Saturday 10 May 1999 ZAGE Campus USA
Zaboru let out a long sigh. At the moment, he was back at the ZAGE Campus in the USA he just arrived last night from London, and now walking through familiar halls that never seemed to slow down. Part of today's agenda was straightforward enough—he needed to assign new tasks to Team Tempest, now that their latest project, Hitman: Agent 47, had officially wrapped up development and was ready for release later this month. But, as usual, that wasn't the only thing waiting on his plate. Once again, he was scheduled to face an interview with politicians, a ritual that seemed to follow every major ZAGE release.
"Heh… another headache for ZAGE, it seems," Zaboru muttered under his breath.
There was no denying it—GTA was causing waves. The game was phenomenal in every measurable way. Sales were soaring, player engagement was off the charts, and the sheer chaos and freedom it offered had captivated audiences worldwide. Players loved it. They talked about it nonstop. But parents? Most of them didn't share the enthusiasm.
The backlash was growing louder by the day. Politicians and so-called "social experts," many of whom Zaboru suspected were more interested in staying relevant than understanding games, began taking turns pointing fingers at ZAGE. They claimed that violent video games were corrupting youth, that titles like GTA encouraged criminal behavior, and that allowing players to engage in chaos—even in a virtual space—would inevitably lead to real-world violence.
Zaboru rubbed his temple and exhaled slowly. He had seen this cycle before. A bold game releases, players embrace it, and then critics rush in with sweeping accusations. Still, this time felt heavier. GTA wasn't just another hit—it had become a symbol, and that made it an easy target.
One of the loudest voices among them was a politician named Lewis Miller. In a press statement, he declared, "This is exactly what I've been warning people about. Video games are filled with guns and constant killing, and now—with this game called GTA—players are no longer heroes at all. You play as a criminal. You steal cars, cause mayhem, kill people, and commit countless illegal acts. This kind of content can absolutely influence young minds, and we need to address it before it goes too far."
Miller's comments quickly spread across news outlets, gaining traction among concerned parent groups and conservative media circles. Not long after, Lewis Miller formally challenged Zaboru to debate him live on a popular television show in the United States. Unsurprisingly, the network agreed almost instantly—anything involving Zaboru guaranteed a surge in ratings and public attention. And as for Zaboru? Whether he liked it or not, this was a confrontation he couldn't afford to ignore.
"They just want to stay relevant," Zaboru muttered, shaking his head, "and somehow they always manage to drag me into this mess. I'd bet my ass that Lewis Miller has never touched a video game in his entire life." He let out a dry chuckle, glancing at the clock as he remembered that the show would be airing live later that night.
Still, his expression slowly shifted from amusement to focus. "I can't just brush this off," he admitted quietly. "If I stay silent, they'll twist the narrative however they want. I need to make a clear statement in this debate—one that actually explains why games exist in the first place."
Zaboru leaned back slightly, a faint smile returning to his face. "And honestly," he added with a low laugh, "this probably won't be the last time either. Later this month, ZAGE is releasing Hitman: Agent 47. If GTA already has them panicking, I can only imagine how they'll react to that."
He laughed again, not out of arrogance, but out of weary familiarity. Controversy had become part of the job. Every bold release brought criticism, and every criticism brought another public battle. To Zaboru, it was just another reminder that pushing the industry forward was never going to be quiet—or easy.
This was part of ZAGE's ongoing struggle. Unlike Nintendo in Zaboru's previous life, which was almost entirely defined by a family‑friendly image, ZAGE had never boxed itself into a single identity. The company produced dark, controversial titles like GTA, but it also created games that were massively popular with families and younger audiences. ZAGE simply refused to limit creativity to one tone or one demographic.
Because of that, Zaboru never worried too much about the criticism. He understood that the video game industry would always be antagonized by certain groups, especially whenever a bold or violent title captured public attention. This phase, loud as it was, would eventually fade—just like all the others before it. Public outrage moved in cycles, and history had shown him that games rarely remained the villain for long. New targets would emerge, new moral panics would replace the old ones.
To Zaboru, the real danger wasn't controversy—it was stagnation. As long as ZAGE continued to innovate, diversify, and respect its audience, the noise would die down. There would always be critics, always voices demanding restrictions or blame, but that was simply the cost of shaping a medium powerful enough to matter.
As night fell, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The studio lights of Larry King Live illuminated the stage, signaling the start of a broadcast that millions across the United States—and beyond—would be watching in real time on CNN. Larry King himself was already seated at the center desk, calm and composed as ever, shuffling his notes while waiting for the red light to signal they were live. On either side of him sat the two guests of the night: Zaboru Renkonan and Lewis Miller.
