"Where are the next-gen consoles?" David pointed at the Enix staff who were clearing the stage. "They spent a full twenty minutes announcing five games. Every single one is for a 16-bit console."
Paul stopped what he was doing.
A few Japanese journalists in the front row were also huddled together, whispering.
The same colleague who had stood up in excitement for Sakura Wars 2 just moments ago was now clutching his hair, his face a mask of confusion.
"The Nintendo 64 is launching in just a few months," David said, his words coming out in a rapid-fire burst. "As Nintendo's most core third-party ally, Enix didn't even show a single concept image of the new console. Forget a live demo—they didn't even hint at a new project."
This was an extremely unusual phenomenon.
At the 1996 E3 Expo, every company was desperately showcasing their 3D technology. Even if it was just a pre-rendered video, they had to prove to investors and players that they had secured their ticket to the next generation.
Enix, however, was doing the exact opposite, proudly displaying a pile of old-generation cartridges on the table.
"Squeezing the last drops of value out of the Super Famicom is one thing, but completely abandoning the next-gen promotional push is another." Paul stroked his chin. "Even with the N64's severe cartridge capacity limits and high development hurdles, they shouldn't be playing dumb at such a major trade show. Where's the next mainline Dragon Quest? They need to dangle a carrot in front of the players."
A piece of gossip David had heard at the press center weeks ago flashed through his mind.
"Remember that rumor from Bloomberg's Tokyo branch last month?" David leaned in closer to Paul. "Enix's executive team spent a whole week at Sega's Ōta Ward headquarters."
Paul's eyes widened.
"Everyone laughed it off at the time," David said, collecting his thoughts. "Sega and Nintendo have been at war for years, and Enix has always been firmly entrenched in Nintendo's Kyoto camp. But look at Sega's lineup today, then look at Enix's evasive attitude."
In the industry's information network, no wall was completely soundproof.
Sony was waving its checkbook to poach talent, while Sega was quietly building an outsourcing pipeline.
A company of Enix's size couldn't possibly remain idle on the eve of a console generation shift.
"They've picked a side," Paul concluded, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And it's almost certainly not Nintendo."
"If it were Sony, Nobuyuki Idei would have already plastered the Dragon Quest logo all over the PlayStation packaging," David analyzed, weighing the interests at play. "Sony needs a blockbuster to boost sales; they wouldn't be able to keep it a secret. The only way they'd stay silent—even using a Super Famicom game as a smokescreen—is if..."
The two men exchanged a glance, then turned their gaze toward the main stage of the Sega press conference they had just attended.
"Sega," Paul breathed the name. "Sega provided the technical support, and Enix bet everything on Jupiter, the console with the largest installed base. To appease Nintendo—or rather, to avoid provoking Yamauchi Hiroshi—they have no choice but to keep playing the loyal subject in public, using the Super Famicom's Dragon Quest III Remake to fulfill their obligations."
It was a masterful piece of political maneuvering.
On the surface, Enix was extending the life of Nintendo's aging console with a high-quality remake, leaving Nintendo with no grounds for complaint.
Behind the scenes, the next-gen's main entry was already running on Sega's development kits.
"Write it into the story," Paul said, zipping up his camera bag. "Enix's Silence: The Undercurrents of the Next-Gen Console War." When this report breaks, Nintendo's stock is going to plummet at the opening bell tomorrow.
"It's all speculation," David said, shaking his head. "Pure guesswork. Enix's PR department will sue us into bankruptcy."
"Then we use a question," Paul countered, his mind already forming the headline. "'What is the future of Dragon Quest?' We just pose the question. Players have a right to ask why they can't see Enix titles on the next-generation console."
The murmur in the press section grew louder.
Not just David and Paul—the seasoned veterans of the industry, those who had clawed their way through years of experience, could all sense something unusual from this bizarrely sparse lineup.
The trailers on stage left the journalists below with little time to discuss.
This was the last presentation of the morning.
There was no flashy opening CG, no deafening bass from the speakers.
The screen lit up, displaying only a starkly simple black-and-white logo.
Two letters: UE.
John Carmack walked out from the side of the stage.
He wore a faded, old T-shirt, loose jeans, and a pair of heavily worn sneakers. He carried no microphone, no speech.
He walked straight to the center of the stage and dragged a rolling whiteboard into the spotlight.
The reporters in the audience hadn't even processed what was happening.
A few flashes from the front row flared and quickly faded.
Carmack's hard-core programmer persona stood in stark contrast to the executive speeches from the earlier presentations.
He grabbed a whiteboard marker, pulled off the cap, and turned to draw a box on the board.
"The major companies are all building in silos," Carmack began, his words coming fast. There were no pleasantries, no small talk—he went straight to the point. "The cost of developing and learning a new engine is rising exponentially. Hardware manufacturers are wasting enormous engineering resources just to make drivers compatible with dozens of different closed-source engines. The performance synergy between software and hardware will never reach its theoretical maximum. The industry is missing a standardized underlying framework."
He turned back to the board and wrote two words inside the box: "Universal Engine."
"A general-purpose engine. This is an open-source community project managed by an independent foundation."
The audience fell unnervingly silent.
The only sound was the scratching of reporters' pens on their notepads.
Everyone was trying to process the massive concept Carmack had just thrown at them.
Carmack clicked his presentation remote.
A row of logos appeared on the massive screen behind him. It was the list of co-founders and investors for the UE Engine Foundation.
The first logo to appear was id Software.
Right next to it was Sega.
The journalists in the audience weren't surprised to see these two names side by side. Rumor had it that Sega's Takuya Nakayama and John Carmack were close personal friends, so a technical collaboration between them made perfect sense.
The gaze shifted right. The third logo lit up.
Sony PlayStation.
A low murmur of astonishment rippled through the venue.
David's pen froze mid-air. He turned to Paul.
Both saw the same shock reflected in each other's eyes.
Sony and Sega were locked in a brutal war for dominance in the console market, fighting viciously to secure third-party software. Yet here were Nobuyuki Idei and Ken Kutaragi, sitting at the same table as Sega for a foundational technology project.
The logic behind this move was actually simple.
Sony's strategy had always been to cast a wide net.
If their rivals had it, Sony had to have it.
Staying at the cutting edge of mainstream technology was Ken Kutaragi's absolute bottom line.
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