The cross-promotion strategy worked well, with each party benefiting and maintaining a good reputation.
The Children of the Star Ring project was even more noteworthy.
What creative departments fear most is management meddling and amateurs dictating to experts.
Hattori handled this matter with clarity, giving the creative team ample room to innovate while providing only high-level strategic guidance.
For example, he would remind the team to differentiate their works: "If you've created a passionate fighting game world, the next project should shift the tone. We don't want all our IP to compete on the same selling points."
This is also a key reason why Sega's IP matrix can reach diverse audience segments.
When Takuya Nakayama arrived, Hattori was in his office reviewing a quarterly sales report for merchandise.
Hearing the knock, he looked up, put down the report, and stood.
"Takuya, you didn't need to bring anything," Hattori said, smiling and shaking his head as he glanced at the bag in Takuya's hand.
"Uncle Hattori," Takuya greeted naturally.
This "uncle" wasn't just a formality.
Hattori had known Shu Nakayama, Takuya's father, for decades. When Takuya was a child, he often attended company events with his father, and Hattori had even held him as a baby.
Given their families' long-standing relationship, there was no need for formality during their private meeting.
Hattori rounded the desk and invited Takuya Nakayama to sit. He then went to a nearby cabinet, retrieved two cups, and poured tea.
"Hayao called me a couple of days ago," Hattori said, pushing a teacup toward Takuya and getting straight to the point. "I support you regarding the President position. You didn't need to come all this way."
Takuya took the cup and shook his head. "Precisely because you agreed so readily, Uncle, I felt I had to come in person. A simple thank you over the phone wouldn't suffice."
"You're a good kid," Hattori said with a smile. He didn't press the issue further, picked up his cup, and took a sip. "When Hayao told me, my first thought was—it's long overdue. You've been leading the charge for the past two years while also managing so many other responsibilities behind the scenes. It would be wrong not to give you proper recognition. Besides, he's always talking about his grandson these days. I suspect he's been eager to retire for a while now."
Takuya didn't respond to this. Instead, he placed a bag on the desk.
The contents were simple: a file folder, slightly more decorated than usual, but nothing overly elaborate.
Hattori glanced at him. "What's this?"
"Uncle Shu has run Sega Galaxy so smoothly and has supported me so much, I had to show my appreciation," Takuya Nakayama said, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed tone. "I doubt I'll get the chance to help him in a crisis, but I can at least add a little flourish."
"Cut the crap," Hattori said, though his hands were already reaching for the file folder.
Inside, two separate folders were tucked away.
The first folder bore the GAINAX logo.
Hattori paused.
He opened the folder, his eyes quickly scanning the contents before looking up at Takuya.
"Equity Partnership Agreement, Priority Copyright Development Agreement, and the Joint Venture Agreement for the Neon Genesis Evangelion Production Committee," Hattori said, closing the folder and tapping the cover twice with his fingers. "How did you pull this off?"
The question was pointed.
GAINAX's reputation was notorious in the industry.
They'd burned through a fortune on Royal Space Force and poured money into Gunbuster, yet both had earned critical acclaim but little profit.
After finally waiting for The Sapphire Mystery to become a massive hit, GAINAX reaped a mountain of fame but saw little real money fall into their own pockets because they had only been contracted to produce it.
These experiences had made GAINAX's management extremely tight-fisted about controlling equity and project revenue, making it difficult for outsiders to intervene.
"It wasn't me who secured the deal," Takuya Nakayama said, picking up his teacup and taking a sip. "Hideaki Anno helped."
"Anno?"
"He approached me last year when he was planning his new project," Nakayama said, setting down his cup. "He wanted me to get involved and help him retain core control over the copyright."
Hattori's brow twitched slightly. He put down the folder and leaned back in his chair.
"Did he have a falling out with GAINAX?"
"I wouldn't call it a falling out," Nakayama said, carefully choosing his words. "But over the past decade, Anno has grown somewhat critical of GAINAX's management style. Differences in business philosophy have accumulated over time."
"He chose to make EVA at GAINAX this time partly out of loyalty to the company they founded together, and partly..."
He paused.
"...partly as a final chance for his old company."
Hattori was silent for a few seconds, then nodded. "So he brought you in as a safeguard for himself."
"Pretty much. With Sega's influence on the production committee, GAINAX's management would think twice before trying anything funny."
"Hideaki Anno is a creative genius, but his social skills have always been a mystery," Hattori mused. "The fact that he sought you out shows that your reputation in the anime industry has truly been established over the years."
"It's not that complicated," Takuya Nakayama waved his hand. "Simply put, I've helped them make money, and they enjoy working with me. What creators fear most is working hard only to have the profits snatched away. I figured it out: whoever controls the source of profit should be the first to benefit. That way, they'll be more motivated next time."
Hattori smiled. "That logic sounds simple, but few people actually put it into practice."
Takuya Nakayama didn't dwell on the topic, nudging the folder on the table with his chin. "Uncle, take a look at the second one."
Hattori picked up the second folder. The title on the cover read: Rurouni Kenshin—Meiji Swordsman Romantic Tale 1.
"[ Rurouni Kenshin ]?" Hattori recognized the name. "The one serialized in [ Shonen Jump ] this year?"
"Yes, Nobuhiro Watsuki's work. It's incredibly popular right now."
Hattori opened the folder, revealing two documents.
The first was a game copyright license, which didn't surprise him.
He looked closer at the second—a live-action film adaptation license.
"I understand the game license," Hattori said, spreading the folder on the table and tapping the film license with his index finger. "But what's this? Since when does Sega do film adaptations?"
Takuya Nakayama's expression was somewhat awkward, as if he found the situation itself rather absurd.
"It's a long story. When I went to Shueisha to negotiate the game rights with Watsuki, the conversation somehow drifted toward a film adaptation."
"How did you go from discussing games to film adaptations?"
"Watsuki himself brought it up. He said he'd always wanted to see Kenshin in a live-action adaptation, but he didn't want to make it a traditional Japanese samurai film—the kind with formal sword drawing and a single, decisive slash. That style is so different from how Kenshin fights in the manga. He joked that he wished it could feel more like a Chinese wuxia drama."
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