Gabe grinned. "ZAGE's own OS… that's really smart. As a former Microsoft worker, I know how hard it is for us to make Windows. Not because writing an OS is impossible, but because the real nightmare is compatibility—balancing drivers, stability, and performance across thousands of hardware combinations. Every PC is built differently, with different parts, different brands, different quirks."
He spread his hands, as if laying out invisible circuit boards across the table. "People think it's just coding. But the truth is, the OS has to be polite to everything. Old sound cards, new sound cards, weird printers someone refuses to throw away. A motherboard that follows the rules, and another one that almost follows the rules. A driver that works ninety-nine percent of the time, until it meets that one specific chipset revision and decides to crash at the worst possible moment."
Gabe chuckled under his breath, more like a veteran remembering scars than someone trying to scare them. "And then you have OEMs doing their own tweaks, utilities running in the background, random hardware combinations that no one on Earth would ever choose on purpose. Windows survives because it has to survive. It takes punches every day from machines that were never designed as a single system."
He tapped the table lightly, warming up as he spoke. "But what you're proposing—a 'Quick PC'—means we only need to support one standardized configuration. One version. One set of components we can control and optimize from top to bottom. That changes everything."
His eyes sharpened as he leaned in. "If we know the exact CPU, the exact GPU, the exact motherboard, the exact memory, we can tune the kernel for it. We can shape the driver model around it. We can build recovery tools that actually understand the machine instead of guessing. We can strip out the baggage and focus on what matters: fast boot, stable frame pacing, clean audio, low input lag."
Gabe's grin returned, bigger now. "And the best part is, when something breaks, we can actually fix it. Not a thousand maybes. A single answer."
Gabe's grin widened. "And That's why its a great idea, boss. It turns the hardest problem into something manageable. And the fact that you own NVIDIA and AMD?" He whistled softly. "That makes it even easier. Better driver access, better optimization, fewer surprises. If we control the hardware, we can make the OS feel fast, stable, and clean—like it was built for gaming first."
Zaboru smiled. Yes—this was the ZAGE Custom PC concept. For now, it still couldn't be realized as a laptop; not yet. This was a gaming PC with hardware chosen specifically to match a dedicated OS. In the future, that OS wouldn't be only for ZAGE games, but also for other utilities—a clean, fast environment built around stability and performance. Zaboru had been thinking about it for a long time, but the truth was simple: development hadn't even begun.
Not yet.
Zaboru nodded. "Yes, that's right, Gaben. The question is—can you make it? An OS for our ZAGE custom PC, in the future?"
Gaben shook his head slowly, expression turning serious. "Honestly, not right now. Our resources and manpower are lacking, boss. We don't have a dedicated team for this yet."
He exhaled and rubbed his chin, as if remembering old battles. "Like I said earlier, making an OS isn't a joke. From what I know from working at Microsoft back then, it's not just one big program—it's a living foundation. Drivers, stability, updates, security, tools, installers, compatibility even within our own ecosystem… it's a huge hassle. And if you do it wrong, people will hate it forever. So yeah—possible someday, but not with what we have today."
Zaboru nodded, but Gaben grinned. "So… you want to make a Microsoft rival—right beside Apple, huh?" He let out a low laugh, the kind that sounded half-joking and half-serious. "Don't worry, boss. Count me in. Hehehe… I really want to see them lose to us."
Zaboru smiled, not offended. If anything, he understood the feeling. Even as a former Microsoft higher-up, Gaben hated Microsoft.
"Don't worry about manpower," Zaboru said. "We'll build it step by step. In the future, I'll give you a dedicated team for this. And besides, this is a long-term project. You don't need to carry it on your shoulders right now, Gaben."
Gaben nodded, still energized, eyes sharp with the kind of excitement only engineers get when they see something ambitious but possible. "Still," he said, "this idea of yours is really good, boss. I can already see where the industry is heading. High-spec PCs are going to become a huge battlefield—especially for gaming."
He leaned forward, more serious now. "Not just because of graphics. Because of flexibility. Because players will want more control, more options, more ways to play. I honestly think gaming will become one of the main reasons people buy powerful PCs in the first place. So yeah… if we can make a system that feels simple like a console but keeps the strengths of a PC?"
