Blizzard adopted an architecture that combined P2P with a client-server model.
The Battle.net servers were only responsible for account authentication, chat lobbies, and matchmaking. The actual game data transmission was handled directly between the players' computers.
This design drastically reduced the bandwidth pressure on the official servers, allowing Battle.net to be offered for free to all players who purchased the genuine game.
"Free." This word was extremely rare in the Internet services of 1996.
The Kali platform charged an annual subscription fee of twenty dollars, and America Online billed by the hour.
Blizzard's free strategy was like dropping a heavy bomb into a calm lake.
"Battle.net." David circled the word and marked it with a heavy asterisk. "This is Blizzard's true trump card. If this platform takes off, they will control the social network of PC players. That has far more long-term value than selling millions of copies of a game."
Paul capped his pen. "The PC gaming market is about to get interesting. Westwood dominated the LAN with Command & Conquer: Red Alert, and Blizzard is conquering the WAN with Diablo and Battle.net. These two companies are raising the bar for PC gaming on entirely different dimensions.
"RPG developers are going to have a real headache. Square raised the bar for content volume with four optical discs, and Blizzard is raising the bar for replay value with procedural generation and Battle.net. How can traditional linear RPGs even compete?"
"This is just the beginning," David said thoughtfully. "And it's not an either-or choice. Besides, the game isn't even out yet. Just wait and see."
Mike Morhaime concluded the presentation by announcing a release window for the end of the year.
The audience erupted in applause.
The media was captivated by this new, cult-style title.
Blizzard had proven with this move that they weren't just masters of RTS; they also had the potential to disrupt the entire RPG industry.
After the Tecmo and Blizzard presentations concluded, a countdown timer for a thirty-minute intermission appeared on the large screen.
The audience and media rose from their seats and streamed into the hallways and restrooms.
A long line formed in front of the vending machines outside the venue.
Some people headed to the parking lot to smoke and get some fresh air, while others crouched by the walls, flipping through notebooks filled with scribbled notes.
David went to the restroom and bought two cans of Sprite from a vending machine in the hallway on his way back. Paul took one, popped the tab, and took a swig.
"How many more sessions do we have this afternoon?" Paul asked, checking the schedule in his hand.
"Sony is scheduled for four o'clock," David said, glancing at his watch. "After that, it's just a few booth demonstrations from smaller companies. Sony is pretty much the main event left on the main stage."
Paul set his Sprite down by his foot. "Sony's in a tough spot this year. Jupiter's installed base is nearly ten million, and Nintendo priced the N64 at $199 today. PlayStation is stuck in the middle, getting hit from both sides."
"Which is why we need to see what ammunition they've got ready," David said, opening his notebook and writing "SONY" at the top of a new page.
Four o'clock sharp.
The house lights dimmed.
The Sony Computer Entertainment logo appeared on the big screen.
The white diamond pattern rotated slowly against a deep blue background.
A young man walked onto the stage.
He was the youngest of all the company representatives to take the stage, looking to be under thirty-five.
His dark navy suit was perfectly tailored, worn without a tie and with the top button of his shirt left open.
His stride was steady, his movements precise, as he walked directly to the microphone.
"Good afternoon, everyone. I am Kazuo Hirai, Executive Vice President and COO of Sony Computer Entertainment America."
His English was extremely fluent, with a slight New York accent. The American reporters in the audience could hardly tell he was Japanese.
David jotted the name down in his notebook.
"Kazuo Hirai?" Paul frowned. "Never heard of him. Nobuo Shuhira, Sony America's VP of Marketing, was on stage at E3 last year. Did they change people?"
"Looks like he just joined SCEA last year," David said, flipping through a press release tucked into the exhibitor's brochure. "He worked at Sony Music for several years before this. He's an international school graduate and has lived in both New York and Tokyo."
Paul watched Kazuo Hirai on stage.
This young man's stage presence was completely different from the other Japanese executives who had appeared before him.
He wasn't reading from a script, and there was no translator standing beside him. He held a wireless remote, looking as if he were hosting friends in his own living room.
"Over the past year, PlayStation has achieved satisfying results globally." Kazuo Hirai pressed the remote, and a sales chart appeared on the large screen. "As of May this year, PlayStation's cumulative global shipments have surpassed six million units."
The number itself wasn't staggering.
The reporters in attendance knew the score—Sega Jupiter's global installed base had already crossed ten million two months prior. The gap between PlayStation's six million and that figure was plain to see.
Hirai didn't shy away from the issue.
"We are well aware of our competitor's advantage," he said. "But we know even more clearly that this market is far from decided. When you look at the total pool of two hundred million television-owning households worldwide, the penetration rate of next-generation consoles is less than one percent. What will determine the winner isn't today's installed base, but the game lineups of tomorrow, the day after, and the years to come."
As he spoke the words "game lineups," he slowed his pace by a fraction.
"Today, I want to present PlayStation's software roadmap for the second half of 1996."
The large screen faded to black.
A trailer began to play.
The screen displayed a turn-based tactical map with distinct, color-coded zones. Giant mechs advanced in formation through the ruins of a city, the flashes of artillery fire tearing the scene into alternating fragments of light and shadow.
The camera cut to a dialogue scene, where pixel-art character portraits appeared beside text boxes at the bottom of the screen.
Arc the Lad II.
The trailer concluded with the release date: June 1996.
"The previous title in this series was co-developed by G-Craft and Square," Kazuo Hirai explained briefly after the trailer ended. "This sequel is developed independently by G-Craft. It retains the critically acclaimed tactical depth of the first game, but with a larger campaign scale and an expanded roster of eighteen playable unit types."
David scribbled a few notes in his notebook.
G-Craft developed it independently.
No help from Square this time.
The subtext was clear: Square was currently funneling all its primary resources into Final Fantasy VII and the Jupiter platform.
SCE had no choice but to let a second-tier studio like G-Craft carry the load.
If the framework changes too much, can they guarantee the quality? This was a point of concern.
Before he could dwell on it, the trailer on the big screen transitioned.
The art style shifted dramatically.
Soft, watercolor tones washed over the entire screen.
A young prince with red hair stood on a castle balcony, overlooking a fairy-tale kingdom embraced by a lush forest.
The camera zoomed in as the prince turned and ran into the castle, through a corridor, and bumped into a talking dragon.
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