If you didn't look at the mastheads, you might have thought that EGM across the ocean and Japan's Famitsu were printed by the same publishing house.
The media's consensus on Sonic 3D was remarkably consistent: it was practically a textbook on game development. Sega had essentially handed everyone the definitive answer for "3D action games." While other developers were still struggling with issues like polygon clipping and camera tracking, Mark Cerny had already shown the world with this blue hedgehog how 3D games should run and how cameras should follow.
As for Paper Pokémon Adventure, the reviews were unanimously gushing.
"It's not just playing a game; it's playing with dimensions," wrote a notoriously harsh critic in his column. "The logic of perfectly blending 2D paper figures with 3D environments for puzzle-solving is not just one level above simply stacking up features; it's several leagues above."
Moreover, Famitsu awarded both games a rare and exceptionally high score of 39.
This near-worshipful praise, combined with Famitsu's platinum rating and the rumors quietly circulating from Akihabara, created a peculiar chemical reaction.
"Did you hear? Sega's production capacity can't keep up. They might be out of stock next week."
This single sentence was more effective than any promotional discount.
Players who had been hesitating in front of the demo TVs at game stores, wallets in hand, wondering whether to wait for the Sony PlayStation, felt a primal fear surge through them at the word "out of stock."
Human joy and sorrow are not shared, but the fear of "not being able to buy" is etched into our genes.
In a large chain store in Ikebukuro, Tokyo, the manager had barely hung up the "Jupiter In Stock Today" sign before being mobbed by the crowd, nearly pressed against the wall.
"Boss, give me one! No nonsense—the full launch bundle!"
"Weren't you waiting for the PlayStation?" a companion tugged at the sleeve of the sweat-drenched office worker. "It's only two weeks away. And I heard the reviews from Sony's demo event were pretty good—"
"What are you waiting for?!" The office worker shoved his companion aside, his eyes locked on the dwindling black boxes behind the counter like they were his last lifeline. "Haven't you read the papers? Sega's machines are selling like hotcakes! Who knows how much stock is left? If we wait any longer, we won't even be able to snag the scalpers' meager supplies. Besides, we can play this one first and buy Sony's PlayStation next month when we get our year-end bonuses."
These self-consoling excuses crumbled into dust with the cashier's "beep" as he scanned the items.
The 39,800 yen console, plus four game discs each costing several thousand yen.
Several Yukichi Fukuzawa bills were handed over, and only a few coins came back as change.
As the group squeezed out of the crowd, clutching their heavy Jupiter consoles, the autumn wind gradually cooled their heated heads. It was then that the grim reality struck:
Their wallets were empty.
Forget the PlayStation two weeks from now—they'd have to budget carefully just to afford next month's meals.
But this remorse usually vanished the moment they got home and powered on the console.
When the TV screen lit up, whether it was the blue hedgehog speeding through a 3D world or the paper-flat Pikachu solving puzzles in a three-dimensional maze, the thrill of "buy now, enjoy now" instantly crushed any lingering guilt about Sony.
In the face of genuine gaming fun, the whines of empty wallets didn't even register as a fart in the wind.
In just two days, the middle-ground players who had been holding back their money were swept over to Sega like a field of wheat under a combine harvester.
This was Takuya Nakayama's "saturation bombing" strategy.
Leave no retreat for the opponent, and no money in the players' pockets.
November 26th.
Just seven days after the Jupiter's launch, the streets of Akihabara were once again set ablaze with excitement.
Sega showed no intention of giving players a moment's rest. The second wave of their offensive was as relentless as a fighting game combo.
The lineup included the flagship titles of Sega's latest arcade board: Virtua Fighter 2 and the port of The Fast and the Furious, along with Phantasy Star III, touted as an "interactive anime," and the bizarrely styled Demon Samurai, its screen overflowing with the Ukiyo-e-esque aura of yokai.
With these four cards thrown down, Sega had essentially covered every audience, from hardcore fighting game fans to Japanese RPG enthusiasts, from car racing simulation to side-scrolling action.
But this time, the usual frenetic energy at the arcade entrance was noticeably absent.
"Strange... they still have stock?"
At a Sega flagship store in Shinjuku, salaryman Matsumoto, just off work, stared at the neatly stacked boxes of Virtua Fighter 2 on the shelf, his hand clutching a crumpled bill.
Based on past experience, a national hit of this magnitude would normally require at least a three-hour queue on release day just to touch the box. If you arrived late, you'd be met with the Manager's scowl and a curt "Sorry, we're out. Try again later."
"Don't bother looking. There are still several cases in the back warehouse," said a store clerk, not even lifting his head as he restocked Demon Samurai boxes. "Sega went all out with the stock this time. No need to rush."
Matsumoto paused, the panic of "I have to buy it now or never" instantly fading.
He patted his wallet, which had been emptied by the Jupiter console, and glanced at the shelves.
If I don't have to rush, why not wait until next month's payday? I can finish that blue hedgehog game at home first.
This mindset spread rapidly through the gaming community.
At Sega Headquarters, Hideki Sato frowned as he reviewed the sales reports from various terminals.
"Managing Director, the hard-soft ratio isn't as high as we expected," Sato said, pointing to the report. "Most players only bought one or two launch titles. Even though the second wave has been critically acclaimed, its sales momentum isn't as strong as the first week. Could it be that our release schedule is too aggressive? Are we draining players' wallets too quickly?"
"Sato, you're still thinking with a cartridge-era mindset."
Takuya Nakayama held his coffee cup, inhaling the rich aroma. "Why did players scramble for games back then? Because cartridge production cycles were long, ROM chips were expensive, and we had to place orders with manufacturers three months in advance. Once a title sold out, it would take two months to restock. That sense of scarcity was forced upon us."
He set down his cup and casually picked up a Phantasy Star III game case from the desk, shaking it gently.
"But this is different. These discs are just plastic. And mass-producing them is incredibly efficient—it's nothing like the hassle of making cartridges."
Nakayama's words were blunt but hit the mark. "How much does it cost to press a single disc? Less than 200 yen. The production cycle? With our lines running at full capacity, we can press hundreds of thousands a day. The risk of inventory piling up is practically zero for us. Let the shelves fill up. As long as players can buy when they want to, when they buy doesn't matter."
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