That night, the Tokyo media scene showcased astonishing linguistic prowess, a veritable exhibition of "language art" at its peak.
No one dared to mention the pitiful ratio of hardware to software, nor did anyone delve into the real reason for the "sell-out": insufficient stock.
Some media outlets even ran misleading headlines like: "Sony's New Machine Sparks Buying Frenzy, Stores Across the Country Post 'Sold Out' Signs."
On the surface, the statement was flawless.
With only twenty to thirty thousand units released, it was only natural they would sell out quickly.
Whether the sell-out was due to low stock or overwhelming demand was left to the reader's imagination.
Even more amusing was how they handled the software sales.
Since people were buying the consoles but not the games, they simply shifted their focus.
"Perfect Debut for a Home Entertainment Terminal," "Audiophile-Conquering High-Fidelity Sound," "Redefining Living Room Entertainment."
They managed to spin a game console launch report into something resembling a high-end audio equipment review.
The reporters' words flowed like flowers, emphasizing the SPU audio chip and CD playback function as if Sony were selling charity appliances with a free game.
After all, defining the PlayStation as "a CD player that can play games" explained why game software wasn't selling well while maintaining Sony's image as a "high-end electronics manufacturer."
Everyone tacitly agreed to maintain this fragile lie.
As long as no one punctured that thin veil of pretense, Sony would remain the invincible electronics empire, and the PlayStation would continue to be the "dream machine" that carried the future.
As for the truth? That wouldn't matter until the financial reports came out, or until players realized their machines were good for nothing but listening to music. Only then would anyone start caring.
Hideki Sato tossed the newspaper clipping about the PlayStation's initial sales figures into the shredder. The machine's whirring and crunching of paper sounded particularly satisfying in the office.
"Looks like Ken Kutaragi's year is going to be a tough one," Sato said, watching the paper scraps fall. Despite his best efforts to remain composed, a hint of schadenfreude crept into his voice. "Though it's not being reported, the numbers certainly can't be compared directly to our Jupiter's sales. The media might be helping to cover it up, but everyone in the industry knows the score."
"They were down for the count in the first round."
Takuya Nakayama sat in his boss chair, his eyes fixed on the freshly printed global inventory warning report in his hands, not even looking up.
"Their downfall was expected. If they could still recover from this, then all my hard work over the years would have been for nothing." He drew a thick red circle around a section of the report. "Stop obsessing over Sony's PlayStation. They won't be making any waves for a while. Our biggest enemy isn't Sony—it's our own inventory."
Sato leaned in to take a look and gasped.
The report showed global sales figures for Jupiter two weeks after its launch:
- Japan: 382,000 units
- North America: 954,000 units
- Europe: 131,000 units
Total: Nearly 1.5 million units.
"These numbers are insane," Sato murmured. "Even when GamePocket was at its peak, we only sold this many in a month. And this is just two weeks—North America is practically devouring the machines."
"We started with two million units in stock, and now there are less than 500,000 left," Takuya Nakayama said, pushing the report aside and rubbing his temples. "At this rate, Walmart's purchasing manager will be camped out at our office next week, using the stockout as an excuse."
Once the supply chain breaks, the benefits of their "scarcity marketing" will backfire. If players can't get their hands on the machine, they'll turn to the Super Famicom or simply hold onto their money. That would be the biggest loss of all.
"What about the production lines?"
"They're running around the clock, and we've shipped two more batches in the last two weeks. But I don't know if we can keep up."
Without a word, Takuya Nakayama picked up the secure phone on his desk and dialed an international number.
It rang for a long time before being answered. The receiver crackled with the roar of machinery and muffled Cantonese shouting, clearly indicating the caller was on the factory floor.
"Hello? Managing Director?" Oguchi Hisao's voice was raspy. The background noise included the beeping of a reversing forklift and even faint engine sounds that sounded like aircraft.
"Mr. Koguchi, where are you now?" Takuya Nakayama glanced at the clock on the wall. It was afternoon in Tokyo, so it should be working hours there, but the noise was overwhelming.
"I'm at a warehouse near Guangzhou Baiyun Airport, keeping an eye on the latest shipment being prepared for loading," Oguchi Hisao shouted over the phone, seemingly covering one ear. "I've been running around to all the contract manufacturers in the Pearl River Delta."
"To meet the deadline, I've even pulled in Nine-Tattooed Dragon's connections. Every injection molding machine that's working is churning out small parts for Jupiter."
"I appreciate your efforts," Takuya Nakayama said with a smile, this kind of execution was exactly what he needed. "I just reviewed the reports. Without you monitoring things on-site for the past two weeks, we'd be facing a shortfall of hundreds of thousands of units by Christmas."
"That's right. I've even moved my sleeping bag into the workshop supervisor's office," Oguchi Hisao replied, a hint of pride in his voice. "But Managing Director, the workers are getting restless. With the end of the year approaching, everyone wants to go home for the Lunar New Year. The factory's HR manager says December should be manageable, but January will be tricky. China's Lunar New Year falls at the end of January next year, and large numbers of workers will start heading home by mid-January. After that, we can't guarantee production capacity."
"It's about money?"
"It's mainly homesickness. You know the saying, 'Rich or poor, go home for the New Year.' Of course, enough money could alleviate it somewhat, but it would only retain a small portion of the workforce."
"Then let's give it to them," Takuya Nakayama replied with unwavering resolve. "I'm confident that based on our current production and sales forecasts, we can hold out until after the New Year holidays in Japan and North America. But there will still be some sales after the holidays. Keeping those who stay and ensuring they can handle this portion of the shipments should be sufficient."
Oguchi Hisao on the other end of the line clearly hesitated. "Managing Director, the 'small portion' I mentioned still adds up to a significant number. The cost—"
"Compared to the market vacuum we'd face if we ran out of stock, this labor cost is nothing," Takuya Nakayama said, lighting a cigarette, his tone steady. "Also, Mr. Koguchi, you shouldn't plan on going home for the New Year either."
"Huh?"
"I know this is cruel. Your wife and children are waiting for you in Tokyo." Takuya Nakayama exhaled a ring of smoke. "But at this critical juncture, we can't let our supply chain falter. I need you to stay put, watch every container as it's loaded onto the ships, and track every chip as it enters the warehouse."
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