27,200 units.
That was the final tally for the PlayStation's launch day.
If you didn't compare it to the competition, this would have been a performance worthy of champagne celebrations by the board of directors for a first-party company venturing into the gaming hardware industry for the first time. After all, even the Nintendo Famicom's launch day sales hadn't been much better.
But the problem was that Sega had set the bar for "launch day" sales at a ridiculous 480,000 units just two weeks prior.
In the conference room at Sony Computer Entertainment Headquarters, there was no champagne, only lukewarm tea and overflowing ashtrays.
Ken Kutaragi slammed the flimsy fax paper onto the table, making everyone jump.
"Twenty-seven thousand," he stared at the number as if it were a diagnosis of a terminal illness. "Not even a fraction of Sega's numbers. Is this the result of three years of preparation?"
Nobuyuki Idei rubbed his throbbing temples, trying to salvage some dignity from the dismal data. "At least Ridge Racer performed well, selling 19,000 units with a hardware-to-software ratio of nearly 70%. This shows that core gamers still recognize the machine's capabilities and the game's quality."
"What about the remaining 30%?" Ken Kutaragi countered, his finger moving to another column on the report. "And those who bought the machines but not Ridge Racer—what did they buy? A-Train 4 sold fewer than two thousand copies, Ultra Cosmic Cruise just over four thousand, Hot-Blooded Family a little over three thousand, and this one, Mahjong Goku Tenjiku, sold fewer than four hundred.
Even over two thousand machines were taken home without a single game disc.
An awkward silence fell over the conference room.
This was the bitter fruit of Sony's "consumer electronics" strategy.
The market research report was blunt: a significant portion of consumers had been lured by the "39,800 yen Sony high-end CD player" gimmick.
They were shrewd enough to know that CD players with comparable decoding capabilities cost at least ten thousand yen on the market, with higher-end models ranging from fifty to sixty thousand yen. A machine that could play games was practically a "steal."
The problem was, Sony wasn't running a charity.
Each PlayStation unit was sold at a loss, with the hope of recouping the losses through software sales and royalties.
The situation was dire: the consoles were being bought as CD players to play Michael Jackson records for the sound, and Sony was not only failing to earn a single yen in royalties but was also losing 4,000 yen per unit on hardware.
"This is practically bleeding Sony Computer Entertainment dry," the finance director said, his face turning green as he stared at the deficit report.
Ken Kutaragi irritably loosened his tie.
He knew that complaining about the strategy was useless now.
"Software," he spat out the word. "We need more titles like Ridge Racer. Namco alone can't carry the platform."
"Third-parties are sitting on the sidelines," the developer relations manager said grimly. "Sega's install base numbers are too tempting. Many small to medium-sized developers who can't afford to develop for multiple platforms are lining up for Sega's development kits instead of giving us a second glance."
"Then let's help them develop," Kutaragi said suddenly, his voice carrying a desperate, all-or-nothing intensity.
"Let's do what Sega did with the Mega Drive. Send our technical teams to embed themselves in major third-party manufacturers. Forget about technical secrecy—give them the underlying code, teach them how to use the GTE Engine, even help them write the code."
He surveyed the room, his eyes blazing with intensity. "Since we can't budge on royalties, let's help them cut development costs. Tell Konami, tell Square—if they're willing to make games for PlayStation, Sony's engineers will be their free labor."
This move was the ultimate humiliation, lowering Sony to the dust.
The mighty Sony, reduced to serving third-party developers.
But when survival is at stake, what's dignity worth?
"One more thing," Nobuyuki Idei said, closing the folder and glancing at the head of the marketing department. "How should we phrase tomorrow's press release?"
By convention, the day after a new console's launch, first-day sales figures are always announced to boost the stock market and player confidence.
"Write that sales are booming and the console is sold out in multiple locations," Ken Kutaragi said coldly.
"What about specific numbers? The reporters will definitely ask."
"No comment."
Kutaragi stood up and walked to the window, gazing out at the dazzling Tokyo nightscape below, his silhouette looking somewhat desolate.
"Until our install base reaches even one-tenth of Jupiter's, anyone who dares leak this 27,000 figure will be writing their own resignation letter."
Once that number was published, even if the media remained silent, the impression that "Sony isn't all that impressive after all" would take hold, and PlayStation would be finished.
In this high-stakes gamble, Sony had no choice but to put on a brave face, pretending everything was under control.
As for the machines being bought home as CD players—Ken Kutaragi narrowed his eyes.
Once the machines were in people's living rooms, even if they were only used for listening to music now, the optical disc drive would eventually be filled with game discs when good games came along.
Even if it meant acting as a Trojan horse, they had to be the most patient one.
Soon, the fax machines in the newsrooms of major newspapers began spewing out paper.
Sony's press release was beautifully worded, filled with phrases like "unprecedented success," "sold out in a flash," and "impossible to find."
The one crucial thing missing was the actual numbers.
The editors were old foxes; they weren't playing games with Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio.
When Sega Jupiter launched two weeks earlier, they had plastered "480,000 units on day one" on every face they could.
Sony's evasiveness could only mean that the numbers were too embarrassing to share—at least, too embarrassing to compare with Sega's Jupiter.
The article didn't even mention software sales, a cardinal sin in the industry.
Selling hardware without software is known as "inflated install base" in the gaming world—or, more crudely, "junk."
"Editor-in-Chief, how should we run this story?"
The layout editor pointed at the line, "This also proves the powerful appeal of the PlayStation as a next-generation console," his expression suggesting he was about to swallow a fly. "If we print this next to Sega's sales report, readers will think we're telling a bad joke."
If we wrote the truth—"Sony's launch sales were less than a fraction of Sega's"—Sony's PR department would cut all their GG advertising budget for the next year.
The Editor-in-Chief crushed his cigarette butt in the coffee-stained ashtray, his gaze sweeping over the thick envelope on the corner of the desk—the "courtesy fee" delivered by Sony earlier. It was substantial enough to cover two good meals in Ginza.
"Take their money, cover their tracks," the Editor-in-Chief said, tapping the table to set the tone. "Don't mention specific numbers or Sega. Just focus on the word 'sold out' and make a story out of it."
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