Kiyoshi Hattori stared at the two options, his mind already crunching the numbers. As a veteran of finance and operations, he had an innate sensitivity to cost control.
"The latter option is more expensive," Takuya Nakayama explained. "We'd need to use our current 3D engine to rebuild the old game from the ground up. But the script, level design, character settings, and even the main musical themes are all ready-made. It eliminates the long, initial trial-and-error and planning phases. More importantly, we can cut our marketing costs by more than half."
It was worth noting that old IPs came with built-in traffic.
The people who had played the original versions back in the day were now adults with independent purchasing power. They weren't just buying a game; they were buying back a youth they could never return to.
Hattori scribbled a few figures on a piece of paper and drew a line through them.
"A gold mine," the old man remarked, his assessment cutting straight to the point. "Using an old IP as the foundation, paired with the graphical fidelity of a new platform—the profit margin here is at least forty percent higher than developing a brand-new IP. This is a business model with an extremely high ROI."
"There's more," Takuya Nakayama said, his outlook even more optimistic. "The core audience is a fixed asset. As long as the quality doesn't tank, they'll become natural evangelists, spontaneously recommending the game to new players. Word-of-mouth will spread far faster than any conventional marketing campaign. New players will be drawn in by the visuals, while old players will buy in for the nostalgia. We win on both ends."
This was one of the core drivers behind Sega's acquisition of Sotsu.
Sotsu held the copyright lifeline to Sunrise Animation.
Gundam, Armored Trooper Votoms, Space Runaway Ideon.
These mecha anime from the seventies and eighties had shaped the mecha complex of an entire generation of Japanese men.
"Bandai is thriving right now by selling Gundam models," Takuya Nakayama said, bringing the conversation back to practical business. "They're reaping the rewards of the toy market. But in the realms of video games and digital interaction, the development of the Gundam IP is still in its absolute infancy."
Most anime-adapted games on the market were still crude, fan-service products. They just slapped a skin on a side-scrolling action game or a simple fighter, cashed in on a wave of sales, and then vanished.
To Takuya Nakayama, this kind of short-sighted, "draining the pond to catch the fish" approach was nothing short of a criminal waste of a goldmine.
"Sega acquiring Sotsu is like getting the key to the kingdom." Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his executive chair. "We don't need to fight Bandai for the plastic model business—that's something we'll worry about after we merge with them. Sega has Jupiter, its own arcade boards, and a mature 3D action game development team. We can retell the original Gundam story using today's technology. Let Amuro and Char fight in a true 3D environment. That hook alone will have the Akihabara nerds trampling the doorsteps of every game store in town. The reaction from Gundam fans when Gundam Battle Operation came out two years ago proved this."
Kiyoshi Hattori took out a fountain pen and scribbled rapidly in his notebook.
"And it's not just about the game," Nakayama tapped the desk. "We can play this in reverse. A hit game will drive sales of the old anime on VHS and LaserDisc, which in turn paves the way for a wave of remastered HD anime releases. This is IP matrix synergy. The cross-media amplification effect will grow exponentially."
Hollywood still hasn't figured this game out.
Fox had thrown the Independence Day license to a Canadian studio, simply to make a quick buck.
They didn't view the game as an extension of the movie's life, but as a T-shirt printed with the movie's logo—something to be sold and then forgotten.
Takuya Nakayama was more than happy to see such short-sightedness. Sega's expansion in North America depended on its competitors making mistakes.
"Beyond that, once we acquire Sotsu, we can fold more of our classic IPs into this ecosystem. Many game-realization methods we can't even imagine now might become possible in the future. The key is how these characters and stories are remembered by audiences and players. After all, we are a company that serves consumers with content."
"I've got the plan straight," Kiyoshi Hattori said, closing his notebook. "I'll arrange for Daiwa Securities to step in as soon as possible. We need to accelerate the acquisition of Sotsu. The sooner we sign the contract, the sooner we can begin auditing Sunrise's copyright library. Those old archives are untapped gold mines."
"Don't haggle too hard over the commission," Takuya Nakayama instructed. "As long as they can keep those old bones at Sotsu happy and ensure a smooth handover, an extra 0.5% is worth it. Spending a bit more on the commission upfront to guarantee a seamless transition after the acquisition is a winning trade, no matter how you slice it."
"I'm definitely keeping those crates of Shizuoka melons," Kiyoshi Hattori joked.
"Go ahead, keep them," Takuya Nakayama replied. "If you can't finish them all, share them with the young staff in the Development Department. They've been pulling all-nighters working on the bullet trajectory physics for John Wick: Chapter 2 and need the sugar boost."
Kiyoshi Hattori closed the door, returning the office to its usual quiet.
The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner.
Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the desk unconsciously.
The plan to acquire Sotsu had entered the operational phase; Sega's capital maneuvers were proceeding methodically. For months, his focus had been consumed by board meetings and financial statements, pushing day-to-day business operations to the back burner.
He stood up and walked to the back of the bookcase.
He entered the password and pulled open the heavy metal door of the vault.
Inside, there were no stacks of cash, only a few document folders and an old, hardcover notebook.
This was his memorandum, used to record the key milestones of his past-life memories.
Flipping through the yellowed pages, his fingertips slid over the dense Japanese and English abbreviations before stopping at the tab marked "1996."
In the center of the page, three uppercase English letters stood out starkly: EVA.
Takuya Nakayama slapped his forehead.
He'd been too busy to think straight.
Neon Genesis Evangelion.
Sega had aggressively joined the production committee for this work as an investor.
From its premiere last October to its conclusion this March, the revenue from the initial television broadcast rights and the profit-sharing from merchandise licensing had already transformed into a series of impressive figures on Sega's financial reports.
Hideaki Anno and the GAINAX team had received their funding, and production of the feature film was steadily progressing.
But this was far from the peak of EVA's commercial potential.
What mattered was that in the Japanese animation market of the mid-90s, the real profit lay in the sales of video tapes and LaserDiscs.
In the autumn, the late-night rerun plan for EVA would be launched.
Coupled with the release of physical discs, this storm—woven from mecha, religious symbols, and stream-of-consciousness—was stirring a rare cultural phenomenon across Japanese society, fueled by EVA's reruns and the sales of video tapes and LaserDiscs.
In music and video stores on every street corner, any product featuring Unit-01 or Rei Ayanami on the cover would be snatched up the moment it hit the shelves.
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