Achieving such a visual breakthrough within such a small memory space relied on software-level engineering optimization, not the brute-force stacking of hardware.
The dissemination value of this information far exceeded any sales forecast.
It sent a signal to the entire industry: even though the PlayStation's hardware specs were similar to Jupiter's, top-tier software optimization could produce games with visual impact that exceeded expectations.
After the Crash Bandicoot trailer finished, Kazuo Hirai's pacing changed.
He took two steps back and stood to the right of the big screen.
"For the next few games, I want to use one word to summarize them."
He held up one finger.
"Fun."
Three short trailers popped up on the big screen.
The three trailers played in rotation, each less than a minute long.
The first one: PaRappa the Rapper.
A dog as flat as a piece of paper—or rather, a drawn dog—stood on the street, moving to the beat of the music. The visuals were in a purely flat, cartoon style, with saturated colors. Rhythm button prompts appeared at the bottom of the screen, and the player had to press the corresponding buttons to the beat.
The screen features a purely 2D cartoon style, with colors saturated to the max. At the bottom of the screen, rhythm button prompts appear, requiring the player to press the corresponding buttons in time with the beat.
Music rhythm games. In 1996, this genre barely existed. A few Japanese journalists whispered to each other. An American journalist turned and asked his colleague next to him what kind of game this was; the other person just shrugged. The second segment.
Everybody's Golf.
Chibi characters, exaggerated swinging motions, and smiley-face golf balls bouncing on the lawn. The interface was so simple it had only a power gauge and a direction indicator. The third segment. I.Q.: Intelligent Qube. Solid gray 3D block arrays rolling forward on a platform. The player controls a little person standing on the edge of the platform, needing to mark and eliminate specific blocks before they roll over them. The visuals were minimalist, with no unnecessary decoration. The three trailers ended. Kazuo Hirai returned to the center of the stage. "PlayStation is not just a platform for hardcore gamers," Kazuo Hirai said.
"It belongs to everyone. Your girlfriend, your parents, that roommate of yours who has never touched a game controller. PaRappa the Rapper doesn't require you to know fighting game combos, just a sense of rhythm. Everybody's Golf doesn't require you to understand the rules of real golf; you can hit a beautiful shot with just three button presses."
David paused his pen. This speech was more worth recording than those RPG trailers from before. Not because these games themselves had any great buzz.
David put his pen down. This passage was more worth recording than those previous RPG trailers. Not because these games themselves had any great buzz.
But because Kazuo Hirai, on the E3 stage, in front of the entire industry, articulated a clear market positioning— PlayStation was to be a platform for the masses. In the 1996 video game industry, the mainstream narrative still revolved around "tech demos" and "hardcore" gaming.
Sega was conquering hardcore players with Virtua Fighter and Panzer Dragoon. Nintendo was setting the industry benchmark with Shigeru Miyamoto's design philosophy. Blizzard was building complex real-time strategy and equipment-driven dungeons on the PC.
The entire industry's attention was focused on "more polygons, higher frame rates, and more complex systems." Sony's arsenal didn't have a four-disc beast like Final Fantasy VII, nor the technical brute force of an arcade-perfect port like Virtua Fighter 3. Sony chose a different path—using a paper-thin dog, a smiley-faced golf ball, and a bunch of grey blocks to knock on the doors of non-gamers.
"Interesting." Paul circled something in his notebook. "They're betting on market expansion. The ten million or so next-gen consoles—Sega plus Sony plus the soon-to-be-released N64—are mostly focused on the wallets of hardcore gamers. If Sony wants to grow, targeting new, casual users is a smart direction. These casual games are their foot in the door."
David looked at Kazuo Hirai on the stage.
This young man's ability to express himself was truly outstanding.
For every game he introduced, he would start with a single sentence summarizing its selling point, then describe a specific use case, and finally leave a cliffhanger that led into the next game.
No fluff, no self-aggrandizement, and no belittling of competitors.
In the cutthroat environment of E3, this kind of composure was rare.
Previous Japanese executives who had taken the stage either relied on personal style to create buzz, like Tomonobu Itagaki, or let their work speak for itself, like Hironobu Sakaguchi.
Kazuo Hirai relied on neither.
He relied on a professional, well-trained business communication style.
Every sentence had a target audience, and every pause gave the media time to take notes.
"Was this guy in the music industry before?" Paul asked in a low voice. "Sony Music," David flipped through the documents.
"It's said he worked in Sony Music's international division. He was responsible for promoting overseas markets." Paul nodded. No wonder. People with a background in the music industry naturally understand how to control rhythm and atmosphere. Jumping from the music industry to the gaming industry isn't a common career path, but there are precedents.
The key is his bilingual ability and cross-cultural background. A Sony executive who could make American journalists forget he was Japanese is an extremely scarce asset in the trilateral gaming industry game between China, Japan, and the United States. Kazuo Hirai completed his final summary on stage. "In the second half of 1996, more than forty new games will be released for the PlayStation platform," he said, placing the remote on the podium.
"From hardcore RPGs to light casual games, from 3D action to music rhythm games. Our goal is not to make the most powerful hardware, but to create the richest game library. PlayStation is a door. Push it open, and everyone can find the game that belongs to them." Applause broke out. It wasn't enthusiastic, but it was uniform. The Sony presentation lasted thirty-five minutes. There were no earth-shattering blockbuster announcements, and no moments where the audience stood up in unison.
But the information density was very high. Three RPGs, one platformer, and three casual games, along with various other tidbits, filled more than half an hour, and every single one was given a clear release date and target audience. David closed his notebook and exchanged a look with Paul. "What's your assessment?" Paul asked. David thought for a moment. "Sincere, but lacking a trump card."
Paul added, "Their biggest problem isn't that they don't have enough games, it's that they don't have a single title that can stand alone and carry the conversation. Sega has the four discs of Final Fantasy VII, Nintendo has the 3D open world of Super Mario 64, and Blizzard has Battle.net. Every company has something that makes the media dedicate half a page to it. How much space would these seven Sony games take up combined?" David shoved his notebook into his backpack.
"Crash Bandicoot has potential. That data streaming technology is worth digging into. If Naughty Dog really pushes the PlayStation's performance to the limit, technical media will be interested in doing a feature on it." "Relying on technical analysis to fill pages—the audience is too narrow," Paul shook his head. "Average players don't care about how the data streaming is implemented. They care about whether this orange wolf is fun to play." David smiled. "Then let's wait until the game is released in September and see."
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