On the stage, Maldini took the microphone.
"I'm thrilled to be working with Sega. In this game, I've seen a football world that feels incredibly real." His English carried an Italian accent, but his words were clear. "I hope everyone will enjoy the thrill of managing an entire team in Pro Soccer World PSW."
His brief speech lacked the usual lengthy mutual praise common in corporate announcements.
Maldini shook hands with Hiroshi Ono, and the two walked off the stage side by side.
Below the stage, the media was left with their minds buzzing with questions and astonishment.
A CG trailer, a high-fidelity model, and a world-class superstar's live endorsement.
No gameplay demo, yet the anticipation had been pushed to its peak.
This was the marketing strategy set by Takuya Nakayama.
Using the most direct visual impact and the maximum star power, he aimed to smash open the doors to the European and South American markets.
The specific details of the gameplay experience would naturally emerge later in the exhibition, when the hands-on demo area opened and people queued up to try it for themselves.
The atmosphere in the hall surged to a small climax.
Reporters murmured among themselves, assessing the impact of this one-two punch.
"This game is going to explode in Europe," a French journalist wrote emphatically in his notebook, circling the words.
"Sega is determined to grind Sony and Nintendo into the ground. They're even dropping heavy firepower on the sports game niche."
Before Maldini's figure had fully disappeared behind the curtain, before the buzz in the hall had subsided, the screen had already cut to a new scene.
There was no host to bridge the segments, no producer to take the stage.
The Sega logo flashed, followed by a rapid-fire guitar riff.
The words The King of Fighters 3 materialized in the center of the screen.
The footage immediately transitioned to a live match.
Iori Yagami and Kusanagi Kyo clashed against a backdrop of firelit ruins.
The development team was still building on the System32 foundation, pushing 2D graphics to the absolute limit of hardware capabilities.
The characters' animations were remarkably fluid, each move and impact precisely timed with the hitboxes' feedback.
The background NPCs moved independently, and the scene was layered with depth.
A few whistles came from the North American press section below.
In 1995, fighting games were among the most profitable machines in American arcades.
"Although the platform is still System32, the graphics have improved somewhat from the previous game. I wonder what changes have been made to the system." A GamePro editor quickly jotted down notes on his laptop.
The trailer lasted only one and a half minutes.
After a dazzling demonstration of a hidden Super Special Move, the screen went dark.
Then, an opening theme with a distinctly Japanese anime style began to play.
Heavy mechs clashed in space, their beam rifle trajectories weaving into a net.
The game title appeared on the screen: Super Robot Wars Alpha.
This time, not even the in-game interface was shown; it was purely a montage of combat scenes.
Gundam, Mazinger Z, and Getter Robo made successive appearances.
As the mechs attacked, close-up shots of the pilots appeared on the screen, accompanied by passionate Japanese voiceovers.
The Japanese press section erupted in enthusiastic applause.
The Famitsu editor spun his pen rapidly in his hand.
"The roster of参战作品 (participating works) is much larger than the previous generation. The presentation quality is on par with anime." He spoke to his companion without looking up. "Another reliable cash grab."
In contrast, the North American journalists' reactions were far more subdued.
Most of them had no understanding of the complex mecha settings.
"Another grid-based strategy game?" the tester from NetGeneration yawned. "Few American players have the patience to wade through so much Japanese dialogue."
"Who cares if they read it or not?" the Editor-in-Chief of EGM leaned back in his chair, his analysis sharp. "Sega doesn't expect this game to sell in North America. It's a pacifier for their core Japanese audience. One press conference covers sports, fighting games, JRPGs, and Western family-friendly titles. They're cramming this product line too tightly."
Both games were presented entirely through trailers, with no producers taking the stage for formalities.
This efficient presentation left the journalists barely time to catch their breath.
The trailer for Super Robot Wars Alpha finished.
The screen went completely dark.
But the overhead lights in the hall remained off.
Several reporters in the front row closed their notebooks and stuffed their recording pens into their briefcases.
The consecutive trailers for two games usually meant a company's press conference was nearing its end.
A GamePro editor stretched lazily, then turned to his colleague and said, "It's over. Sega seems to have played all their cards today."
His colleague twisted open the cap of his bottled water, but before he could take a sip, his hand froze mid-air.
In the darkness, the arena's surround sound system crackled to life with the crisp sound of metal striking metal.
A handbell rang out, its slow rhythm echoing through the hall.
Then, a deep drumbeat cut through the air, its resonant thud vibrating against the floor and sending faint tremors through the space.
Without any transition, a piercing female chorus erupted, its dissonant chords cutting through the air.
Bulgarian polyphony blended with Shinto shrine prayers, the high-pitched vocals circling in the air, creating an eerie, sacred, yet absurd pressure that cut through the audience's chatter.
The American reporters had never heard anything like this before.
This atonal music, stripped of conventional structure, struck their auditory nerves directly.
The big screen lit up.
No Sega logo, no Jupiter watermark.
Instead, a dark green culturing tank filled the entire frame.
Robotic arms moved through the liquid, precisely assembling a metallic skeleton.
This wasn't a game demo.
In the backstage control room, Shimizu sat before the monitor, watching the footage unfold.
The Ghost in the Shell tech demo consisted of only a few test scenes featuring running, jumping, and close combat—not enough to serve as a climax at an event like E3. Just a week before leaving Japan, Takuya Nakayama used personal connections to contact Mamoru Oshii, who was directing the Ghost in the Shell anime film.
A confidentiality agreement secured an exclusive clip of the film's opening animation, not yet publicly released.
Combined with Kenji Kawai's newly recorded soundtrack, sung by Kazue Nishida, it formed a cross-media trailer.
Using film-quality animation to promote a game.
On the screen, the metallic skeleton was fully assembled.
Countless thin red artificial muscle fibers surged from all directions, layer by layer, wrapping and enveloping the cold machinery.
The skull closed, titanium alloy connecting to neurons.
Motoko's body slowly ascended through the milky-white suspension fluid.
The moment the liquid's surface tension was broken, the white protective layers peeled away, revealing the perfect cyberpunk human form.
The NetGeneration editor stared at the screen, his pen swiftly moving across the paper. "Cybernetic body construction process. Good heavens, the frame rate and color depth are at full theatrical animation standards."
He turned to his colleague beside him. "It's pure William Gibson—high tech, low life. This genre might actually catch on in the United States."
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