Nakagawa Jun nodded thoughtfully. "You're right. Society has become too cold. People need this kind of warm, comforting content to lift their spirits."
Takuya Nakayama added, "And one more thing: we need a diverse range of case studies. We can't just focus on massive overhauls that require tearing everything down and starting from scratch. We should also include examples of achieving big results on a small budget—like renovating a child's room for a few tens of thousands of yen, or building a storage cabinet from reclaimed wood. These low-barrier projects will make viewers think, 'I can do that too,' instantly boosting their sense of participation."
At this point, Takuya Nakayama suddenly grinned mischievously. "Once this format proves successful in Japan, you could sell the rights just like you did with The Millionaire—to Taiwan, Hong Kong, and other places. Their living conditions are even more cramped than Tokyo's, and their family culture and housing situations closely resemble Japan's. These places would be perfect fits for the show."
Nakagawa Jun stared at his articulate son-in-law in stunned silence, a complex wave of emotions surging through him. He felt both the joy of having found a true gem and a hint of the anxiety that comes from being overtaken by the next generation.
How much is that kid's head actually holding?
Even something as mundane and dusty as remodeling had been spun by him into a top-tier commercial loop encompassing people's livelihoods, economics, policy, and emotion.
Nakagawa Jun set down his teacup, letting out a long sigh, an uncontainable smile spreading across his face.
"Tomorrow, I'll have the Production Bureau outline a framework and get the Market Department to start their research."
It was time to return to work.
News from the United States quickly reached Takuya Nakayama.
Universal Pictures had finally relented.
These Hollywood decision-makers weren't swayed by such seemingly naive "core values" as "even biker gangs care about family." What truly convinced them were the hard data Takuya Nakayama had laid out before them.
The long queues forming at Speed & Passion arcade cabinets across the country, combined with the game's promise to update tracks in sync with the movies, essentially provided the films with tens of millions of dollars' worth of free interactive marketing.
In Hollywood, no one ever turns down money, and even fewer would reject an IP already backed by a massive, established fan base.
Even if they found it a bit absurd to see a group of video camera thieves holding hands and praying at a dinner table, as long as these troublemakers could lure audiences into theaters, they were saints in the eyes of the industry.
Once the green light was given, Bernard immediately began leading the Legal Department in negotiations with Universal Pictures for a series contract.
Meanwhile, news came from Silicon Valley Online across the Pacific.
The outside world had been commenting on Silicon Valley Online's recent "silence."
This was true enough. Compared to the media frenzy surrounding the launches of Webdir and Blog earlier in the year, Frank Marshall had indeed kept a low profile lately.
But this so-called "silence" was more like the turbulent undercurrents churning beneath the ocean's surface.
Meanwhile, Webdir and Blog themselves remained scorching hot properties on the global Internet.
Especially Blog, whose popularity had surpassed the bounds of mere "utility" to become a form of social currency.
Experience proved that the human desire to show off knew no educational boundaries.
Those intellectuals and university professors who once maintained stiff postures even when publishing tiny articles in The New York Times now let loose completely on WeBlog.
For that coveted "Blue V" verification symbol, for the number of thumbs-up icons beneath their posts to surpass their arch-rivals in the neighboring department, these people would argue from Aristotle to the latest Federal Reserve interest rates, even going so far as to personally engage with anonymous commenters in the forums until 3 AM.
Posturing, it seemed, was a fundamental human need.
In August 1994, the California sun blazed hot enough to melt asphalt.
Inside Silicon Valley Online's office, the air conditioning was cranked to its maximum, yet it couldn't suppress the palpable tension that threatened to ignite the atmosphere.
Frank Marshall stood behind the technology department manager, clutching a sweat-dampened project schedule.
For the past six months, the entire development team had sacrificed their hairlines for this so-called "ICQ Game Lobby."
"Boss, the countdown is over. The ICQ 1.0 patch update has been fully deployed."
On the afternoon of August 29th, there were no ribbon-cutting ceremonies, no speeches.
With the crisp click of the Enter key, the "Game Lobby" icon—tested thousands of times in internal trials—silently appeared in the sidebars of millions of ICQ users across the United States.
New York, in a cubicle at an accounting firm.
Having just slacked off and finished processing a report, Johnny instinctively opened ICQ to find someone to brag to.
The newly appeared poker card icon seemed to possess a certain magic, drawing his finger.
Double-click.
ICQ immediately popped up a small window: "The ICQ Game Lobby feature requires downloading and installing the ICQ Game Lobby module. Click 'Yes' to download. Yes or No?"
Johnny clicked "Yes" without hesitation.
A few minutes later, the ICQ Game Lobby had finished downloading and installing.
After clicking the "Enter Game Lobby Now" button, a new window opened on the screen.
"Entering Game Lobby..."
After a few seconds of black screen loading, a green poker table interface popped up.
The interface wasn't fancy, and could even be described as slightly crude, but in 1994, it was enough to make Johnny's eyes widen.
Johnny glanced at the green "Create Room" button, clicked his mouse, and the system immediately generated a hyperlink with a room number.
"Not bad."
He casually tossed the link into that long-silent college classmate group chat, adding: "Slackers only. Three's a crowd, looking for one more."
Within ten seconds, three profile pictures lit up in quick succession.
What made Johnny's heart race the most was the ID below his—Jennifer-L.
She was his college crush, still using the system's default pixelated dolphin as her profile picture and her real name initials as her username.
The game began, classic Hearts.
Johnny was dealt a decent hand. He was just pondering how to show off his precise card-counting skills to Jennifer when a conspicuous golden notification suddenly popped up in the top right corner of the screen:
[Premium VIP Member "Michael K" has entered the room as a spectator. ]**
Johnny froze. The room was already at its four-player capacity.
Before he could react, a 3D virtual avatar, dressed in a black biker jacket and wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses, swaggered up to the card table.
This guy even brought his own virtual folding chair, forcefully squeezing himself into the seat next to Jennifer's.
In contrast, Johnny and Jennifer's avatars were mere stick figures, looking as crude as refugees fresh out of a refugee camp.
"Bro, that play was way too conservative," Michael chimed in the chat window the moment he arrived, his text bold and red. "If I were you, I'd just play the Queen of Spades. The player above clearly has no cards left."
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