Reborn in the Golden Age of Gaming: I Became the Prince of Sega Chapter 489 486: Blizzard's Ambition

Chris had pondered these questions before, but they had always been fleeting sparks of inspiration. Now, they were coming together in a way he had never imagined.

"What force is truly driving the orcs? Is it solely the Burning Legion? Or does this world itself harbor a secret that even the Titans covet?" Takuya Nakayama skillfully guided Chris, breaking down the grand lore of later eras and feeding it piece by piece to the future "Father of Warcraft."

"The Burning Legion—the Titans—" Chris muttered the words, his hands unconsciously sketching on the table. The light in his eyes grew brighter. "If we give the orcs such a tragic backstory, they'll beco more than just simple monsters! That's where the conflict and drama will lie!"

Watching Chris fall into a feverish state of creative fervor, Mike Morhai looked troubled.

As the company's manager, he was far more sensitive to the bottom line.

"Mr. Nakayama, your ideas are certainly—impactful. But this ans a massive amount of work." Mike gave a wry smile. "With our current staff, just getting the ga out will require overti. To build such an expansive world, the budget and tiline will probably—"

"Who said we have to cram everything into this generation of the ga?" Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his chair, twisted open a bottle of Coke, and took a sip. "For this generation, we just need to build the frawork and leave a few openings. The grand backstory can be presented in other ways."

"Other ways?"

"Like novels," Takuya Nakayama said, gesturing toward Chris. "Text is the cheapest and most expensive dium. Find a good writer, or have Chris himself do it, and turn these settings into stories. Bundle them with the Collector's Edition of the ga, or publish them separately. This way, players will know it's a living, breathing world before they even start playing—not just a ga about commanding armies and hacking and slashing. Or, after playing the ga, they can flip through the novel and delve into the hidden stories."

Mike's eyes lit up. This was indeed a cost-effective way to kickstart the project.

"And don't worry about the money," Takuya Nakayama said, seeing through Mike's concerns. "This project isn't urgent. Your primary focus should still be on finishing Warcraft: Humans and Orcs. The world-building expansion is for Warcraft II and Warcraft III, and so of it could even be adapted for other ga genres. Since Sega has invested in you, they won't pull their funding just because you want to tell a good story."

He paused, his tone becoming more serious. "I want Blizzard to sell more than just ga software in the future—I want it to sell a culture. This will not only create more revenue streams for your gas but also help you withstand greater risks. Once Warcraft is globally recognized, we might even be able to make a movie."

These words struck the two n like a hamr blow.

In an era when most gas still revolved around "saving the princess" and "slaying monsters," the vision Takuya Nakayama painted was too visionary, too alluring.

Mike Morhai took a deep breath, the worries about investors ddling or coveting shares completely vanishing.

This man before them had not only provided the money but also given them sothing they desperately needed: direction.

"Understood," Mike nodded solemnly. "We'll thoroughly review the docuntation. If we're doing this, we'll create a true Azeroth."

Chris's cheeks flushed crimson with excitent, and he couldn't wait to rush back and rewrite the script.

He grabbed the sketches on the table, his hands trembling slightly. "Regarding the Burning Legion... I just had an idea. What if—"

"Save your thoughts. Write them down and refine them," Takuya Nakayama said with a smile, standing up and patting Chris on the shoulder. "Take your ti. We have plenty of ti."

Watching the two n imrse themselves in their work, Takuya Nakayama's lips curved into a slight smile.

Without the botherso investors stirring things up, Blizzard might beco even stronger in this lifeti.

After bidding farewell to the Blizzard team, who had already plunged back into pizza and code, Takuya Nakayama drove straight back to Redwood City without delay.

Compared to Blizzard's geek-centric "workshop," the current Silicon Valley Online headquarters exuded a Wall Street-like solemnity and order.

As soon as he entered the conference room, Frank Marshall handed him an espresso instead of a cola.

"It seems you haven't had an easy year, Frank," Takuya Nakayama said, accepting the coffee and glancing at the mountain of data reports piled on the table.

"It's been a bittersweet journey. Especially last month, after the 42nd U.S. President, Clinton, detailed his ambitious vision for building the 'Information Superhighway' in his State of the Union Address, proposing to connect every classroom, clinic, library, hospital, business, store, bank, news organization, TV station, conference hall, entertainnt venue, and computer data in Arica by the year 2000. That's when our valuation soared past $300 million."

Frank unbuttoned his suit jacket, sat down, and pointed to the candlestick chart on the wall. "Over the past year and a half, at least a dozen companies have tried to replicate our model. They copied ICQ's interface, the section classifications of BBS, and so even lifted our user agreent verbatim."

Tom Kalinske, sitting beside him, pulled his legs down from the table and scoffed. "And what was the result? They just put on a pretty face. Users would register, only to find a ghost town inside or a wasteland filled with spam. In the end, they all ca crawling back to us."

Frank nodded, his expression proud. "Because our core assets are immovable. The barrier to entry in the 'Industry' section is now astronomically high. Those top engineers and professors only recognize our account IDs. Last month, a discussion thread about TCP/IP protocol optimization directly drew a response from a senior researcher at DARPA. That level of credibility is our deepest moat."

Takuya Nakayama flipped through the operational report in his hands, his finger stopping at the "Startups & VC" page.

This section, once dismissed as an "outlandish experint," had now beco Silicon Valley's most ferocious capital arena.

"Do venture capital firms still send interns to monitor this section daily?"

"Interns?" Tom burst into laughter. "Takuya, you're underestimating yourself. Now it's partners from Sequoia and KPCB personally watching it! As soon as a halfway decent project is posted, the poster's inbox is flooded within ten minutes. We've spawned hundreds of funded companies—we've beco Silicon Valley's de facto online incubator."

"While our influence is growing, business is still business."

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