Before Oguchi Hisao could even complain, Takuya Nakayama immediately dangled a sweet carrot.
"After this New Year's offensive ends, around February, I'll approve a month of paid leave for you. Also, I'll give you the maximum bonus for this project—enough for a down payment on another house in Setagaya."
The line went silent for two seconds, then Oguchi Hisao's voice, brimming with enthusiasm, rang out, even louder than the background noise had been earlier.
"You can count on me, Managing Director! As long as I'm in Guangdong, the production line won't stop! I'll go coordinate with the factory managers right now. We'll cover their overtime pay during the holidays and give them an extra point of profit on all goods shipped during the New Year!"
"Good. That's the spirit. We'll need your continued efforts in production and shipping. Handle the details as you see fit." After hanging up, Takuya Nakayama crushed his cigarette butt.
As long as the supply chain remained unbroken, Sega could gain the upper hand in this initial showdown between the PlayStation and the Jupiter.
December 10th, Minato Ward, Tokyo.
The Sony Computer Entertainment (SCE) conference room was neither dejected nor jubilant.
The air hung thick with the peculiar smell of stale tobacco and overnight coffee, the olfactory imprint of a week of continuous overtime.
On Nobuyuki Idei's desk lay the final sales report for PlayStation's first week.
132,400 units.
Ken Kutaragi leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers, his gaze fixed on that number.
In a vacuum, or even two years prior, this upward trajectory—from 27,000 units on day one to 132,000 in the first week—would have been cause for champagne toasts among any hardware manufacturer.
It proved the market hadn't entirely abandoned Sony despite the slow start. Instead, the machine had managed to carve a foothold beneath Sega's shadow.
"We survived."
Ryoji Nakabachi broke the silence, removing his glasses to wipe them. His tone carried a hint of relief, as if narrowly escaping disaster. "At this rate, the risk of inventory buildup has been averted. Barring any major setbacks, the PlayStation brand is established. Sales should cross the survival line within the deadline."
For the conservative elders within Sony who were waiting to see Sony Computer Entertainment (SCE) fail, these sales figures were enough to silence their criticism.
At least, unlike the 3DO, SCE hadn't been in a state of near-death since its launch.
"Survive?" Ken Kutaragi sneered, slamming his pen onto the table. "Mr. Nakabachi, your standards are far too low. Look at Sega—their sales are probably so high they're struggling to clear their inventory. We're celebrating not dying, while they're counting money until their hands cramp."
His words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing the faint warmth that had begun to rise in the meeting room.
Indeed, 130,000 units seemed like a respectable number, but compared to Sega Jupiter's terrifying million-plus sales, it was like an ant at the foot of an elephant.
Worse still, how many of those 130,000 machines had actually been bought for gaming?
"The software-to-hardware ratio isn't impressive," Nobuyuki Idei said, turning a page of the report and pointing at the glaring figure. "Except for Ridge Racer, which barely maintained its dignity, the sales of other games aren't worth mentioning. Many players bought the machines but didn't even buy a single game disc. What does that tell you? It tells you that in their eyes, we're just selling a cheap appliance."
"Hardware only paves the road; software is what keeps people invested," Ken Kutaragi declared, rising abruptly and striding to the whiteboard covered in development plans. He grabbed an eraser and furiously wiped away the trivial, secondary projects.
"Stop obsessing over sales charts and congratulating yourselves. From today on, I'm pulling everyone from the technical support department out of the office."
Kutaragi turned, his bloodshot eyes burning with the ferocity of a hungry wolf. "No more sitting in Headquarters writing development documents no one will read. Disperse them! Go to SNK, Konami, Capcom! Even tiny development teams of a dozen people—if they have an idea, send an engineer to work with them on-site!"
"On-site?" The head of developer relations froze. "The cost—"
"Cost? No one's talking about cost right now!" Kutaragi cut him off, his voice rising an octave. "Tell third parties: if they can't use the GTE Engine, we'll teach them hand-to-hand. If they can't write the code, our engineers will write it for them. If they don't understand 3D modeling, Sony will provide them with our asset library!"
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table, his posture radiating intensity. "We're sitting on a gold mine, yet we're acting like beggars. Our hardware is every bit as good as Jupiter's, but we're being treated like a CD player because we lack killer games. It's a disgrace! I want blockbusters, not those lukewarm mahjong titles. I want a nuclear-level game that forces players to buy a console just to play it!"
Nobuyuki Idei watched Ken Kutaragi, who was on the verge of an outburst, without intervening. Instead, he nodded slightly.
Indeed, relying on the "CD player" gimmick could keep them afloat for a while, but it would never win the war.
What Sony needed now wasn't steady growth, but a gamble that could turn the tide.
"Then it's settled," Idei said, closing the folder with a decisive thud. "For now, we don't need to worry too much about PlayStation's sales. Let's shift our technical team to the front lines and get a blockbuster software title out as soon as possible."
Meanwhile, Sega's fax machines were once again working overtime.
Resource exchange agreements, stamped with "URGENT," flew through the phone lines to the desks of major third-party manufacturers.
Small manufacturers, who had been struggling to breathe under Jupiter's overwhelming marketing blitz, clutched this sudden "Christmas gift package" and marveled that Sega had kept its word after all, actually ceding its promotional resources to third-party developers at such a critical juncture in the console war.
Takuya Nakayama's "retreat three steps" strategy was brilliantly executed.
With Jupiter's supply shortages already set in stone, it was better to hand over the prime real estate than to hoard the GG Brand and earn the public's ire by advertising machines that couldn't be bought.
The logic was simple: if PlayStation was trying to save the nation with a "CD-based console" strategy, Sega would join forces with all third-party developers to block that path with a flood of software.
In accordance with its earlier promises to third-party developers, Sega drastically reduced its promotional efforts for the Sega Jupiter and its launch lineup, creating ample space for third-party advertising.
Several days earlier, the team responsible for third-party relations had faxed the promotional resources they were preparing to transfer to each third-party manufacturer, ensuring they could immediately capitalize on the opportunity.
Thus, December 1994 witnessed a nearly magical boom in the gaming market.
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