The reporters in the audience listened with rapt attention, many already predicting a high score for the game.
"The release date for Meridian 59 is set for late September," David said, tapping his pen against the table. "The first MMORPG on a console platform. And it's launching on a system that's already been slated for discontinuation, with its entire hardware department being shut down. It's just brutal."
When the skin is gone, where can the hair cling?
Players wouldn't even want to buy the console, let alone purchase a machine officially sentenced to death just to play an online game—especially when they'd have to pay a $9.99 monthly subscription fee.
"Wrong place, wrong time," Paul commented. "Silicon Valley Online's Dungeons & Dragons Online has already proven the PC's monetization potential for online games. Players are used to tapping keyboards in front of their computers, not staring at a console that doesn't even have any new games. If this game had come out two years earlier, it might have been able to save the 3DO. Now, it can only sing a dirge for this short-lived platform."
Ōta Ward, Japan. Sega Headquarters.
Takuya Nakayama flipped through the industry briefing on his desk.
Oguchi Hisao stood by, reporting on the latest developments in the North American market.
"3DO is exiting," Oguchi said, pointing to the text in the briefing. "They're abandoning their hardware business entirely. The first official casualty in the next-generation console war."
Takuya Nakayama lifted his teacup, took a sip of the hot tea, and set it back down.
The failure of 3DO was, at its core, a collapse of their business model.
Hawkins had tried to establish a standard similar to the VCR industry, collecting licensing fees while letting hardware manufacturers fight price wars.
That logic didn't work in the gaming industry.
"Without first-party software to drive it, hardware is just a pile of scrap metal," Nakayama commented. Oguchi noted the point.
"What about that M2 technology they have? Is Matsushita taking it over?" Nakayama asked.
"Negotiations are still ongoing. Rumor has it the price is around one hundred million dollars," Oguchi replied. "If Matsushita gets the M2, they likely won't use it directly for a game console. PlayStation and Jupiter have already saturated the market. Matsushita will probably use the M2 for multimedia terminals or arcade system boards. They need the technical reserves, not to throw money into the bottomless pit of the console market."
"Let them be," Takuya Nakayama said, filing away the briefing. "With one less disruptor, the North American market will become clearer. Frank needs to keep a close eye on online gaming. Sega of North America cultivated so many game developers for him, not just to maintain and update Dungeons & Dragons Online. Silicon Valley Online needs to seize as much of the online gaming market share left by 3DO as possible. Once Meridian 59 goes live, its PC players will be our potential customers. Have the passport system and marketing strategies ready to onboard these users at a moment's notice."
Time advanced to September.
Redwood City, California. 3DO Headquarters.
The office area was filled with the sound of packing tape being torn.
Technicians were dismantling test rigs, and administrative staff were reviewing the severance pay lists.
Trip Hawkins sat in the President's Office, watching the traffic outside the floor-to-ceiling window.
Several newly signed legal documents lay on the desk.
The first document: the exclusive rights to M2 technology, officially transferred to Matsushita for approximately $100 million.
The second document: the announcement of the termination of hardware development and licensing business.
The third document: the layoff list of 150 employees.
Hawkins closed his eyes and rubbed his brow.
The news had already been made public.
Wall Street media outlets were bombarding the Public Relations Department with calls.
Analysts were delivering lengthy monologues on television programs, dissecting the collapse of the 3DO business empire.
From this day forward, 3DO was no longer a hardware platform company.
Negotiations with Samsung over the remaining assets of the Hardware Department were still underway, a grueling tug-of-war over details and pricing. The Koreans were driving the price down, well aware that 3DO was desperate for the cash flow to keep its software business running. The stalemate at the negotiating table was fraying Hawkins's patience by the day.
"Boss," his assistant said, knocking as he entered with a game master disc in hand. "The pressing for Meridian 59 is complete. It'll be shipped to retail channels next week."
Hawkins stared at the plastic case.
This was the epoch-making masterpiece he had pinned his hopes on. It had absorbed a massive R&D budget and carried his ambition to build an online gaming ecosystem.
But the ship meant to carry it had already sunk.
"Release it as planned," Hawkins said, his voice dry. "Focus the promotion on the PC version. The 3DO console version... just consider it a demo. Let it fall where it may."
The assistant nodded and withdrew.
Hawkins stood up, walked to the whiteboard, and grabbed the eraser. He wiped away every chart and diagram detailing the hardware iterations. The architectural designs and market share projections he had once taken such pride in crumbled into a pile of chalk dust on the floor.
Only four words remained: Software Development.
Competition in the gaming industry was this blunt. One moment you're at the table planning the future; the next, you're clearing your chips and re-entering the game as a new player.
The story of the 3DO wasn't over—it had just switched to a much more treacherous track.
San Francisco. Cyberspace Internet Café.
On the newspaper rack beside the counter, copies of the day's Wall Street Journal and San Jose Mercury News lay in a messy stack. The front pages all carried the same headline: 3DO officially announces restructuring, spinning off its hardware division to pivot into a pure software developer.
The gaming media reacted even faster. Electronic Gaming Monthly had rushed a special issue, featuring a long-form post-mortem on Trip Hawkins' business failure.
The press was in a frenzy.
The gaming community, however, was silent.
Reno, the manager, gathered the papers and tossed them into the recycling bin. All twenty Pentium computers in the café were occupied. The screens flickered with the green interface of Dungeons & Dragons Online, punctuated by the occasional crisp clack of a keyboard.
No one was talking about the 3DO.
In the second-hand console consignment cabinet at the front of the store, a 3DO console in near-mint condition sat with a "$99" price tag, already coated in half a month's worth of dust.
"Reno, give me two DND point cards," a regular customer said as he walked up to the counter, slapping a few small bills onto the tabletop.
Reno pulled two Sega-branded cardboard cards from a drawer and handed them over.
"The newspaper says the 3DO is dead," Reno remarked casually.
The regular tore off the foil from the point cards without even looking up. "It should have died two years ago. Who cares if a console without Sonic the Hedgehog or Super Mario lives or dies?"
This was the reality for most North American gamers.
Without a steady stream of high-quality software, even the grandest business blueprint was nothing more than a scrap of paper. Player loyalty was built on the foundation of good games, not on the CEO's silver-tongued promises at a press conference.
In an apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Kevin slid the freshly unwrapped Meridian 59 disc into the 3DO console's tray.