He exhaled, grinning again. "That's not just a good idea. That's a future-proof one."
Zaboru nodded, clearly agreeing. PCs were always superior for gaming in terms of potential. You could do so many things that consoles simply couldn't. If you wanted to install mods, you could do it easily. If you wanted to run two games at once on the same machine, you could. If you wanted to work while grinding in a JRPG—shrinking the game into a small corner of the screen so it stayed almost unnoticed—you could do that too.
And it wasn't only those examples. On PC, you could tweak settings until the performance felt perfect. You could remap controls exactly how you liked, use different controllers, or even build custom setups. You could install fan patches, community maps, and tools that extended a game's life far beyond what the original release offered. You could record gameplay, edit clips, and share them. You could build a library that lasted for years, backed up, organized, and customized the way you wanted.
That freedom was the real reason PC gaming never died. It wasn't just "stronger hardware." It was the fact that the player had control—and control creates endless possibilities.
But the problem with PCs is always the same two things. First: price. A gaming PC is usually far more expensive than a console, and even the spare parts cost more. If a console costs around $400, a decent gaming PC can easily reach $800–$1000—sometimes more once you add a monitor, proper cooling, and the small upgrades people always "accidentally" convince themselves they need.
That price gap makes a lot of people hesitate. Not because they don't want better performance, but because they can't justify paying double just to play games—especially when consoles are simpler and already good enough for most players.
And the worst part is that the price problem connects directly to the second problem—the ultimate problem—because the more expensive the machine is, the more afraid people become of making the wrong choice.
The PC is not beginner-friendly, and it's quite hard to set up if you're not tech-savvy or you don't know what you're doing. A PC isn't one simple box like a console—it's a puzzle made of different components and different standards, and the moment you open that world, it can feel scary for someone who only wants to play games. With a console, you feel safe: you buy it, plug it in, and it behaves the same as everyone else's. With a PC, you feel like you're stepping into a workshop where every tool has ten versions and nobody agrees which one is the right one.
First, there's the hardware confusion: CPU, GPU, motherboard, RAM, storage, power supply, cooling, case size, and compatibility. The parts don't just need to be "good"—they need to match each other. One wrong socket, one wrong RAM speed, or one weak power supply can ruin the whole build. Even when the parts are compatible on paper, there's still the fear of the hidden traps: a motherboard that needs a BIOS update before it even recognizes the CPU, a case that doesn't fit the cooler you bought, a graphics card that blocks the last PCI slot, a power cable that's missing because the box came with the wrong bundle.
Then you have the little details that don't sound important until they break everything—drivers, BIOS updates, thermal paste, airflow, cable management, and which port you're supposed to plug into. A newcomer can do everything right and still get punished. The monitor is plugged into the motherboard instead of the GPU, so the game runs like mud. The fans are pointing the wrong direction, so the case becomes an oven. One loose cable, one stick of RAM not seated all the way, and the machine turns into a blinking mystery.
Even after the PC is assembled, a newbie still has to fight the setup process. Installing an OS, setting up partitions, figuring out why the internet driver isn't working, downloading GPU drivers, updating DirectX, fixing missing DLL errors, dealing with crashes, and learning what "settings" actually matter. And the worst part is that the PC doesn't explain itself. It just fails, quietly, with a message that means nothing to a normal person. Blue screens. Random freezes. Sound that crackles only in one game. A controller that works in one menu but not in another.
Sometimes the game runs badly, and the player doesn't know if the problem is the GPU, the CPU, the RAM, the temperature, the hard drive, or just one wrong toggle buried three menus deep. They don't know whether to lower shadows, change resolution, turn off anti-aliasing, or disable something they've never heard of. They don't know if the stutter is normal, or if it's a sign that something is fundamentally wrong. And because the PC world has a thousand opinions, the advice becomes another problem—ten people, ten answers, and every answer sounds confident.
That's why setting up a PC doesn't feel like buying a machine. For a beginner, it feels like taking a test they didn't study for—except the punishment isn't a bad grade. The punishment is wasting money, losing time, and feeling stupid for wanting to play games in the first place.
