At a Shibuya newsstand, the boss was struggling to carry in the newly arrived issue of Weekly Famitsu.
The magazine was absurdly thick, feeling like a brick in his hands.
The glued spine was nearly bursting, and the cover was crammed with game logos, even squeezing Hirokazu Hamamura's signature review column into a corner.
Normally, the editorial department would be scrambling to fill pages, begging for contributions. But now, faxes from major game companies piled up higher than a person, all pleading for exclusive scoops.
The office was in chaos.
"Editor-in-Chief, Capcom sent another batch of Dragon Warrior II artwork—unpublished designs, they say—and wants two extra color pages," the layout editor, his hair a bird's nest, shouted, waving several sample pages. "If we add more, we'll have to cut the reader mail section!"
Hirokazu Hamamura rubbed his throbbing temples, staring at the packed schedule grid.
Ever since Sega handed over its promotional resources, all the Third-Party manufacturers who had been holding back for a year had gone insane.
In the past, media outlets begged manufacturers for content; now, manufacturers are begging media for space.
"What are you talking about cutting the reader's column? That'll get us flamed," Hirokazu Hamamura snapped, grabbing a red pen and circling a section of the schedule with a decisive stroke. "We're doing a special issue. Let's pull out the RPGs and make it The End-of-Year RPG Mayhem. And charge a premium. These players are already blood-crazy—they won't balk at one more issue."
And so, in the biting cold of December, players had to worry not only about which games to buy but also about how to empty their pockets for which magazines.
At a newsstand, two high school students in uniform stared blankly at the newly released special issue.
"Hey, why are all these game magazines so thick today? Didn't they say Sony only had one decent racing game?"
"..."
"You know nothing. Half of this is just strategy guides for Sega MD games." His companion rolled his eyes and pointed to the small print at the bottom of the cover. "See? 'The Ultimate 16-bit Console Retrospective.' It's just a bait-and-switch. Still, it comes with a Great Shell Beast Story poster, so I have to buy it."
"My God, the magazine alone is a thousand yen, and that's before buying the game..." The boy groaned, patting his empty pockets. "My mom's cram school lunch money is completely gone."
"You won't die if you skip a couple of meals. You'll regret missing the limited edition cartridge for the rest of your life." His companion swiftly pulled out some money and slapped it on the counter, grabbing the thick magazine as he did. "Let's go to my place. I haven't even opened my new copy of Final Fantasy VI yet."
This kind of "sweet burden" had become the norm.
Media outlets were raking in profits, printing presses were churning out pages like wildfire, and only the wallets of gamers shivered in the cold wind.
Each thick magazine and detailed interview silently added fuel to Sega's scorched-earth policy, drowning out the voice of PlayStation in the rustling of turning pages.
The air in TV Tokyo's old building was usually stagnant.
But tonight, an indescribable heat filled the news department's director's booth.
Nakagawa Jun, the station manager, stood behind the monitors with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the fluctuating ratings numbers on the screen. The tea in his hand had long gone cold, yet he hadn't taken a single sip.
The words his son-in-law, Takuya Nakayama, had spoken at a family dinner half a month ago still echoed in his ears.
During their drinks, Takuya had avoided the usual pleasantries about family ties. Instead, he slammed his glass on the table, gestured toward the bleak Tokyo nightscape outside, and uttered a phrase that Nakagawa Jun had been pondering ever since: "Father, stop staring at the Nikkei Index. In mid-December, have someone count the GG Brand posters on the streets. If there's a single surface not plastered with game posters, I'll eat my hat."
Nakagawa Jun had no reason to doubt his son-in-law, who was already on the verge of joining Sega's board of directors despite his youth.
As a seasoned veteran of the media world, Nakagawa Jun had an uncanny sense for trends.
In Japan, the aftershocks of the real estate bubble collapse still reverberated, bank bad debts piled up like mountains, and the manufacturing sector was in shambles.
The news was filled with rising suicide rates and corporate layoffs, and viewers had grown weary of such depressing stories.
They needed a shot in the arm, a dream that would show them the path to riches.
From Takuya Nakayama's words, he naturally saw one of Japan's rare economic growth drivers: the vibrant and thriving video game industry.
He readily agreed to this.
Thus, TV Tokyo's flagship business program, World Business Satellite (WBS), took a sudden turn in tone that evening.
The usual suit-clad economic commentators, who normally wore grim and worried expressions, were now gesticulating wildly at a massive K-line chart.
"Viewers, please look at this chart."
On the screen, the line representing Japan's traditional manufacturing industry plummeted downward, as withered and bleak as dead autumn grass. But at the far right of the chart, a red line shot upward at a nearly vertical angle, piercing through the previously stagnant trend.
"This is the estimated comprehensive output value of Japan's video game industry for the fourth quarter of 1994." The host's voice trembled, not from nervousness, but from excitement. "While our steel, shipbuilding, and even semiconductor sectors are struggling under the weight of exchange rates and bad debt, one industry is expanding at a frenzied rate of 300%!"
The special commentator for the program, an economics professor from Waseda University, adjusted his glasses and pointed to the logos of Sega, Nintendo, and a host of third-party manufacturers on the backdrop. "Look at these companies. Just last week, Sega gave up hundreds of millions of yen worth of GG resources—a rare move in business history. But this precisely proves the vitality of this industry, a happy problem born from an explosion in production capacity."
"Ladies and gentlemen, while Toyota and Matsushita are cutting back on expenses, game companies are waving cash and seizing every GG Brand they can find."
The camera cut to a different scene.
No longer were we seeing images of lifeless, shuttered factories. Instead, we saw long queues of people in Akihabara, printing presses roaring through the night, and sweat-drenched but beaming workers at Sega's factories, working overtime to meet demand.
This vibrant, flourishing scene was something many other industries hadn't witnessed since the economic bubble burst years ago.
The Self-Made Group even interviewed several GG companies.
The normally aloof director of 4AGG Company, his face flushed crimson, waved a stack of orders at the camera. "It's crazy! Absolutely insane! Sega gave up all the golden GG Slots that originally belonged to Jupiter, and now small software companies are lining up at our front desk with cash! In my twenty years in this business, I've never seen anything like it! This isn't investing in GG—it's just throwing money around!"
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