The reviewer put down his pen, having grasped the key feature.
"They added visual aids. The highlighted halo beneath the protagonist's feet always projects vertically onto the ground at his current height. The brightness of the ground materials at different heights is strictly distinguished by grayscale. It's a clever solution."
The demo continued.
The core gameplay was laid bare: pure, unadorned action platforming.
No puzzles, no complex maze exploration.
Joe Musashi traversed the levels, confronting enemies by drawing his sword or throwing shuriken.
The action feedback was rock-solid.
The enemies' stun animations after being hit, and the protagonist's attack frame rates, exhibited a precision surpassing that of typical action games.
"This combat feels off," the Editor-in-Chief leaned forward, scrutinizing the close-quarters combat mechanics on the screen. "It's different from a system built from scratch. Look at the trajectory of the enemy when knocked back, and how the hit detection changes based on their position."
He turned to the Deputy Editor-in-Chief.
"They're using a fighting game engine. Eighty percent of it is modified Virtua Fighter code."
"Bringing in proven technology is certainly a shrewd move," the Deputy Editor-in-Chief commented.
On the screen, Joe Musashi found himself surrounded by enemy soldiers and unleashed a Ninjutsu technique.
The Jupiter engine's capabilities for handling translucent layers and particle effects were on full display.
The blazing flames of the Fire Style technique consumed half the screen, multiple translucent layers blending seamlessly without any sign of dropped frames.
This visual spectacle was precisely what Koji Oba had promised to deliver when he was in the Development Department.
A three-minute demo clearly demonstrated the core gameplay elements that action game players care about most: running, jumping, and fighting.
The lights dimmed. Koji Oba bowed to the audience and turned to leave.
Applause erupted.
The response was lukewarm.
There was none of the feverish standing ovation that greeted FF7, nor the narrative impact of MGS2's cinematic storytelling.
Instead, the audience offered a rational acknowledgment.
Everyone understood.
The technology used in this game—the map editor, core mechanics, and effects engine—was largely based on solutions already proven in other Sega projects.
It didn't push hardware boundaries, nor did it introduce groundbreaking gameplay innovations.
A GamePro reporter, while organizing notes, exchanged observations with a colleague.
"It's a solid, above-average game. Nothing particularly lacking, but nothing truly surprising either."
"Players actually still eat this kind of thing up. As long as they haven't grown tired of the genre, stitching together existing technologies like this keeps overall costs and risks relatively low." The colleague tucked the voice recorder into his pocket. "Sega's Mega Drive sold the most of these kinds of action games in this market. They need titles like this to keep their core audience stable."
The procurement representatives from Walmart and Best Buy, seated in the back, were actually more interested in this kind of demonstration.
For retailers, innovative games that require lengthy explanations of gameplay come with high marketing education costs and increased uncertainty.
On the other hand, games like Super Shinobi—where players can understand how to play at a glance and enjoy fast-paced action—always have steady sales when placed on the shelves.
Koji Oba walked into the backstage corridor.
The stage lights were re-adjusted.
Hiroshi Ono emerged from the other side.
He approached the microphone, cleared his throat, and announced the game's name in Japanese: "Pro Soccer World PSW."
The video screen cut to a new scene.
There was no user interface, no gameplay footage—this was a fully pre-rendered computer graphics sequence.
The camera glided low over the stadium grass, capturing water droplets on the blades being crushed underfoot by cleats.
Flashbulbs lit up the stands in a sea of light, and the roar of the crowd echoed through the stadium's sound system, filling every corner.
The scene shifted to the players' locker room, where the creases and numbers on their jerseys were clearly visible.
Then came the player entrances, the camera focusing on several figures in silhouette.
The quality of the CG was exceptionally high, with meticulous attention to diffuse lighting and reflections.
The American journalists in the audience remained unimpressed.
Soccer wasn't a mainstream sport in North America; football was their true passion.
A GamePro editor yawned, doodling absently in his notebook.
"Sega wants to compete with EA in sports games, but they picked the wrong sport. Basketball or hockey might have a chance, but soccer will never sell here."
A colleague nearby agreed. "They didn't even dare show any actual gameplay. The development must still be in its early stages. A single CG sequence doesn't even give us a clue about the gameplay."
The CG sequence on the screen reached its conclusion.
The image froze.
The background showed a panoramic view of a magnificent stadium, with the game's logo floating in the center.
Beside the logo stood a highly detailed 3D character model.
A red-and-black striped jersey, flowing long hair, and striking facial features.
Paolo Maldini.
This model was meticulously crafted, with shadows on the facial contours, the direction of individual strands of hair, and even the physical deformation of the jersey as it clung to the body—all showcasing Jupiter's powerful polygon processing capabilities.
The knowledgeable sports journalists in the audience sat up straighter.
The current star player of AC Milan, the world's best left-back.
Just as many were still assessing the precision of the 3D model, the lighting system at the top of the hall suddenly changed.
A bright spotlight, without warning, illuminated the aisle on the right side of the stage.
A tall man in a custom Armani suit emerged from the shadows.
He had the exact same face as the 3D model on the screen, but with an added air of mature composure.
Paolo Maldini himself had stepped into the spotlight.
Smiling, he waved to the audience and walked over to Hiroshi Ono.
The entire hall fell silent for two seconds.
Then, applause and whistles erupted from the sections occupied by European and South American media.
Several British journalists stood up, the whirring of their single-lens camera motors blending into a continuous buzz.
Strobe lights flooded the stage, illuminating it brilliantly.
"Good heavens, they actually brought Maldini here!"
"How much did this cost? AC Milan is at the height of their power right now!"
The American journalists in the front row, uninterested in soccer, still understood the spectacle bought with cold, hard cash.
The fact that Sega had managed to invite a sports superstar of this caliber to their Los Angeles press conference spoke volumes about the depth of their marketing budget.
In the Japanese press area, several gaming magazine editors turned simultaneously to look at a colleague seated in the middle—the seasoned journalist who had casually mentioned Sega's Maldini signing during the morning's Konami press conference.
He took a slow sip of his coffee. Under the questioning gazes of his peers, he set down his cup and spread his hands.
"I said it this morning. Just in terms of endorsements, Konami is an order of magnitude behind."
A younger reporter beside him gave a thumbs-up. "Senior, your intelligence network is insane. You even got this kind of top-secret info in advance?"
He'd happened to bump into Sega's marketing team having coffee with Maldini's management team in the hotel lobby a few days earlier. But at this stage, maintaining an information advantage was standard industry practice.
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