"If our game designers can avoid the psychological pitfalls of malicious addiction during development and instead focus on fostering a positive 'Flow' state, Sega's games will be more trustworthy for people to play."
These words left the medical experts present stunned.
Elevating game development to the level of mental health intervention was an unprecedented move in Japanese business history.
The head of psychiatry at Teikyo University adjusted his reading glasses, his gaze toward Takuya Nakayama shifting.
He had initially assumed this was just a wealthy young man seeking to buy fame with his money, but now he realized the young man had a far more sophisticated strategy in mind.
"If we can truly establish quantitative standards," the senior professor mused, "this could be a breakthrough for clinical psychotherapy."
"Sega will cover a portion of the funding and maintain continuous investment," Takuya Nakayama offered as his final incentive. "We'll handle equipment, personnel, and even the establishment of control groups for long-term tracking and sampling. Sega's Legal Department and Public Relations Department will manage all ethical reviews and volunteer recruitment. I have only one request..." He paused, then pushed the project proposal across the table.
"I want this research to become the cornerstone for setting anti-addiction standards in the Japanese and global gaming industries. While others are still debating whether games are a scourge, I want Sega to hold the whip to tame the beast and the key to its cage."
This was Takuya Nakayama's true ambition.
Once the joint research team produced authoritative conclusions, Sega would no longer be a passive entertainment company taking hits. It would become the industry's rule-maker.
At that point, competitors still relying on crude "Skinner box" principles to induce players to spend money, or even deliberately designing addictive traps, would be powerless against the "science and health" cudgel Sega wielded.
Professor Yonezawa looked at his star pupil, shook his head with a smile, and signed the collaborative agreement.
"You rascal, you're planning to put a restraining spell on the entire industry."
"No, Professor," Takuya replied, tucking away the agreement. A meaningful arc curved his lips. "I'm giving it a bulletproof vest."
Getting ahead of ourselves.
After obtaining the research data and reports from the Department of Game Social Psychology at the Tokyo Institute of Technology, Sega's sales department swiftly used these findings to accelerate the development of a marketing strategy.
The thick manual, "Psychological Intervention and Sales Techniques Guide for New Players Unfamiliar with Gaming," was slammed onto the desks of managers at major electronics stores in Akihabara by Sega's channel specialists.
Initially, these veterans of the retail trenches rolled their eyes at the manual's dense academic jargon.
In their view, selling game consoles was about shouting the loudest, offering the best freebies, and having the most flashy graphics on the TV screen. Talking psychology with customers? What a load of crap.
Some shop owners even grumbled, "If I were smart enough to understand this stuff, would I be stuck here selling games?"
That is, until a senior Sega sales representative stepped in to demonstrate personally.
It was a Friday evening. A middle-aged man, his face etched with exhaustion, hesitated at the counter.
In the past, a salesperson would have shoved a controller into his hands, launching into a technical jargon-filled spiel about the game console's hardware specifications and performance parameters.
But this time, the Sega representative simply glanced at the man's slightly stained suit cuffs, smiled, and handed him a warm can of coffee.
"Working hard, aren't you? Feeling like watching TV at home is too noisy and going to bed too early, and you're looking for a way to catch your breath?"
The middle-aged man paused, accepted the coffee, and let his guard down halfway.
"This is the latest game console, along with the newest racing game," the specialist said, pointing to the demonstration of Speed & Passion on the screen. "You don't need to memorize any strategies. Just grip the steering wheel, floor the accelerator, and crash and burn as you please. Don't even worry about the timer or your ranking. Think about it—why are there so many midnight speedsters on the Shuto Expressway?
It's all about venting frustration, isn't it? Five minutes, and all the day's frustrations are smashed to smithereens. A Section Chief from a bank tried it earlier and said it was more relaxing than drinking at an izakaya, and it saved him money too."
"Even a Section Chief from a bank is playing?" The man's eyes changed.
"Absolutely. In this environment, who isn't under pressure? This thing is basically a mental massage device now."
"And there's Paper Pokémon Adventure—perfect for playing with the kids at home. The game is simple and relaxing, and it features all their favorite Pokémon. It's guaranteed not to corrupt them."
The specialist paused briefly before continuing, "To align with the game's design, our launch bonus will include paper cutouts of all the Pokémon featured in the game. This heartwarming gift is the perfect present for parents and children to share."
The middle-aged man couldn't help but smile at this pitch, likely recalling his own adorable child at home.
Five minutes later, he left with a Sega Jupiter console and two games. He never once asked about the console's performance specifications, instead focusing intently on the demo TV connected to the Jupiter, which was displaying footage of Paper Pokémon Adventure.
The store clerks who had witnessed the entire exchange now looked at the manual with new eyes.
This wasn't a sales guide—it was a precision strike against human vulnerabilities.
Once they mastered this "art of persuasion," Akihabara sales assistants would instantly transform into amateur psychologists.
They no longer pitched "next-gen graphics" to housewives, but rather "a quiet after-school sitter for the kids."
Instead of selling "reaction speed" to retirees, they now marketed "digital abacuses that prevent brain aging."
Once this precise marketing strategy was deployed, coupled with recent mainstream media coverage of the gaming industry, it triggered a chain reaction akin to nuclear fission in the island nation's highly conformist society.
The Japanese are most afraid of "not understanding the air."
When office smoking rooms shifted from discussing "which bank is going to collapse" to "how did you beat that level last night?" and neighbors began casually mentioning, "My husband's been coming home early lately, playing that game console with the kids," a wave of anxiety about being left out began to spread.
This panic transformed into frenzied purchasing power in Akihabara.
Sega Jupiter sold out? No problem. Is Sony's PlayStation available next door? Not either? Then what about Nintendo's Super Famicom? Even the long-discontinued Mega Drive, or the even older, warehouse-bound Famicom, were unearthed by eager new customers.
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