The others bowed in unison, their repeated "Thank you, Managing Director!" filling the office.
They knew the score.
In an industry where technology iterates as quickly as turning pages, they were the old guard, destined to be burdens wherever they went.
Yet Takuya Nakayama not only didn't kick them to the curb, but he also created a special position for them, allowing them to leverage their skills and experience and earn a respectable living.
This was what they called "the grace of being recognized."
"Alright, enough with the sentimentality," Nakayama waved his hand, signaling everyone to stand up straight. "Let's be clear: this position isn't for you to coast into retirement. The geniuses in the Development Department are arrogant and self-important. They're either chronic procrastinators, overwhelmed by too many ideas and unable to prioritize, or just plain stubborn. Your job is to use your experience to rein in these wild horses."
He walked over to Sato and adjusted his slightly crooked tie.
"Mr. Sato, you've got a thick skin. From now on, if the Art Department dares to claim they're out of inspiration or behind schedule, grab a stool and sit behind them and stare them down. With your game art experience, I'm sure you'll leave them no excuses."
Sato grinned, revealing a row of white teeth. "Don't worry, Managing Director. I may not have much else, but I've got energy to spare. From now on, anyone who dares to fall behind will be so busy they won't even have time to use the restroom."
The group burst into laughter.
Takuya Nakayama turned to Watanabe, his tone softening. "Watanabe, once you've got your work in order, leave on time. Second Treasure is still a newborn; it's a demanding time. Don't drain all your energy at the office. Once things are settled at home, you'll have the energy to whip those young ones into shape here."
Watanabe sniffled forcefully and nodded vigorously. "Yes! I won't let you down, Managing Director!"
"Go on, report to your new posts," Takuya waved them away. "Stop loitering around my office—it's making me dizzy. Remember, you're managers now. Stand tall and own it."
The twelve men bowed in unison again. As they turned to leave, their footsteps sounded more purposeful than before.
The lethargy of coasting through their days was gone, replaced by a fierce determination to prove themselves in this new battleground.
Watching the door close, Oguchi Hisao, who had been standing silently beside him, let out a long sigh of relief.
"Managing Director, your words are more effective than any bonus you could give them," Oguchi Hisao said with genuine admiration. "These old-timers will probably be laughing in their sleep tonight."
"That's what you call optimizing resource allocation."
Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his chair, spinning his pen with a satisfied air. "The morale is there to be used."
As the twelve transfer orders were issued, these twelve "screws" carefully selected by Oguchi Hisao were swiftly inserted into the most sluggish joints of Sega's massive development machine.
The results were immediate and visible.
The atmosphere in the Development Department changed noticeably.
The days of employees running all over the floor to chase down approvals or coordinate resources were gone.
Programmers were astonished to find that they could simply sit at their desks, put on their headphones, and focus on the code on their screens. The hair-pulling trivialities that used to plague them were now kept at bay by an invisible hand.
This feeling of being "protected" made these proud, arrogant tech geniuses feel something they hadn't before toward their thinning-haired seniors: respect.
Even the end of the workday had become more regular.
With the elimination of pointless arguments and delays, work efficiency had skyrocketed.
By 6:30 PM, the once brightly lit Development Department was already sparsely populated, with most employees having left.
Takuya Nakayama stood behind the office blinds, watching the Development Department employees trickle out of the building below, his mood lifting slightly.
By mid-September, the summer heat in Tokyo finally showed signs of receding.
Inside the Sega Headquarters Building, the Development Team that had just completed Sonic Pinball Party, a casual game combining the Sonic IP with pinball mechanics, was basking in the lazy atmosphere of having finished a major exam.
They had just returned from a vacation in Okinawa, their bones still feeling sun-baked, and had no desire to move.
The door swung open as Takuya Nakayama entered, a thick manila envelope clutched in his hand.
"Looks like everyone's recharged," Takuya said, tossing the envelope onto the conference table with a dull thud. "Perfect timing. New project."
The Lead Planner groaned, slumping back in his chair. "Managing Director, we just got back from Okinawa. Can we have a couple of days to recover?"
"The deadline isn't too demanding. Take your time to look it over and brainstorm," Takuya Nakayama said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He pulled out the project proposal from inside. "The codename is 72 Hours After the Disaster. We'll target the MD Home Console and GAMEPOCKET handheld, and I want it to appeal to all age groups."
Several heads leaned in.
"A disaster preparedness educational game?" The Lead Planner glanced at the title, his brow furrowing into a deep frown. "Managing Director, isn't that the kind of homework the Ministry of Education gives to elementary school students? Who would pay to be educated on a game console? Players want excitement, not lessons."
"Who says educational games can't be exciting?" Takuya tapped a rhythmic beat on the table. "Don't make it some rigid game where you press 'A' to dodge an earthquake. I want you to make it more like an RPG—a survival game where players explore, interact, and make choices."
He flipped to the second page of the proposal and pointed to the flowchart, explaining:
"Phase One: Resource Management. Give players a limited budget. Will they buy expensive first-aid kits or stockpiled cheap compressed biscuits? Will they spend money to hire workers to reinforce the wobbly bookshelf or apply anti-shatter film to the windows? Every financial decision will directly determine their chances of survival."
The Development Team members exchanged glances, their initial contempt softening slightly.
This is starting to feel like a strategy game, they thought.
"Stage Two: Random Disasters," Takuya Nakayama announced in a low voice. "Earthquakes, tsunamis, fires, or a combination of disasters. This is where your expertise comes in—QTEs (Quick Time Events)."
He stood up and demonstrated with gestures. "The ceiling collapses. Two or three options appear. You have only two to five seconds to react: hide under a table, cower in a corner, or lift a chair over your head. Press the wrong button? Game over. Oh, and you have a leg injury, so your movement speed is halved. Gas leak—you must find the valve and repeatedly press keys to shut it off before the timer runs out. Not fast enough? Boom—game over."
"Of course, the actual game duration won't be the full 72 hours. We'll compress it to five to ten minutes per session. During those 72 hours, aftershocks can strike at any moment. Players must not only save themselves but can also choose to rescue neighbors. Rescuing a neighbor trapped under rubble will drain your stamina and precious drinking water. Not saving them will lower your final score and might even cost you a potential ally."
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