Ajal.
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Chapter 111: Hidden Moves
🕑 Added 2025-10-05 12:18:51 +0000 UTCThe PC Engine’s promotional blitz had barely begun when Nintendo’s counterstrike unleashed a tidal wave.
Under Hiroshi Yamauchi’s iron fist, an invisible pressure swiftly enveloped Japan’s entire gaming industry.
In the offices of major third-party developers, the atmosphere turned abruptly tense.
Under the guise of development assistance and quality assurance, Nintendo dispatched “liaisons” to nearly every third-party signed to royalty agreements.
Assistance in name, surveillance in truth.
These liaisons hung like Damocles’ swords over development teams, a constant reminder of who set the rules.
Grumbles rippled through the industry, but fear stifled open protest.
Meanwhile, announcements of Famicom games slated for the second half of the year—and even next—flooded the market like snowflakes, blanketing everything.
It was Nintendo flexing its muscles to rally loyalty, while objectively diluting some of the scorching spotlight on the PC Engine.
At Sega headquarters, in the executive director’s office.
Takuya Nakayama’s fingertips tapped lightly on the desk as he listened to Masao Suzuki’s latest industry update.
A meaningful smile played on his lips.
“Yamauchi’s move looks tough, but it’s digging his own grave.”
Takuya’s gaze sharpened, piercing through layers of fog to read hearts.
“The greater the pressure, the stronger the backlash.”
“Developers already chafing under Nintendo’s draconian terms and one-sided contracts will only grow more alienated.”
He turned to Suzuki, his tone calm but commanding.
“I’ll consult the board—see if we can have our plants in those companies subtly amplify frictions between the liaisons and teams. No need to stir trouble outright, but a timely, offhand comment at the right moment might yield unexpected results. Above all, stay hidden.”
“I want those cracks to widen, unnoticed.”
Suzuki’s heart chilled, but he nodded in fervent agreement.
Soon, Takuya’s proposal was board-approved, and the PR department sprang into action.
At Konami headquarters, the air hung heavy enough to wring out. The conference room’s blinds were drawn tight, casting a stifled yellow gloom.
Young producer Hideo Kojima sweated at his temple, under unprecedented strain.
His labor of love, Metal Gear for the MSX2 platform, faced brutal scrutiny from Nintendo liaison Kazuo Okada. A figure sidelined in Nintendo’s internal power struggles, Okada now vented his frustrations on this non-Famicom title, dumping all his discontent.
“Stealth? What kind of half-baked mechanic is that?” Okada’s knuckles rapped the desk with a thud, his tone biting as he jabbed at Metal Gear’s design docs, contempt undisguised. “Kids play hide-and-seek—adults want skill-based clashes, head-on!”
He skimmed the document, scoffing. “Endless, convoluted plot text—who has time? And these controls—so many buttons, you’ll tie players’ fingers in knots?”
“Revise it!” Okada’s voice spiked. “Everything must prioritize a potential Famicom port—major simplifications! Famicom’s success is simple accessibility—anyone grabs a controller and dives right in!”
Kojima’s young face flushed crimson; he clenched his fists, then released them.
“Mr. Okada, Metal Gear’s core appeal is its unique stealth and deep narrative!” He fought to keep his voice level.
“It’s tailored to MSX2’s strengths—we’re aiming for an experience distinct from Famicom! MSX2’s users are more mature; they embrace complex content.”
Okada snorted, leaning back with arms crossed, looming over Kojima.
“I represent Nintendo.” He enunciated, tapping his Nintendo-stamped folder. “Famicom standards are industry standards. I say no, it’s no! Does Konami want to keep pumping out Famicom bestsellers?” The threat was blatant.
In the office, mid-level Konami staff murmured.
“Mr. Okada has a point—Famicom’s proven formula is worth emulating.”
“Yeah, Kojima-san’s too young, ideas unrealistic. Sales are king, after all.”
Then, a quiet hardware liaison in the corner—a middle-aged technician—pushed up his glasses and spoke measuredly. “Mr. Okada sees the big picture. But MSX2’s specs differ from Famicom—clinging too rigidly to simplification might miss MSX2 users’ tastes. I hear hardcore players crave challenging controls and deep stories.” His words balanced fact and subtle support for Kojima.
This technician was one of Sega’s plants. He knew when to drop an “innocent” remark.
Okada’s brow furrowed, irked by the veiled challenge. He eyed the technician, finding no immediate leverage, and huffed. “Hmph, niche tastes comparable to mass markets? Konami wants sales or so-called ‘uniqueness’?” He sneered the word, dragging the syllable with disdain.
Kojima’s eyes flickered at the technician’s words. He didn’t argue further, but his pursed lips betrayed unyielding resolve. The room’s vibe turned awkward; Okada’s dominance left Konami staff exchanging uneasy looks, while that “neutral” nudge added weight to some already wavering hearts.
Okada, assuming Kojima’s silence as submission, cleared his throat smugly. “I expect revisions by next week. Meeting adjourned!”
As people filed out, Kojima was last, glancing back at the closed door—as if watching his passion project being crudely dismantled. He drew a breath; when he straightened, the dimness in his eyes had lifted.
The escalating conflict bubbled up the chain, landing on President Kagemasa Ueyama’s desk.
Ueyama’s brow furrowed; he knew Nintendo’s might well.
He phoned Nintendo, seeking mediation.
But Nintendo sent Gunpei Yokoi to handle it.
Yokoi dismissed such “minor frictions” in third-parties, his attitude haughty, especially toward non-Famicom games.
In the end, though Okada was reassigned, Kojima was forced to submit an apology to Yokoi for “insubordination”—upheld by Ueyama.
