, at least a dozen companies have tried to replicate our model. They copied ICQ's interface, the section classifications of BBS, and some even lifted our user agreement verbatim."
Tom Kalinske, sitting beside him, pulled his legs down from the table and scoffed. "And what was the result? They just put on a pretty face. Users would register, only to find a ghost town inside or a wasteland filled with spam. In the end, they all came crawling back to us."
Frank nodded, his expression proud. "Because our core assets are immovable. The barrier to entry in the 'Industry' section is now astronomically high. Those top engineers and professors only recognize our account IDs. Last month, a discussion thread about TCP/IP protocol optimization directly drew a response from a senior researcher at DARPA. That level of credibility is our deepest moat."
Takuya Nakayama flipped through the operational report in his hands, his finger stopping at the "Startups & VC" page.
This section, once dismissed as an "outlandish experiment," had now become Silicon Valley's most ferocious capital arena.
"Do venture capital firms still send interns to monitor this section daily?"
"Interns?" Tom burst into laughter. "Takuya, you're underestimating yourself. Now it's partners from Sequoia and KPCB personally watching it! As soon as a halfway decent project is posted, the poster's inbox is flooded within ten minutes. We've spawned hundreds of funded companies—we've become Silicon Valley's de facto online incubator."
"While our influence is growing, business is still business."
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