Countless Japanese, struggling to make ends et, stared at their television screens in stunned silence.
In a low-inco apartnt in Adachi Ward, Tanaka Shoichi, who had been unemployed for six months, was eating instant noodles while staring blankly at the TV.
He had always dismissed the colorful ga posters plastered on the streets as childish gas, re marketing gimmicks designed to trick kids out of their New Year's money.
But now, a respected financial expert was telling him that this was one of Japan's few remaining sunrise industries.
"Look at Sega, look at Nintendo, and then consider the hundreds of component suppliers, software companies, processing plants, and assembly factories that depend on this ecosystem. Not to ntion the countless peripheral manufacturers, logistics providers, distributors, and retailers."
The expert on the screen adjusted his glasses, his tone firm and confident. "This isn't just about entertainnt. This is Japan's new oil field."
Tanaka set down his chopsticks.
He was a programr, albeit an old-fashioned one who still wrote code in COBOL. But the principles of coding were universal.
The program continued, its ratings curve already shattering the historical peak for that ti slot.
In the director's booth, the producer of WBS wiped the sweat from his forehead and turned to Nakagawa Jun. "Director, our hotline is about to explode. Our operators can't keep up."
"Are they all calling to curse us for neglecting our duties?" Nakagawa Jun raised an eyebrow.
"No." The producer swallowed hard, his expression peculiar. "Most of them are asking if Sega and those software companies are still hiring. So parents are asking where to find ga design training courses. Unemployed engineers are calling to see if these ga companies are still hiring. And there's even an old man who called with his retirent savings, asking if it's still a good ti to buy Sega stock."
Nakagawa Jun's eyebrows imdiately relaxed, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "It seems the audience is responding well. Our preparations these past few months have been excellent. Let's give the production team a bonus next month."
The producer paused before continuing. "Also—quite a few housewives are calling to ask if we can replay the program."
"A rerun?"
"Yes, they said they didn't catch the first half and want their husbands, who just got off overti and are heading ho, to see if this really makes money."
Nakagawa Jun watched the red arrow representing "Sunrise Industry" on the monitor and finally picked up his tea and took a sip.
His son-in-law hadn't lied to him.
In this dark, bleak winter, only the gaming industry's fire burned so hot it ward the heart.
"In that case, find so low-rated programs from different ti slots and schedule reruns to replace them," Nakagawa Jun said, setting down his teacup. His voice was quiet, but it carried the sharp decisiveness of a seasoned dia professional. "Also, notify the news departnt. For tomorrow's morning news, do a deep dive into Sega's strategy of offering concessions to third-party developers. Don't just focus on the money; discuss the bigger picture."
His son-in-law had provided TV Tokyo with such a golden opportunity to shine, and as his father-in-law, he naturally had to reciprocate.
That night, TV Tokyo not only won the ratings but also inadvertently helped Sega complete a spectacular transformation from "entertainnt peddler" to "industry leader."
Those adults who had once dismissed video gas as re child's play, or as frivolous, ti-wasting toys that would lead to moral decay, now watched the TV screen with a glint in their eyes—a greedy, covetous gleam they'd only seen when spotting a gold mine.
TV Tokyo's stunning ho run left NHK and the major newspapers eating crow.
These self-proclaid "legitimate" dia giants had initially maintained a dignified distance, still viewing gas as "digital heroin" unworthy of serious attention.
But as they witnessed TV Tokyo's soaring ratings and the street-corner buzz around the "Sunrise Industry," their dignity went out the window.
Since they couldn't get the inside scoop on the ga industry's marketing boom, they shifted their strategy to capitalize on the trend—by adding value.
Thus, NHK's evening news program, in an unprecedented move, launched a special segnt focusing not on specific gas, but on "cultural exports" and "soft power."
The Yomiuri Shimbun, working through the night, rushed out an article elevating the ga industry to the status of a "lifeline for the post-bubble economy."
As the dia's narrative shifted, the politicians in Nagatachō—whose noses twitched faster than a bloodhound's—could no longer sit still.
This was real political capital and votes.
The Japanese economy was stagnant, with manufacturing industries clamoring for layoffs daily. Yet the ga industry was pouring money into the economy, raking in dollars through exports.
Anyone who dared to call gas a "distraction from proper pursuits" at this point would be going against both money and Japan's GDP.
The Liberal Democratic Party reacted fastest.
Koichi Hagiuda pounded his fist on the table in the Budget Committee, his fervor even greater than during his election campaigns. The politician, who usually favored grand strategic discourse, boldly declared gas a "national strategic industry."
"Look at Sega! Look at Nintendo and Sega! What is this? This is Japan's Cultural Petroleum!" Hagiuda splattered saliva as he jabbed at the data charts on the podium. "We must pass the Content Promotion Act! Governnt funds shouldn't just prop up rusty shipyards—they should be used to build better nests for these golden geese!"
Taro Yamada, known as the "otaku's friend," took a more unconventional approach. He ditched his rigid black suit for a tie printed with pixelated patterns and delivered a street speech in Akihabara, positioning himself as the "most knowledgeable" representative.
"We need to regulate gacha chanics, but not stifle them! We must champion eSports, and make it even bigger! We must also support the expansion of the gaming market overseas!" Taro Yamada shouted to the young crowd below, waving their lightsticks. "I'm a developer myself, and I understand you programrs. The gaming industry is a booming sunrise industry, and we must protect it!"
The tactic worked. The cheers from the crowd felt far more genuine than the applause he usually received in the Diet.
Young reforr Kobayashi Fumiaki was also active, adopting a more "international" approach.
In interviews with overseas dia, he praised Nintendo and Sega as Japan's new calling cards, repeatedly ntioning the "Cool Japan" strategy. He called for cultivating specialized ga talent and marketing Japanese pop culture worldwide, just like Toyota cars.
Even the usually stoic IT Minister Hirai Takuya made a rare public statent.
While he didn't shalessly jump on the bandwagon like the others, his remark that "the content industry is the engine of the digital economy" effectively stamped the official seal of approval on the fervor.
Suddenly, the entire Japanese political scene seed to have beco a group of seasoned gars.
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