The tension in the room was unmistakable. Camera operators adjusted their angles, producers whispered final cues through headsets, and a low murmur ran through the studio audience. This wasn't just another talk show segment—it was a confrontation between two worldviews, played out in front of the public.
Once the broadcast went live, Larry looked directly into the main camera and smiled with practiced ease. "Okay, folks," he began, his voice steady and familiar, "tonight we have two guests joining us for what I expect will be a very lively discussion."
He turned slightly toward his left. "Our first guest is a well-known scholar in social interaction studies and a vocal critic of violent media—Mr. Lewis Miller." Polite applause followed. It was respectful, but restrained.
Larry then shifted his body toward the right, his expression subtly changing. "And our second guest… well, he's a rare one. A man known to be extremely difficult to invite onto any show. The CEO of ZAGE, the company that reshaped the video game industry in the last decade—Mr. Zaboru Renkonan."
This time, the reaction was immediate and unmistakable. The audience erupted into loud, enthusiastic applause, whistles echoing through the studio. The difference in energy was clear—no explanation needed. Even Larry paused for a moment, letting the reaction play out before continuing. It was obvious who the crowd had come to see.
Zaboru smiled calmly, maintaining a relaxed posture, while Lewis, seated beside him, still wore a deep frown that reflected both tension and determination. The contrast between the two was striking—one composed and confident, the other visibly agitated. Sensing the moment, Larry leaned slightly forward and began to speak, his tone measured and neutral, clearly shifting the show into its core discussion.
"So tonight," Larry said, looking between both guests, "this show wants to address and clarify the growing concern surrounding video games and their influence on society. Lewis, let's start with you. I want to hear your position clearly."
Lewis nodded stiffly. He adjusted himself in his chair, opened the notebook resting on his lap, and flipped through several marked pages filled with handwritten notes and underlined phrases. After taking a brief breath, he looked up toward the camera, his expression firm, and began to speak.
"I have always said that video games can make people—especially children—more violent," Lewis began firmly. "I've been warning about this for at least six years now, and people continue to underestimate the danger. Video games introduce young men to acts like killing in cold blood, normalizing violence as entertainment. And now, with these newer games like GTA, you don't even pretend to be a hero anymore—you actively play as a criminal. You steal cars, you shoot people, you cause chaos for fun."
Lewis leaned forward slightly, his voice rising with conviction. "This kind of content doesn't just stay on the screen. It plants ideas. Young children are impressionable, and they will want to imitate what they see. They'll want to recreate these violent scenes in real life, and that is exactly why games like this are dangerous."
Larry nodded slowly as Lewis spoke, acknowledging the seriousness of the statement. Throughout the speech, Zaboru remained silent, listening carefully without interrupting, his expression calm and unreadable. When Lewis finally paused, Larry smoothly stepped back in.
"So," Larry asked, turning slightly toward Lewis, "what do you think needs to be done about this?"
Lewis answered without hesitation. "First of all, we should stop video games like this entirely. At the very least, they should be made completely unavailable to children. Honestly, video games are nothing more than a waste of time and money anyway—resources that could be spent on education or real-world skills."
Larry blinked, clearly taken aback by how blunt the statement was. He let the words hang in the air for a moment before slowly turning his head toward Zaboru, signaling that it was now his turn to respond.
"So, Zaboru, what's your take on this?" Larry asked. "As the man who helped the video game industry flourish again back in 1991, how do you respond to Lewis's remarks?"
Zaboru smiled calmly, took a brief breath, and then began. "Okay, thanks, Larry. First of all, I have to say these remarks are quite ridiculous. The idea that video games introduce people to killing in cold blood or criminal acts, and that players will then want to reproduce those scenes in real life—that assumption simply doesn't hold up."
He turned slightly toward Lewis, though his tone remained composed rather than confrontational. "Video games aren't real. They're entertainment. They're fiction. In that sense, they're no different from movies. Let's use a simple example—if you watch a horror movie, say Psycho by Alfred Hitchcock, and you really love it, does that suddenly make you want to kill someone in cold blood? Of course not. Everyone understands the difference between fiction and reality."
Zaboru gestured lightly with his hand as he continued. "People play video games as a form of escape from the real world. Children, young adults, grown men—even older people. Many people once had bright dreams. Some of those dreams survive, some fade away with time. When you play a video game, you're allowed to step into a different role for a moment and experience a small piece of that dream again. That doesn't make someone violent—it makes them human."
He then shifted the focus back to the controversy. "Now, let's talk about GTA. Yes, in GTA you can play as a criminal. You can steal cars, shoot cops, cause chaos—and people enjoy it. Why? Because it's fun inside the game. The key point here is that in video games, actions don't carry real-world consequences. Everyone knows that. In real life, of course there are consequences—legal, moral, and social. That distinction is very clear to the vast majority of players, because players aren't stupid. When they kill mob characters in video games, they understand those aren't real people with histories, families, or lives—it's simply interacting with data inside a fictional system."
