"And for the players—" Hideki Sato continued, his voice dry. "Those who bought the Jupiter in November also bought enough launch titles to last them over a month. By December, when they get paid or receive their year-end bonuses, their money will be drained by the overspending on the Jupiter and its launch games. When Sony's PlayStation launches, they'll naturally be broke. Then, during the New Year holidays, when they have money again, they'll be dazzled by third-party games. Even if they're just 16-bit era games, they'll still divert attention from the PlayStation."
"Exactly," Takuya Nakayama said, his lips unsmiling, revealing only the cold calculation of a businessman. "This is 'saturation bombing.' It's not about 'making concessions'; it's about yoking the third-party developers to Sega's war chariot and forcing them to besiege Sony."
"Go ahead and send it out," Takuya Nakayama waved his hand. "While you're at it, leak the story to Famitsu. Tell them Sega has made a tremendous sacrifice to support the industry ecosystem, even temporarily halting new game releases for the Next-Gen console Jupiter. We need to portray ourselves as tragic heroes, willing to cut off an arm for the sake of the industry's prosperity."
Hideki Sato held the thin fax sheet, his fingertip hovering over the "Send to All" command. His brow furrowed so deeply it could have crushed a fly. "Managing Director, should we send it to Namco as well? Masaya Nakamura is practically in bed with Sony. If we send this to them, Ken Kutaragi will have a hot copy on his desk before the ink is dry."
Nakayama raised an eyebrow. "Send it. Why should we avoid it? I want Ken Kutaragi to see it."
"Do you think the retailers will keep quiet if we don't send it? We may have a stronger presence in retail, but Sony isn't a pushover. Such a massive business shift can't be hidden—and shouldn't be."
"This is called an open strategy," Nakayama said, leaning back in his chair and casually opening a financial report. "Namco may be close to Sony, but they're even closer to money. If we give them the biggest slice of the year-end pie to clear their inventory, Masaya Nakamura won't be foolish enough to refuse such a windfall. As for Ken Kutaragi—"
Takuya Nakayama paused, a cold glint in his eyes like a hunter watching their prey fall into a trap. "So what if he finds out? The PlayStation's release date is set, and the supply is limited. He can only watch helplessly as we drain gamers' wallets in November and see the third-parties scrambling to count their money on the Sega platform. What can he do besides smash a few cups in his office? Change the release date? Conjure a million units out of thin air?"
Hideki Sato was left speechless.
This was indeed a brilliant, underhanded strategy—a poisoned chalice forced down Sony's throat.
What Sato didn't know was that Nakayama's ruthlessness stemmed entirely from his memories of a past life.
In that previous life, the Sony PlayStation had launched on December 3rd.
Cross-referencing industry information, Nakayama guessed that Sony would still aim for a launch around the end of the year.
His entire plan—early stockpiling, global simultaneous release, price wars, and this "clear the decks" maneuver—was an ambush laid for that date.
As expected, that afternoon, the announcement sent an earthquake through the industry.
The executives of major companies like Namco, Konami, and Capcom stared at the fax in their hands, their expressions a mixture of amusement and calculation.
These were all seasoned veterans of the industry, and none of them missed the Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio-like maneuver Sega was pulling.
But seeing through it didn't mean saying it aloud. Since Sega had dangled the meat right under their noses, who could resist taking a bite?
Companies that had been hesitant about allocating resources to PlayStation were now buzzing with activity.
Sega's first-party retreat was a once-in-a-lifetime profit opportunity.
Who cared about the uncertain future of Sony? The priority was to clear out the warehouse inventory. Even taking a slight loss on discounts to convert stock into cash was the smart move.
Meanwhile, at Sony Headquarters, Ken Kutaragi slammed his fist on the desk several times, his face contorted with fury as he glared at the announcement hailed as the "Industry's Conscience."
"Bastard! Takuya Nakayama, you hypocritical bastard!"
He knew all too well the devastating impact of this move.
What did PlayStation need most?
A strong software lineup.
Sega's tactic had temporarily locked down the third-party resources that might have flowed to Sony, forcing them onto Sega's platform.
Even if PlayStation could somehow reach the critical sales threshold, this delay would inevitably stretch the timeline.
For Sony Computer Entertainment, reaching the breakeven point was the most crucial and urgent goal.
Nobuyuki Idei stood by, surveying the chaotic scene. He adjusted his glasses and spoke in a chillingly calm tone: "Kutaragi, getting angry now is useless. If we can't compete in games, we'll have to compete on appliance features. Let's also emphasize the CD player functionality more in our advertising. We need to secure either console sales or game sales. Otherwise, when the one-year deadline arrives, it'll be your and my doom."
Ken Kutaragi struggled to suppress his emotions. "I guess that's all we can do..."
Redwood City, San Francisco—Sega North America Headquarters.
Tom Kalinske was watching the newly edited TV commercial for the GG.
The ad lacked the subtle, parameter-laden approach of the Japanese ads. There was no bland talk of a "home entertainment center."
Instead, it was a rapid-fire montage set to explosive electronic music. A black man with dreadlocks roared the iconic "SEGA!" into the camera, followed by a massive 3D Sonic the Hedgehog bursting through the screen.
The image froze, and a block of red text slammed into the center of the screen like a brick:
$299
"This is insane," said Al Nilsson, Vice President of Marketing, sitting on the sofa and scratching his thinning hair. His voice, however, betrayed an unmistakable excitement. "Executive Director Nakayama is out of his mind. Selling it for 39,800 yen in Japan is one thing, but $299 in the US? That's less than a decent VCR."
"He's not crazy, he's trying to kill the PlayStation in the cradle," Kalinski said, tilting his head back to chug a can of Coke and letting out a loud burp. "What we need to do is simple: tell every kid in America that if they skip just two pairs of Nikes, they can bring the arcade home."
$299.
In an era where the 3D0 dared to charge $699 and even slightly outdated cartridge consoles went for over $100, this price wasn't just a slaughter—it was practically charity.
On the night of the GG's launch, the prime-time slots on all major American TV networks were completely dominated by that signature Sega blue.
In a typical home in Queens, New York, the Brown family, who were just about to turn off the TV and go to bed, were startled by the sudden surge in volume.
Ten-year-old Michael, who had been sulking because his only Thanksgiving gift was a new sweater, now sprang from the sofa like a monkey zapped by an electric shock.
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