"See? This is the Koei way of doing business. We don't need a standing ovation or dia headlines. All that matters is that the people who want to buy our gas know they're out there."
3:15 PM.
It was Sega's turn.
The tension in the hall had barely eased for thirty seconds after Koei's exit when the Sega logo appeared on the big screen.
The mont the blue "SEGA" letters sprang outward, the reporters who had been leaning back in their chairs straightened up, their bodies collectively leaning forward two inches.
It had been a long day, starting with Konami at 9:15 AM and ending with Koei just now. Over a dozen companies had taken the stage, each with their own approach. But the most anticipated mont remained the first-party publishers taking the stage themselves.
What could Jupiter possibly have up their sleeve?
The first producer to take the stage was a Japanese man in his early thirties. He wore round-fra glasses, a nondescript dark gray jacket, and a black T-shirt.
But when he stepped onto the stage and began his self-introduction in English, his accent was unmistakably Japanese: "My na is Hideo Kojima. I make gas that I want to play."
A few Japanese reporters in the audience chuckled.
Those who knew him were well aware of his overbearing confidence, bordering on arrogance.
But the Arican reporters unfamiliar with him were quite impressed. At least this opening line was far more engaging than the rote, formulaic introductions delivered by 80% of the Japanese producers that day.
Hideo Kojima's English was indeed considered quite good for the Japanese ga industry.
A few years prior, Sega had sent him to North Arica to assist the Arican branch's developnt team with Urgent Crisis, a tactical simulation ga based on Tom Clancy's novel of the sa na. He spent a considerable amount of ti in San Francisco.
That experience had elevated his spoken English far above the industry average. Though his speech wasn't particularly fast, and he occasionally struggled with the distinction between "r" and "l," his vocabulary was precise, his logic clear, and he possessed a natural rhythm for storytelling, knowing exactly when to pause and when to emphasize his words.
He wasted no ti on pleasantries, simply raising the microphone to his lips and declaring: "tal Gear Solid 2."
The screen lit up, revealing a distant view of a mariti facility.
Nightfall, torrential rain, and searchlight beams swept across the frothy waves.
The cara slowly advanced, piercing through the curtain of rain, through the distorted reflections of accumulated water on the tal gangway, until it finally settled on the silhouette of a crouching figure behind cover.
This was real-ti 3D rendering, not pre-rendered computer graphics, but genuine graphics running live on the Jupiter hardware.
Soone had noticed this a second earlier—the Jupiter hardware logo, along with the text "Real-ti rendering," had been prominently displayed in the lower right corner of the screen.
The EGM editor shot up from his chair.
It wasn't that the graphics were particularly groundbreaking.
Objectively speaking, the polygon count of this scene couldn't compare to the FF7 CG sequence from half an hour earlier. Real-ti rendering was real-ti rendering, and the hardware's computational power was what it was—physically impossible to achieve CG-level polygon counts.
But the problem was... this sequence's art direction was simply too clever.
The characters' 3D models had allocated their polygon budget with surgical precision. The level of detail couldn't possibly rival gas like Virtua Fighter 2, which poured all their resources into just two characters. After all, this was an action-adventure ga with full environnts, multiple NPCs, and real-ti lighting calculations.
The developnt team clearly recognized this limitation and devised an ingenious solution.
Every line defining the characters' silhouettes had been ticulously refined.
Shoulder width, waistline, limb proportions—the 3D models' silhouettes remained highly recognizable even in distant shots, avoiding the awkward "pile of moving blocks" effect common in early 3D gas.
The motion capture data—or more likely, keyfra animations painstakingly adjusted fra by fra—was remarkably polished.
Whether the protagonist was crouching, standing up, leaning against a wall, or peering around a corner, each transition was grounded in realistic weight shifts and inertia. This wasn't the stiff, instantaneous pose-swapping of button-mashing gas, but a breathing, logical movent system.
More crucially, the ga extensively used hand-drawn illustrations and silhouettes in the style of Yoji Shinkawa to handle scene transitions.
Rather than abruptly cutting to 3D dialogue scenes when the narrative needed to establish context, the ga employed a technique akin to manga paneling. Sharp-lined, high-contrast character portraits in Shinkawa's style were embedded into the screen, creating a seamless blend of 3D action and 2D storytelling.
The profile silhouettes of characters, paired with a deep voiceover, conveyed dense information while maintaining a cohesive visual style.
"How does this man's mind work?" An editor from NetGeneration put down his pen, offering a rare comnt that strayed from technical analysis.
He was referring to Kojima's decision-making logic.
Not enough 3D real-ti processing power?
Then don't force it.
Use hand-drawn illustrations to compensate for functional limitations, while pouring all the saved computational resources into enhancing gaplay chanics and environntal interactions.
This approach ensured that players wouldn't feel the developers were cutting corners. Instead, they would perceive the blend of 2D art and 3D graphics as a deliberate aesthetic choice.
After all, Yoji Shinkawa's art was undeniably stunning.
Those crisp, angular lines born from the nib of a pen naturally suited military-thed settings.
The screen transitioned to a live gaplay demonstration.
The protagonist, Snake, infiltrated the facility's interior. Patrol soldiers moved through the corridors.
Instead of engaging in direct combat, the player maneuvered Snake along the walls, using corners for cover. When a patrol soldier turned, Snake slipped behind him, executed a perfect throat lock, and took him down.
The entire process was quiet and fluid, the delay between controller input and character response imperceptible.
The gaplay feels excellent. An editor in the audience had already ford an opinion, though he kept his thoughts to himself, jotting them down in his notebook instead.
When the demo concluded, Kojima raised the controller. "We have a playable demo at our booth. Co and try it."
His announcent was brief, devoid of any unnecessary flourish.
As the applause began, several Arican journalists in the front row were already consulting the conference map. Where was Sega's booth? How long was the queue for the demo? These practical details mattered more than any critical assessnt.
As Kojima descended the stage, so audience mbers were still poring over the venue map to locate Sega's booth. But the big screen gave them little ti to breathe; the host was already announcing the next producer.
Rieko Kodama.
A Japanese woman in her early thirties erged from the side curtain. She stood at average height, her short hair neatly pinned back, and wore a crisply tailored black suit with flat leather shoes. There were no high heels, no deliberate affectation.
Her hand held the microphone steady. After settling into position, she nodded slightly to the audience—a small, decisive gesture.
This was the first woman to take the stage all day, among dozens of producers from over a dozen companies who had presented since morning.
The Famitsu editor paused for a half-second, then scribbled the word "female" in his notebook and circled it.
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