And unlike consoles, PCs don't always give simple answers. A console fails in a clear way. A PC fails in a confusing way—random stutters, black screens, sound cutting out, a controller not detected, or a game refusing to launch because one small thing is missing.
That's why so many people hesitate. They don't fear gaming—they fear the setup. And that was exactly what Zaboru wanted to erase, along with the price problem, if possible.
He wanted a custom PC you could use immediately—almost like a console. Turn it on, pick a game, and play without fear or confusion. But it would still keep the freedom of a PC: options, settings, expansion, and the ability to do more than just one thing.
And it had to be affordable. Not luxury-enthusiast pricing, but something normal players could actually buy without feeling like they were gambling their entire savings. If ZAGE could standardize the parts, simplify the setup, and optimize everything for their own ecosystem, then PC gaming wouldn't feel like a scary hobby anymore.
That was the core of the project: make PC gaming approachable—and once people tasted that freedom, far more of them would choose it.
Still, Zaboru knew the trade-off. This approach would lower the absolute peak potential. A perfectly tuned PC in the hands of the right person—someone who knew every setting, every driver, every calibration—could feel unreal. When everything was dialed in, performance snapped into place, input felt razor-clean, the image looked flawless, and the whole machine responded like it could read your mind.
But Zaboru didn't want PC gaming to be a privilege reserved for experts. He wasn't chasing the best experience for one percent of players—he was chasing an experience most people could reach without fear. If lowering the ceiling a little meant raising the floor for everyone, he could accept that.
Because his goal was bigger than one device. If PC became simpler and more approachable, then in the next generation he could push his games to be truly cross-gen between PC and console—one ecosystem, one community, and one library players could carry wherever they played. And if he could make PC feel as easy as turning on a console, then the future he wanted wouldn't depend on who was brave enough to build a machine.
Zaboru and Gaben kept talking, the meeting stretching longer than either of them expected. They went back and forth on the two big projects—the future ZAGE website ecosystem and the long-term OS plan—breaking them into smaller steps that could actually be built. Gaben talked architecture and risks, Zaboru talked vision and priorities, and the whiteboard slowly filled with arrows, lists, and rough timelines.
By the time they wrapped up, the food was gone, the room smelled faintly of cold pizza, and the outside world had become quiet. Gaben finally stood, still grinning like he'd just been handed a challenge he couldn't refuse. He headed home with his head full of systems and possibilities, while Zaboru stayed behind.
And like always, once the door closed, Zaboru returned to work again—calm, focused, and already thinking about the next move.
Days passed. In the next week, Zaboru called Team Enigma in again.
Their Twisted Metal 2 for ZEPS 3 was still ongoing, but it was already in the final phase—polish, balance, bug hunts, and the kind of late-stage tuning where one small change could suddenly make the whole game feel ten times better. Enigma looked tired, but the good kind of tired. The kind that means a project is close to becoming real.
Even so, Zaboru assigned them another task.
"Vehicle chaos and mayhem," he said simply, like it was the natural language of Team Enigma.
This time, instead of armored cars and heavy metal destruction, he wanted motorcycles. Fast, reckless, and personal. The new project was Road Rash: Jailbreak—funny, brutal, and absurd in a way that fit Enigma's instincts perfectly. Zaboru wanted the same energy as their arena chaos, but translated into speed, dirty tricks, and street brawls on two wheels.
He was clear about the timeline too. "Ten months," Zaboru said.
Team Enigma exchanged looks with relaxed expressions. The schedule was tight, but it wasn't impossible. Especially not for them—especially not with Twisted Metal 2 nearly crossing the finish line.
Zaboru didn't stay long. He gave the direction, the tone, and the rules—then left them to do what they did best: turn chaos into a game that people couldn't stop playing.
After assigning Team Enigma that task, Zaboru moved again. He went to Korea first to check on Team Dynasty, then continued to England to visit Team OMNI. He helped them finish their tasks.
Because once he returned to Japan, it would be time to announce Fiber Home—and Steam—to the world after the release of Twisted Metal 2 to the world.
To be continue
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