Early one morning two weeks later, the fax machine at Tokyo headquarters buzzed, spitting out a stack of still-warm papers.
It was good news from Redwood City.
Takuya grabbed the dense stack of English docunts and quickly skimd through them.
Tom Kalinske's efficiency was astonishing—or rather, the Arican ga developers' fear of governnt regulation ran deeper than Takuya had anticipated.
The phone rang at the perfect mont. Tom's voice sounded like he'd just downed two large cups of black coffee—energetic, yet tinged with a raspy edge.
"It's done, Takuya. Though the process was more painful than pulling a tiger's tooth."
"What did Trip Hawkins and the others say?" Takuya flipped through the docunts, his gaze pausing on the draft organizational chart for the Entertainnt Software Rating Board (ESRB).
The founder of 3D0 had always been shrewd, refusing to act until he saw real proof.
"At first, they all cried poverty, claiming a non-profit organization would only increase operating costs. So even suggested a half-hearted facade to get by." Tom scoffed. "But I only had to ask one question: 'Do you want to spend tens of thousands of dollars a year on a rating committee, or kneel before those Senators in Washington every ti you release a ga?'"
The threat of governnt regulation proved more effective than anyone had anticipated.
"That's quite an exaggeration, but it's certainly vivid," Takuya said with a laugh.
No one understands cost-benefit analysis better than Arican businessn. Faced with a survival crisis, they're more than willing to pay this protection fee.
"All the main clauses have been approved. We've modeled our system after the Motion Picture Association of Arica's rating system, dividing gas into EC (Early Childhood), E (Everyone), T (Teen), M (Mature), and AO (Adults Only). The process is simple: manufacturers voluntarily submit their gas for review, the Rating Committee assigns a rating, and retailers decide whether to sell them to minors based on that rating."
"Voluntarily?" Takuya raised an eyebrow. "What a convenient word."
"In theory, it's voluntary. But we've already coordinated with major retailers like Walmart and Toys "R" Us. Once the system is implented, gas without that black-and-white rating label won't be allowed on their shelves." Tom's voice carried a sly undertone. "This is exactly the industry standard we're after."
This ant that no matter how reluctant Nintendo was, they'd have to get on board whether they liked it or not.
"What's Minoru Arakawa's reaction?" Takuya asked, hitting the crux of the matter.
"Don't even get started. Nintendo of Arica is still clinging to their outdated stance. They insist that all Nintendo gas are family-friendly, claiming there's no need for this kind of thing. They even insinuate we're trying to pull a trick to legitimize violent gas and drag them into it."
"Let them say what they want." Takuya slapped the docunt onto the table, his tone casual. "When our press conference next week rolls around, all Arican parents will see who's taking proactive responsibility and who's arrogantly rejecting oversight. By then, the 'family-friendly' label won't necessarily be pinned on the sa forehead."
"The press conference is set for next Tuesday in Washington, D.C., just a few blocks from the Capitol Building," Tom added. "We've secured a forr Secretary of Education to speak. The old man looks like he's carved from marble—people will trust him at first glance."
"Nice work."
Takuya leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting out the window.
Though the streets outside were calm, he knew a storm was brewing across the ocean.
Senator Lieberman's hearing would co eventually, but this ti, Sega held the ultimate talisman.
"By the way, Midnight Trap and Mortal Kombat—" Tom suddenly rembered sothing. "Under the new standards, these gas are definitely going to be rated M, maybe even pushing the boundaries of AO. Are you really going to include them in the first batch of the list?"
"We have to. Not only that, but we need to make a big deal about it. We'll even have to pull Mortal Kombat from the shelves and re-label them with the appropriate ratings," Takuya replied decisively. "We need to tell everyone: 'Look, Sega doesn't hide its mistakes. We're willing to accept public scrutiny, and we'll even buy back any copies of Mortal Kombat sold to minors at full price.' It might cost us a pretty penny, but you know better than I do how good this will be for our public relations."
Tom's laughter ca through the phone. "Sotis I think you understand politics better than those actual politicians. Alright, I'll start drafting the press release."
After hanging up, Takuya stared at the nearly finalized draft of the rating system in his hands, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk.
They had finally neutralized the threat. Even if Senator Lieberman continued to target Mortal Kombat in the market, Sega was prepared to minimize the damage.
In Chicago during the winter of 1993, the season seed to drag on longer than usual.
The heating in the Federal Court building was perpetually inadequate, filling the air with the musty scent of old wood and the burnt sll of expensive legal fees being "burned through."
The PlayStation trademark case, which had dragged on for over half a year, finally ca to a conclusion on an afternoon in January.
When the judge's gavel struck, Ken Kutaragi's tense shoulders relaxed montarily.
We won.
At least in na. The federal judge ultimately ruled that Sony owned the PlayStation trademark.
Nintendo's strategy of trying to strip Sony of its naming rights through allegations of comrcial fraud had failed to hold up completely in court.
But as the Sony delegation exited the courthouse, their faces showed no joy of victory. Instead, it was the Nintendo legal team—the losing party—who walked out with relaxed expressions, as if they'd just stopped by a convenience store to buy sandwiches.
The real stranglehold wasn't in the courtroom, but at the negotiation table.
Three days later, a 200-page collaboration agreent was presented to Sony.
Minoru Arakawa sat at the opposite end of the conference table, toying with a pen without even glancing at the docunts before him.
He didn't need to look. Every clause had been personally added at his behest.
"The court granted you the right to use the na 'PlayStation,'" Arakawa said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Nintendo respects the law. But since you still want to operate in this industry, you must abide by certain rules."
The Sony executive from North Arica, seated across from him, had a grimace on his face. His fingers pressed so hard into page fourteen of the agreent that his knuckles turned white.
The clause on that page was simple yet ruthless: Sony's PlayStation console must retain a Super Famicom cartridge slot and be fully compatible with all Nintendo cartridges.
This ant that Sony's pride and joy, their "next-generation console," would appear to players as nothing more than a slightly upgraded Nintendo-compatible machine bearing the Sony brand.
Even in terms of design, the conspicuous cartridge slot would serve as an ugly scar, constantly reminding consurs of who truly held the power here.
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