Zaboru gave a small, confident nod. "There's no logical reason to assume that someone who enjoys virtual chaos would suddenly want to recreate it in reality. And finally," he added, lifting his hand slightly, "there's one more thing I'd like everyone to look at."
Zaboru calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a physical copy of the ZAGE GTA game. He held it up for both the audience and the cameras to see, deliberately pointing at the bold label on the cover that read: "For ages 17+ — Contains Gore and Violence."
"In here," Zaboru said, tapping the label lightly with his finger, "there is a very clear age requirement. If children are playing this game, then yes—that means the rule is being broken." He paused briefly, then smiled knowingly. "But let's be honest with ourselves for a moment."
He glanced toward the audience. "Everyone here knows this happens. When you were fourteen or fifteen, didn't you also want to watch movies rated 17+? Especially when those movies were good, popular, and everyone was talking about them?"
Zaboru let out a small laugh. "At least… that's exactly what I did back then."
The audience responded with warm laughter, some nodding in agreement, others smiling at the shared experience. The moment briefly softened the tension in the studio, turning a heated debate into something more human and relatable.
Then Zaboru continued, his tone calm but firm. "And one more thing—this is something I've said many times before. People love to say that video games are a waste of time, a waste of money. Some parents even want their children to never touch video games at all, treating them like poison."
He shook his head lightly. "But if we're being honest, that logic doesn't really make sense. By that definition, everything you buy outside of basic necessities—food, clothes, a place to live—could be called a waste of money. And everything you do outside of sleeping, eating, and making money could be called a waste of time. That's essentially what they're saying."
Zaboru spread his hands slightly. "But somehow, it's always video games that get singled out. Not movies. Not sports. Not music. Just games."
He leaned forward just a bit. "Video games are part of entertainment. And entertainment exists to bring enjoyment, relaxation, and sometimes inspiration. Having fun is extremely important in life. It keeps people sane. It helps them cope with stress, disappointment, and exhaustion."
Zaboru smiled faintly. "For me, there is no such thing as 'wasting time' or 'wasting money' if you are genuinely enjoying yourself—so long as it's done in moderation. Spending time on something that makes you happy, that lets you breathe for a moment, that gives you joy—that's not wasteful. That's a meaningful moment."
"In work, people often feel disappointed by their superiors, overlooked, or convinced that they're no longer relevant. They start thinking they're small, replaceable, or insignificant—even when that's not actually true. Most of the time, it's not reality speaking, it's overthinking. People spiral in their own thoughts, replaying failures, doubting themselves, and carrying that weight home every day.
And then you play a video game. Suddenly, you're not stuck in that loop anymore. You can be a hero. You can be a criminal. You can live a quiet, cozy life, or take on impossible challenges. You can be something else for a while—something stronger, braver, or freer than how you feel in real life. You pass stage after stage. You overcome obstacle after obstacle. You defeat enemies that once felt impossible.
That sense of progress matters. It gives your brain a reset. It reminds you what it feels like to succeed, to improve, to move forward. Slowly, your thoughts change. The negativity fades, and instead of thinking, 'I'm not good enough,' you start thinking, 'Maybe I was just overthinking things.' That's what joy and fun can do. They don't erase problems—but they help people face them with a healthier, clearer mind."
Larry smiled and nodded slowly, clearly aware that the atmosphere in the studio had shifted. "That's an interesting take," he said, turning his body slightly toward Lewis. "So, Lewis—how do you respond to that?"
Lewis straightened up immediately, his jaw tightening. The calm in his posture from earlier was gone now. "I completely disagree with almost everything Zaboru just said," he replied sharply. "Comparing video games to movies is misleading. Video games are interactive. You don't watch violence—you participate in it. That difference is critical."
He flipped his notebook shut with a firm snap. "When someone presses a button to pull a trigger, even if it's virtual, they are conditioning themselves. Repetition matters. Habit matters. You can't deny that."
Zaboru didn't interrupt. He simply nodded once, inviting Lewis to continue.
"And this idea that players 'know it's just data'?" Lewis went on, his voice growing louder. "Children don't process things the same way adults do. You're assuming maturity where there often isn't any. Exposure shapes behavior. That's basic psychology."
Zaboru smiled faintly, still relaxed. "May I respond, Larry?"
Larry gestured for him to continue.
"Lewis," Zaboru said evenly, his voice calm and unhurried, "you keep talking about psychology, but you're selectively ignoring years of actual research. Interactivity doesn't automatically equal conditioning. If that were true, every child who plays a racing game would grow up driving recklessly on public roads, and every child who plays a real-time strategy game would eventually become a military general."
