This incident became a thorn in Yamauchi Hiroshi's side.
From then on, the old man became hypersensitive to the term "CD-ROM" and developed an aversion to anyone who championed optical disc technology.
Within Nintendo, the so-called "CD-ROM Harm Theory" was both a technical debate and a matter of political correctness.
"Then... what about our new console?" Masayuki Uemura asked tentatively.
"Cartridges," Yamauchi Hiroshi declared, leaving no room for negotiation. "Since Sega and Sony are scrambling to seize that cheap plastic disc market, we'll stick to our own path. Nintendo needs to maintain its position as the industry standard-setter. Tell those people at Silicon Graphics that we want the fastest possible read speeds and the most powerful 3D performance for our custom-compatible R4000 console chip. As for storage capacity, we'll solve that with our unique cartridge compression technology. I refuse to believe that all that game data can't fit onto a single cartridge."
"But what about third-party developers?"
"Let them go!" Yamauchi Hiroshi waved his hand dismissively. "The Super Famicom already has over 30 million units installed globally. As long as our new machine is strong enough, those third-party developers will eventually come crawling back to queue up for numbers. They can't live without Nintendo, just as fish can't live without water."
He picked up the Sega fax from the desk, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket at his feet.
"Sega wants to flood the market with cheap hardware, and Sony wants to disrupt the industry with their appliance-like approach. Let them fight it out. When they're drowning in piracy and long loading times, players will naturally realize who the true king of gaming is."
Shigeru Miyamoto stared at the crumpled paper in the bin, opened his mouth, and swallowed his words.
He actually wanted to say that Sega's Sonic 3D, despite its loading times, had been cleverly designed, making the interruptions almost imperceptible.
Technology is always advancing; clinging to the past isn't necessarily wise.
But in this fortress of Kyoto, the emperor's will was absolute law.
"By the way," Yamauchi Hiroshi said, a cunning smile playing on his lips as if he'd just remembered something, "even though we don't need optical discs, we can't let Sony have it too easy. Have the Legal Department stir up Philips again. Keep the SFC-CD project alive, even if it's just an empty shell. As long as we're still researching it, Sony's PlayStation will remain a bastard son in the public eye, without a legitimate claim to its name."
Gunpei Yokoi sighed inwardly.
This was the real Yamauchi Hiroshi.
Compared to technological innovation, the old man excelled at political maneuvering and maintaining the balance of power.
But this time, facing Sega's relentless, all-out assault, would these old-school imperial tactics truly work?
On November 23rd, just as Jupiter's black storm was sweeping through retail stores worldwide, Blizzard's young, pizza-fueled team finally delivered Warcraft: Orcs & Humans to the table.
Logically, releasing a PC game at this moment was like surfing in a tsunami—a suicidal move.
But Blizzard had Silicon Valley Online behind them.
And behind Silicon Valley Online stood Sega.
Though it seemed like a conflicting strategy, Frank Marshall didn't treat himself as an outsider this time.
The "Computer Games" section of Silicon Valley Online's BBS had been buzzing with activity in recent days.
On the bulletin board, senior users with "Senior Hardware Engineer" titles would casually drop "insider information" between discussions about motherboard drivers.
"Don't just focus on Sega's Jupiter—they're also making moves in the PC game market. Six months ago, they quietly invested in a small Irvine company called Blizzard. Rumor has it, the stuff these guys are making is so good, even the Japanese are calling it 'Yabai' (Damn, that's impressive!)."
Posts like this, blending technical admiration with gossip and curiosity, were a hundred times more effective than outright advertising.
In a dorm room at a California university, David stared at the green orc icon that popped up on his ICQ, his fingers itching to click it.
He'd been saving up to buy the Jupiter, but the pinned post on the BBS had completely turned his head.
The post's title was blunt and provocative: "Don't want to fight with kids over the TV? Try 'War for Adults'."
When he walked into the software store, David's eyes immediately locked onto the box.
Amidst the riot of colorful PC game boxes with abstract art covers, Blizzard's design was stark and solid.
But the real killer was the blue SEGA logo in the bottom right corner.
"Sega's making PC games now?"
With this question in mind, David pointed to the box. "Boss, I'll take this one."
The clerk, busy slapping "out of stock" labels on Jupiter, glanced over. "Good choice. This is today's best-selling PC game. They say it's Sega's only true PC offspring."
Back in the dorm, the optical drive whirred to life.
The screen lit up, skipping the usual lengthy logos to plunge straight into the game's crude, brutal fantasy art style.
David gripped the mouse, expecting another slow-paced, turn-based game where you take turns. But as soon as he started playing, sweat broke out on his palms.
No one waited for him to think.
Farmers had to chop trees relentlessly, and barracks had to churn out troops non-stop.
He selected a squad of green-skinned orcs with the mouse, right-clicked on a unit of human infantry, and the screen erupted into chaos. The visceral thrill of real-time feedback was a completely different beast from button-mashing on a controller.
"Stop poking me!"
As David idly clicked on an orc grunt over and over, a furious voice suddenly barked from the speakers.
The dorm erupted in pig-like laughter.
"These game developers are crazy bastards!" David cursed with a laugh, but his grip on the mouse tightened.
He suddenly realized those guys on the BBS who had been leaking "insider info" weren't just blowing smoke.
This time, Sega wasn't just aiming to conquer the living room; they were also eyeing that bulky computer in the study.
In a year filled with the bloody chaos of Doom and the silent puzzles of Myst on PC, a green-skinned brain suddenly squeezed onto players' hard drives.
These keyboard knights, who prided themselves on being hardcore, initially opened the box with critical eyes. After all, in the PC realm, Sega's logo felt somewhat "un-geeky."
But when the thick, multi-page manual—filled with the detailed history of Azeroth—slid out of the box, many couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.
This wasn't just a game manual; it felt like they'd stuffed in Tolkien's rough drafts.
Instead of the arrogant "throw you into the map and let you fend for yourself" approach, Blizzard had woven guidance into the very fabric of the game. The first level didn't even require strategic thinking; the in-game tutorials allowed players to get the hang of everything quickly.
"This control scheme feels... off."
In a dorm room at Caltech, David, a science major with a full beard, stared at the screen, his mouse movements growing increasingly frantic.
His roommate, slurping instant noodles, mumbled around his mouthful: "What's wrong? Lag? I told you Sega couldn't handle PC optimization—"
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