The clunky, plastic feel of previous models was completely gone, replaced by a premium finish that made you want to reach out and touch it.
Hideki Sato circled the machine three times before finally blurting out, "Managing Director, these lights—they were worth every penny."
Worth every penny? It was more like the perfect finishing touch.
In an era when everyone was still competing over who could make the sturdiest plastic shells, Takuya Nakayama had pulled out the ultimate weapon: "lighting effects."
Shaking off his thoughts, Nakayama lightly brushed his fingers across Jupiter's smooth acrylic panel.
With this stunning exterior and a meticulously designed launch stage, he had already secured a lead in the "looks" department.
October 10, 1994.
The crisp autumn breeze of Tokyo had just begun to slip into collars, but the Peacock Hall at the Imperial Hotel, Tokyo, was buzzing with energy.
The 1,965-square-meter venue, originally designed to seat 1,800, had extra seating added in the back.
The crowd wasn't just the usual faces from the video game industry. Mainstream media outlets like NHK and Yomiuri Shimbun had claimed prime spots with their long lenses and cameras, and even electronic component suppliers had scrambled to get in.
Everyone knew that in this industry, the invitation received today was Ken Kutaragi's ticket to the next five years.
Small companies that hadn't received an invitation might have to consider switching to selling takoyaki by the end of the night.
The venue's setup completely subverted the stereotypes of Japanese corporate events.
There were no red and white banners, no gaudy floral arrangements, not even nameplates for the leadership seats.
The entire hall was immersed in a deep, matte black, with only a few strands of icy blue light flowing slowly along the walls, resembling the deep sea or uncharted space.
This slightly oppressive yet sophisticated "tech vibe" made reporters accustomed to traditional press conferences hold their breath for half a beat, as if afraid of disturbing something.
In the center of the front row sat Sony's Ken Kutaragi, who felt somewhat like a duck being roasted on a spit, utterly uncomfortable.
This wasn't a VIP seat; it was clearly the "special viewing position" Takuya Nakayama had deliberately reserved for him.
Looking up, he could see the light strips at the edge of the stage; looking down, he could see the black lenses of the photographers' cameras. The long and short lenses weren't aimed at the stage backdrop as usual; instead, half of them were trained on him, as if waiting to capture even the slightest hint of panic on his face.
His face was stern, his arms crossed tightly over his chest in a defensive posture, as if trying to shield himself from the probing gazes around him.
But in this industry, pretending to be invisible was a fool's errand.
"Mr. Kutaragi, it's been a while."
A slightly raspy voice came from his left.
Capcom President Kenzo Tsujimoto sat down with a smile, still clutching the promotional brochure from the registration desk. "Sega's really going all out this time. This sound system alone must cost tens of millions of yen. How are Sony's preparations coming along? I heard you're still haggling with developers over the SDK?"
This old fox, always hitting the sore spots.
Ken Kutaragi's eyelid twitched. He turned with a forced smile. "President Tsujimoto is well-informed, as always. But good things come to those who wait. And Capcom, backing Sega so early—aren't you afraid you might back the wrong horse?"
"Ah, we content creators are just weather vanes, blowing with the wind. Why not support Sega? They're the ones with the wind at their backs right now." Tsujimoto chuckled, even reaching out to brush away non-existent dust from Kutaragi's shoulder. His eyes, however, flickered toward the massive black curtain on the stage. "As long as the machine performs well and sells, what difference does it make who we work with? Right?"
There were layers to his words.
In this cutthroat industry, loyalty was thinner than toilet paper.
Before Ken Kutaragi could respond, Kazumasa Kozuki of Konami also approached. This was an even bigger fish. Smiling across the aisle, he waved at Kutaragi, his voice clear enough for everyone nearby to hear: "Mr. Kutaragi, Sony's new console is about to be released, isn't it? When will you send us the development kits?"
Software developers in the crowd instantly turned their attention. The bosses of smaller companies seated further away even covered their mouths, whispering to each other.
Kutaragi's expression remained unchanged as he politely returned the nod. "It won't be long. We hope President Kozuki and all of you will support Sony when the time comes. Our terms are just as favorable as Sega's, perhaps even more so. Please visit Sony to discuss the details."
He had long prepared for this move to poach talent on the rival's turf. After all, when he received the invitation, he knew Sega would surely invite all the industry's key players.
Ten o'clock sharp.
The previously boisterous chatter was abruptly silenced as the overhead lights were cut.
In the darkness, a spotlight snapped onto the center of the stage. Takuya Nakayama strode onto the stage.
Though he wore a blue tie today, Takuya Nakayama's overall demeanor was far from stiff. He held no speech notes, only a black laser pointer.
The stage lights suddenly narrowed, focusing a single spotlight on Takuya.
He began with a ninety-degree bow, but there were no lengthy pleasantries.
He pressed the button on his laser pointer.
A white date materialized on the massive black curtain behind him: September 30, 1994.
"Before this date, Sega had already achieved some truly remarkable work."
Takuya's voice, amplified by the state-of-the-art sound system, filled the auditorium. It was calm, yet carried an effortless authority that commanded the entire room.
The screen flickered, and two colossal numbers crashed down, nearly filling the entire frame.
MD: 50,000,000+
Game Pocket: 65,000,000+
The collective breath of the audience froze, followed by a collective gasp of astonishment. The clicking of camera shutters erupted into a white, flashing tsunami.
In an era of opaque data, Sega hadn't just revealed its sales figures—it had thrown this terrifyingly impressive performance directly in everyone's faces.
"As of the end of last month, the Mega Drive has sold over fifty million units globally, including five million Sega CD units." Takuya Nakayama strolled along the edge of the stage, his gaze sweeping over Ken Kutaragi and the other executives in the front row, their expressions grave. "And our handheld console, the GamePocket, has become a companion in the pockets of sixty-five million players."
The reporters in the audience were so tense their hands trembled as they scribbled notes.
Fifty million consoles and sixty-five million handhelds—this meant Sega had deployed over a hundred million hardware terminals worldwide.
"Of course, some might say hardware is just a loss leader, or that even if it breaks even, the profits are razor-thin." Nakayama smiled and pressed the laser pointer again. "Then let's look at the true foundation that supports this industry."
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