He paused just long enough for the point to land, then added with a faint grin, "Oh—wait. Do you even know those genres? You don't really play games, do you?"
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the audience.
Lewis opened his mouth to fire back, clearly irritated now, his brows furrowing as his patience thinned. But before he could interrupt, Zaboru gently raised a finger—not aggressively, not dismissively, but with practiced composure.
"Well, back to the point," Zaboru continued smoothly, reclaiming the flow of the conversation without raising his voice. "You say repetition matters. On that, I actually agree with you."
Lewis froze for a split second, caught off guard.
"But the real question," Zaboru went on, "is what repetition actually looks like in games. It's not violence that gets reinforced—it's problem-solving. Pattern recognition. Learning from failure. Adjusting strategies. Trying again after losing. That cycle repeats far more often than any act of shooting or fighting."
He leaned back slightly, relaxed. "Players aren't memorizing how to hurt others. They're training their brains to adapt, to recover from mistakes, to push forward when something doesn't work the first time. That's what repetition really teaches in games."
Lewis shifted in his chair. "That's not the point—"
"It is exactly the point," Zaboru replied, still calm. "Violence is the context, not the lesson. Players don't thinking about killing. They think about how they beat a hard stage, how they outsmarted an enemy, how they improved."
Lewis's fingers tapped restlessly against the armrest. "You're oversimplifying."
Zaboru chuckled softly. "No. I'm simplifying because the argument has been exaggerated."
Lewis leaned forward now, frustration clearly visible. "Then explain school violence. Explain aggression."
"Correlation is not causation," Zaboru answered immediately. "Violence existed long before video games. Wars, crime, abuse—none of those were created by a controller. Games didn't invent aggression. They give it a safe outlet."
Lewis frowned deeper. "Safe according to who?"
"According to reality," Zaboru said calmly. "If games caused violence, countries with the highest game consumption would be the most violent. But statistically, many of them are among the safest."
Lewis paused. His confidence wavered for a split second.
Zaboru noticed—and pressed gently. "You're arguing from fear, Lewis. Fear of something you don't personally understand. And that's okay. But fear is not evidence."
Lewis swallowed, adjusting his tie. "So you're saying parents should just accept this?"
"I'm saying parents should engage," Zaboru replied. "Play with their kids. Understand what they're playing. Teach moderation. Blaming the medium is easy. Parenting is harder."
The audience murmured in agreement.
Lewis shifted again, clearly restless now. "You make it sound simple."
"Because it is," Zaboru said gently. "Complex problems don't always have complex villains."
Lewis fell silent, his notes untouched.
Larry glanced between the two men, then toward the camera. The contrast was unmistakable—Zaboru relaxed, composed, in control. Lewis tense, reactive, searching for ground that was slipping away beneath him.
At that point, Lewis completely lost his composure. His face reddened, his breathing grew shallow, and he slammed his hand lightly against the armrest as frustration finally boiled over. Then, to everyone's shock, he crossed a line no one expected.
"Video games are still useless! A complete waste of time!" Lewis snapped. His voice rose sharply, no longer measured or professional. "And it's people like you—Chineese bastard—that are destroying our country, America! you should stop making poison like video game and start cooking chineses food!"
A stunned silence fell over the studio.
Larry's eyes widened instantly, clearly caught off guard by the sudden racist outburst. The audience gasped, some murmuring in disbelief, others shifting uncomfortably in their seats. The tension in the room spiked in an instant, no longer just a debate—but a crisis unfolding live on air.
Zaboru, however, didn't flinch. He simply chuckled softly and gave a small shrug, his calm demeanor untouched. "First of all," he said evenly, his tone polite but firm, "I'm Japanese."
He paused, then continued without a hint of anger. "Second, you should apologize to Chinese people. They're great—just like people from most countries in the world. Talent, creativity, and intelligence aren't bound by nationality."
He gave a small, easy smile and added lightly, "And yes, I love Chinese food too. I wouldn't mind learning how to cook it myself someday."
Zaboru delivered the line casually, almost playfully, and the tension in the studio immediately eased. The audience responded with relieved laughter and warm applause, clearly appreciating both his grace and his refusal to meet hostility with hostility.
The contrast was stark. Where Lewis had unraveled into bitterness, Zaboru responded with grace and dignity, refusing to let the moment devolve further. Larry immediately recognized that the situation was spiraling out of control.
"Alright," Larry said quickly, stepping in before things escalated any further. "I think we're going to end it here."
He turned to the camera, regaining his professional tone. "Thank you to both of our guests for joining us tonight."
The debate ended there—not with shouting, but with a clear, unmistakable image left in viewers' minds: one man consumed by anger, and the other standing calm, respectful, and unshaken.
To be continue
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