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 skips the long, initial trial-and-error and planning phases. More importantly, we can cut the marketing costs by more than half."
It was also worth noting that old IPs came with their own built-in traffic.
The people who had played the original versions back in the day were now adults with their own independent purchasing power.
They weren't just buying a game; they were buying back the youth they could never return to.
Kiyoshi Hattori scribbled a few numbers on the paper and drew a line under them.
"It's a gold mine," the old man commented, cutting straight to the point. "Using an established IP as the foundation, combined with the visual capabilities of new platforms—the profit margin here is at least forty percent higher than developing a completely new IP. It's a business model with an extremely high ROI."
"It's more than that," Takuya Nakayama offered an even more optimistic projection. "The core audience is already established. As long as the quality isn't terrible, this group will naturally become organic promoters, spontaneously recommending it to new players. Word-of-mouth spreads far faster than any conventional marketing campaign. New players are drawn in by the graphics, while old players buy in out of nostalgia. We get the best of both worlds."
This was one of the core drivers behind Sega's acquisition of Sotsu.
Sotsu held the copyright lifeblood of Sunrise Animation.
Gundam, Armored Trooper Votoms, Space Runaway Ideon.
These mecha anime from the seventies and eighties had cemented the mecha obsession of an entire generation of Japanese men.
"Bandai is thriving right now by selling Gundam models," Takuya Nakayama brought the conversation back to practical business. "They're cashing in on the toy market's dividends. But in the realm of video games and digital interaction, the development of the Gundam IP is still in its very early stages."
Most anime-to-game adaptations on the market were still crude, fan-service-driven cash-grabs. They'd slap a skin on a generic side-scroller or a simple fighting game, scam a few sales, and then run.
To Takuya Nakayama, this "draining the pond to catch the fish" approach was a criminal waste of potential.
"Sega acquiring Sotsu is like getting the key to the kingdom," Nakayama said, leaning back in his executive chair. "We don't need to fight Bandai for the plastic model business—that's a problem we'll only have to worry about after we acquire Bandai. Sega has Jupiter, our own arcade boards, and a veteran 3D action game development team. Let's retell the original Gundam story using today's technology. Let Amuro and Char fight in a true 3D environment. That gimmick alone would be enough to make the otaku of Akihabara tear down the doors of every game store. The reaction of Gundam fans when Gundam Battle Operation came out two years ago already proved it."
Kiyoshi Hattori pulled out a fountain pen and scribbled notes in his notebook.
"It's not just about the game," Takuya Nakayama said, tapping the desk. "We can even reverse the flow. A hit game will drive sales of the old anime on VHS and LaserDisc, which in turn can pave the way for a wave of high-definition remakes. This is the synergy of an IP matrix. The cross-domain amplification effect will grow exponentially."
Hollywood still hadn't figured this out.
Fox had carelessly handed the Independence Day license to a Canadian studio, purely for a quick buck. They didn't see 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 forgotten.
Takuya Nakayama welcomed this shortsightedness. Sega's expansion in North America thrived on the mistakes of its competitors.
"Beyond that," he continued, "once we acquire Sotsu, we can bring more classic IPs into this ecosystem. Many game mechanics that are unimaginable today might become possible in the future. The key is how these characters and stories are perceived by the audience and players. Ultimately, we are a company that serves consumers with content."
"I've cleared my head," Kiyoshi Hattori said, closing his notebook. "I'll arrange for Daiwa Securities to step in as soon as possible. We need to accelerate the Sotsu acquisition. The sooner we sign the contract, the sooner we can start auditing Sunrise's copyright library. Those old archives... they're a goldmine waiting to be tapped."
"Don't haggle too hard over the brokerage fees," Takuya Nakayama instructed. "As long as they can keep those old bones at Sotsu happy and ensure a smooth transition, an extra 0.5% is worth it. Spending a bit more on the brokers upfront to guarantee a stable post-merger transition is a winning trade, no matter how you crunch the numbers."
"I'm definitely keeping those crates of Shizuoka melons," Hattori joked.
"Keep them. If you can't finish them all, share them with the young guys in the Development Department," Nakayama replied. "They've been pulling all-nighters lately working on the gunplay ballistics for John Wick: Chapter 2. They need the sugar rush."
Hattori closed the door behind him. The office fell silent.
The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner.
Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping a mindless rhythm on the desk.
The plan to acquire Sotsu had entered the operational phase, and Sega's capital maneuvers were proceeding in an orderly fashion.
After months of relentless work, his focus had been fixed exclusively on the Board of Directors and financial statements, leaving daily business follow-ups to take a backseat.
He stood up and walked behind the bookshelf.
He punched in the code and pulled open the vault's heavy metal door.
Inside, there were no stacks of cash—only a few document folders and an old, hardbound notebook.
This was the memo book he used to record key milestones from his past life's memories.
He flipped open the yellowed pages, his fingertips gliding over the dense Japanese and English abbreviations before stopping at the tab labeled "1996."
In the center of the page, three uppercase English letters stood out starkly: EVA.
Takuya Nakayama slapped his forehead.
I've been so busy I've gone completely numb.
Neon Genesis Evangelion.
Sega had previously aggressively entered 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 merchandise licensing had already materialized as a substantial figure on Sega's financial reports.
Hideaki Anno and the GAINAX team had received their funding, and production on the theatrical film was steadily moving forward.
But this was far from the peak of EVA's commercial potential.
It is worth noting that in the mid-90s Japanese animation market, the real profit lay in videotape and LaserDisc sales.
That autumn, EVA's late-night rerun plan was launched.
Coupled with the release of physical discs, this storm—woven from mecha, religious symbols, and stream-of-consciousness narrative—was whipping up a rare cultural phenomenon across Japanese society, fueled by the reruns and the sales of 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.