The era of browser-based services had begun, and countless companies that would later become "unicorns" might be hidden within this chaotic list of applications, waiting for Webdir's reviewers to stamp their approval.
Webdir was living the good life.
As the dominant gateway to the internet at the time, it was reaping the benefits of Netscape's popularity, with its traffic soaring.
But Takuya Nakayama saw not prosperity, but peril.
Manually categorizing and tagging websites—the "Yahoo model" of his past life—had worked when there were only thousands or tens of thousands of sites.
But this was an exponentially growing internet. When the number of websites reached millions, even tens of millions, would they need to hire half the world's population as reviewers?
The golden age of directory-based navigation was short—so short that if they didn't prepare in advance, they'd be left behind in the blink of an eye.
This was the inherent limitation of manual directories.
The root cause of Google's eventual dominance over Yahoo lies here. Relying on humans to categorize the Internet is like trying to fit the ocean into a teacup.
Takuya Nakayama closed the presentation and began typing on his keyboard, composing an email he had already mentally drafted.
[ To: Frank ]
[ The congestion on Webdir is good news—it means we're at the eye of the traffic storm. ]
[ But you're right to complain. The era of human labor is over. ]
[ Accelerate the "Search Engine" project immediately. ]
[ I don't want some trivial tool that only searches file names. I want the real crawler I drew on the whiteboard—one that can crawl web content and build a proper index. ]
[ Don't worry about whether the current algorithm is perfect or if the servers can handle the load. ]
[ Today's users are like country folk just arriving in the city—they have no idea what a good search experience is. ]
[ Just add a long rectangular box at the top of Webdir, tell them to "Enter what you're looking for," and even if we only show them one page of relevant results, they'll think it's magic. ]
Remember, Webdir is the map, and the search engine is the guide.
We need to bind these two together.
If users get used to typing search queries into the Webdir box, we've won.
Even if our search results are mixed with junk, it doesn't matter. The internet is already a garbage heap anyway. The real skill is being able to dig something useful out of it.
We'll launch and fix as we go.
Don't wait for a perfect version. In this industry, speed is everything.
—Takuya
He clicked send.
A month felt like an eternity to office workers waiting for payday, but for Sega, at the eye of the storm, it passed in the blink of an eye.
Their promotional campaign was overwhelming yet surprisingly straightforward.
No expensive idol endorsements, no confusing conceptual art films.
Takuya Nakayama's strategy was blunt and direct: what you see is what you get.
Sega bought up all the prime-time GG Slots on television.
The screen showed no unnecessary chatter, just live gameplay demos of their launch titles.
The final shot of the commercial was always the black console, and the price that would make competitors' hearts seize.
The GG slogan was brazenly direct: "Jupiter, the next-gen console, the next-gen game."
Hideki Sato, looking at the simple marketing schedule in his hand, was hesitant: "Managing Director, isn't this a bit... crude? Sony hired a famous director for their GG. Will just showing game footage seem too basic?"
"Basic?" Takuya Nakayama, who was circling key distribution cities on a map with his fountain pen, didn't even look up. "Players aren't paying 39,800 yen to put a console on their shelf as a decoration. They want to know what kind of games they'll get for that price."
As it turned out, simplicity was most effective.
This relentless "direct-hit" marketing quickly forged an equation in consumers' minds: Jupiter equals next-gen games.
The electronics shop owners of Akihabara were the happiest.
Before, selling the 3D0 required painstaking efforts to explain "interactive multimedia" to customers. Now, that was a thing of the past.
Pointing to the TV at the entrance, which was looping demos of the launch games, a simple "That's the Sega Jupiter's game" was enough for customers to put down a deposit and place an order.
And their store even received Sega's GG funding.
Sega had thrown all its resources into channel coverage.
From Tokyo's subway stations to Osaka's convenience stores and New York's Times Square, that deep black color and aggressive pricing were as ubiquitous as the air itself.
This wasn't marketing; it was shoving the product right in consumers' faces.
November 12th, a weekend.
Sony's showroom in Aoyama, Tokyo, had been temporarily transformed into a PlayStation preview event.
Though there were no massive roadshows, Sony's golden brand name and the attention-grabbing price war with Sega had drawn a decent crowd.
The crowd that gathered lacked the usual feverish excitement of onlookers, instead exuding a critical air. They were all core gamers, raised on arcade machines and clutching coins in their pockets, along with media reporters observing with discerning eyes.
Ken Kutaragi didn't retreat to the VIP lounge. Instead, he removed his ID badge and blended into the crowd.
At the most prominent position in the exhibition area stood four Sony Trinitron televisions, all running Namco's Ridge Racer.
The visuals were undeniable. When the yellow sports car drifted through the corners, the tire smoke and dust effects were a league above the Mega Drive's blocky graphics.
"The graphics are so clean," a college student in a plaid shirt said, gripping the controller and expertly mashing the D-pad with his thumb. "They're almost like the arcade version."
"It's good," his companion said, arms crossed, his gaze drifting to the adjacent booth. "But I've almost beaten this game at the Nakano arcade. Why spend 40,000 yen to buy it at home just to save a hundred yen per coin?"
Ken Kutaragi tightened his hand in his pocket.
This was a fatal flaw.
No matter how advanced Namco's technology, the result was just a bowl of cold rice.
What made his stomach clench even more was the adjacent booth.
Several machines stood isolated, their screens displaying the green pattern of a mahjong table—Mahjong Goku Tenjiku.
"Using a 32-bit processor and capable of rendering over 360,000 polygons per second... to play mahjong?" A game magazine editor, notebook in hand, shook his head as he took notes, the smirk on his lips dripping with mockery. "Sony's 'home entertainment center' concept really is for everyone."
A subtle awkwardness hung in the air.
Everyone acknowledged the machine's impressive performance and meticulous craftsmanship, but the irresistible urge to buy simply refused to ignite in the face of this pile of mahjong and cold rice.
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