"You get used to it," Takuya Nakayama said.
Compared to Netscape's aggressive approach of trying to revolutionize the very foundations of the Internet, Silicon Valley Online's methods were quite "clever" in a sneaky way.
In plain terms, they were parasites.
Takuya Nakayama was well aware that Silicon Valley Online's current prosperity was largely due to a few highly social software applications that cross-promoted and solidified user bases, not to mention those addictive virtual casinos.
When it came to contributing to the fundamental logic of the Internet, they were mere amateurs compared to standard-setting companies like Netscape.
But he felt no envy.
Making browsers? That was a dangerous game, like putting your life on the line.
Not only was the behemoth Microsoft sharpening its knives, but the very fact that Sega was a Japanese company meant they could never touch the vital arteries of the American Internet.
A Japanese company trying to control Americans' gateway to the Internet?
Those old men in Washington would sooner or later pass legislation to sanction them, or hit them with fines every other day.
Let those reckless young fools like Marc Andreessen handle such thankless, politically charged work.
"Frank, listen up," Takuya Nakayama said into the phone, his tone shedding its earlier teasing for the sharp shrewdness of a businessman. "Netscape's fire is a good thing. The real gold rush of the Internet is about to begin, but that doesn't mean we should be digging for gold ourselves. Remember our position—social networking is our core moat."
Frank immediately replied, "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten."
"So, don't drool over browser market share. It's meaningless." Takuya Nakayama idly drew circles on his desk. "Your only task is to keep a tight rein on Netscape and force them to upgrade their SSL Protocol. The current SSL 2.0 is a sieve; hackers can get through it like a breeze. If we can't plug this hole, we can't confidently web-enable many of our businesses."
Once Netscape built a solid foundation for secure transmission, Silicon Valley Online could smoothly and securely integrate its payment systems and user data.
Sega's inaction gave Sony breathing room—or, rather, time for internal infighting.
To justify the 39,800 yen price tag—a price that felt like a "Seven Injuries Fist" technique—Ken Kutaragi had been working harder than he ever had during all-nighters in the R&D lab.
He had to shed his white lab coat, the symbol of an engineer's pride, and don an ill-fitting suit for social events, mingling in the high-end restaurants of Akasaka.
Getting the haughty old guard from the Home Appliances and Audio-Visual divisions to join the same cause required more than just PowerPoint visions of the future. It demanded real money, tangible benefits, and a stomach full of antacids.
Late at night in a private izakaya room, Kutaragi refilled the Audio-Visual Department Manager's sake cup once again.
This was the third time he had vomited that evening, his stomach churning like a high-speed centrifuge. Yet he forced himself to steady the hand holding the sake bottle.
"Sony Computer Entertainment will fully support the MMCD format," Kutaragi gritted out, the words laced with alcohol.
"Just get the board to approve the PlayStation's pricing strategy, and I guarantee the next-generation console will use the DVD standard you champion. We can even make the PlayStation's successor a technical verification platform for your efforts."
As for the details of Sega sharing the CD-ROM development costs or paying Sony patent fees for each disc they pressed, the engineers didn't care. Sony Computer Entertainment had been vying for resources with them from day one—that was the fundamental conflict in their internal positions.
The veteran department managers across the table exchanged glances.
Though the engineers normally looked down on each other—those in TVs disdained those in Walkmans, and those in Walkmans looked down on those in game consoles—in this life-or-death moment, they showed more humanity than the finance people.
Who hadn't had their product iterations stalled by budget constraints?
Who didn't know how agonizing that pre-dawn darkness before a new technology takes root could be?
Who hadn't experienced the torment of a new product failing to gain market acceptance?
Helping Ken Kutaragi today was like securing a safety net for their future selves.
"Deal," the Audio-Visual Department Manager said, slamming his glass on the table. "I'll talk to Iwata. That old stubborn mule may not like you, but he wants to show the Matsushita folks who's the real boss of optical storage. Internal resource competition is one thing, but when it comes to the company's overall strategy, that's another. We won't be the dead weight Columbia Pictures is."
With the tacit approval of the technical factions and the tacit consent of Oga Norio, the "special financial grace period" for the PlayStation was finally approved by the board of directors.
But this was no death sentence; it was more like a reprieve.
The Finance Department, a pack of hungry wolves, cared nothing for technological visions, only for the black ink on their balance sheets.
The resolution presented to Ken Kutaragi was brutally clear:
Approved Price: 39,800 Japanese Yen.
Condition: One year.
Starting from the launch date, Sony Computer Entertainment would have only twelve months.
If, after one year, the PlayStation's installed base growth hadn't shown an explosive trend sufficient to cover initial losses, or if royalty revenue hadn't demonstrated a clear path to positive cash flow, the group would immediately cut off all financial support and even consider spinning off or restructuring the division.
"This is the imperial sword you asked for," Nobuyuki Idei said, pushing the document across the table. His expression was unreadable. "For this price, you'll be dragging the Home Electronics and Audio-Visual departments into the fire for years to come. Is it worth it?"
Ken Kutaragi snatched the document, didn't even glance at the riders, and stuffed it into his briefcase.
"If we win this battle," he said, rubbing his throbbing temples, his voice hoarse, "it will be equivalent to following in Mr. Morita's footsteps and rebuilding Sony Music from the ground up. Then, the entire company will praise the President's brilliance and our contributions."
Nobuyuki Idei carefully folded the balance sheet, which showed staggering losses, and slipped it into his suit pocket.
He didn't mention the troublesome financial black hole again. Instead, he turned to watch Kutaragi, who was re-tying his tie.
"What's next? How should we handle the press conference?" Idei asked casually, as if inquiring about dinner plans. "Sega heated things up so much. Should we follow their lead, or just announce the release date on the front page of the newspaper and be done with it?"
Kutaragi paused mid-motion.
He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled a game lineup from the messy pile of documents, glanced at it, and tossed it back onto the table with a look of disdain.
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