An NHK reporter was interviewing players as they left the demo event.
"What did you think of the machine?"
"It's pretty good. The controller feels as comfortable as Sega's, and the disc loading isn't as slow as I expected," the young man replied honestly.
"Will you consider buying it when it comes out?"
He scratched his head, his expression becoming conflicted. "Well... I'll wait and see. After all, Sega's Jupiter is coming out next week."
"Is it because of Virtua Fighter 2?"
"Not entirely. I can play Virtua Fighter 2 at the arcade anyway. It's more about the games that aren't available elsewhere." He sighed, patting his empty pockets. "The truth is, my part-time job money is only enough for one console. I can get the Sega Jupiter next week and play a bunch of games right away. Sony's won't be out until December, and frankly, except for the racing game, there's nothing I'm particularly excited about."
Another player added, "After the Sega Jupiter comes out, I'll check out their games. I want to compare them before making a decision."
One player even shrugged directly at the camera and said, "I want to support Sony, I have a Sony Walkman myself."
As he said this, he pulled the Walkman out of his pocket.
"But my wallet is already pre-ordered for several of Sega's launch games. Those games just feel so much more Next-Gen."
Ken Kutaragi stood at the back of the crowd, listening to these blunt truths, and felt as if the air conditioning in the exhibition hall was set too low, chilling him to the bone.
There were no outright criticisms or complaints about the hardware.
This lukewarm attitude—"The product is good, but I'm still going to wait and see what the competition offers"—was the most lethal soft knife.
Players weren't fools. Faced with limited budgets, whoever released the best games first became the king.
Sega's games were clearly more appealing, and Sony hadn't yet managed to paint a compelling enough picture of the future. Anyone could do the math.
Watching the group of friends leave arm-in-arm, discussing which store to try out the Jupiter after it launched, Kutaragi turned and walked backstage, his steps heavy as if he were carrying lead. This demo event hadn't been lost on technical grounds, but on the most basic logic of consumer choice.
But with things as they were, Sony had no choice but to press on.
Ken Kutaragi's mind was already racing ahead to the games Sony Computer Entertainment was pouring all its resources into developing.
In Redwood City, San Francisco, at Sega of America Headquarters, Tom Kalinske could still hear the Arkansas-accented roar of the Walmart Vice President of Purchasing even with the receiver held two inches from his ear.
The man had no time for business etiquette; he demanded twice the usual order right off the bat.
"Listen, Bill, I know you need to fill the shelves, but the trucks from Mexico are running around the clock already," Kalinski said, rubbing his throbbing temples. His voice carried an unmistakable hint of smug satisfaction. "Even if you drove your pickup truck to the Tijuana factory and blocked the gates yourself, I couldn't magically produce more consoles for you."
After hanging up, he tossed the notepad onto his desk, which was already a chaotic mess.
Across from him, Marketing Vice President Al Nilsen was staring blankly at a map of the United States, its surface bristling with red pushpins marking stockouts.
"This war is so lonely," Nelson said, looking up from his stack of data reports. He removed his glasses and wiped them. "Sony hasn't even shown up on the battlefield. We're fighting ghosts—or rather, we're in a desperate race against our own production capacity."
This was the reality of the North American market.
Without Sony's PlayStation, the Sega Jupiter entered the market like a Tyrannosaurus Rex crashing into a china shop. The bright red "$299" price tag reduced the 3DO, still selling at a hefty $699, to mere plastic trash.
Yesterday, a Best Buy purchasing manager even flew to Sega of America's headquarters and staked out the Starbucks downstairs, vowing not to leave until they secured an additional 10,000 units.
These guys were shrewd. They knew exactly what Thanksgiving meant.
Parents saw the cool blue hedgehog on the GG TV and then looked at the $299 price tag. There was no need to think.
"Just got feedback from the channels," Nelson said, sliding a freshly printed store layout diagram across the table. "Toys 'R' Us has removed all the display shelves originally reserved for the 3DO and Atari Jaguar. They've given the prime spot to the Jupiter. The reason's simple: the other consoles would just gather dust there, while the Jupiter's empty box alone is enough to make kids scream."
Kalinski studied the diagram, his fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern on the tabletop.
Takuya Nakayama's "global simultaneous launch" was a masterstroke.
He had cornered Sony on the other side of the Pacific.
November 19th.
For the people at Sony Headquarters, this day might have felt like an eternity, but for gamers worldwide, it was a festival.
Akihabara's Electric Town was gridlocked with long lines from early morning.
At the entrance of each store, a specially unboxed Jupiter unit glowed with an eerie blue light. On its screen, Akira Yuki was playing with fiery intensity, yet remarkably, no one stepped forward to try the controller.
Not that they didn't want to play, they simply didn't have the time.
The fat man at the front of the line clutched several sweat-soaked bills of Yukichi Fukuzawa, his eyes wide as saucers, staring fixedly at the cash register, terrified of missing out if he was a second late.
Those behind him were slightly calmer, heads bowed as they fiddled with their GamePockets. Only the rhythmic, slightly urgent sound of button presses betrayed their inner anxiety.
"Next!" The clerk's voice was hoarse as he mechanically scanned items, bagged them, and made change.
Who had time for demos and tutorials now?
The clack of the cash register drawer popping open was the only soundtrack of the day.
Across the Pacific, the scene in North America was a different story.
The electronics sections of Walmart and Best Buy looked like they had been hit by a hurricane.
Americans cared little for the art of queuing; they believed in physical occupation.
Shopping carts overflowed with a bizarre mix of gallon-sized milk, frozen pizzas, and the Jupiter black box.
The $299 price tag was dog-eared from countless hands touching it, and some children even sat directly in the gaps between shelves, waiting with eyes more devout than those fixed on a Thanksgiving turkey, for restockers to push out their carts.
Getting the console was only the first step; the real torture began in the software section.
In front of the shelves, two high school boys in uniform scratched their heads at the row of exquisite game covers.
"The King of Fighters II, an arcade port! This thing's a money-saver for the arcade. Master it at home, and tomorrow you'll be making those noobs cry at the arcade," one of the buzz-cut boys declared, spittle flying as he pointed at Kusanagi Kyo's cover.
"But Gundam Battle Operation lets you pilot a Mobile Suit at home!" His companion clutched his head in agony. "Isn't piloting a Zaku at home way cooler? That's the true romance of a man."
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