Clever leveraging.
This was the tone set by Jobs.
Utilizing the halo effect of their distribution partner, Disney, to host a sensational city-wide promotional event.
Maximizing the market buzz for both the film and the game.
In the press releases, he spared no effort in shaping Pixar's brand image, publicly declaring this work to be the most significant leap forward in the field of animation since Disney's "Snow White."
"Pixar is merging art with technology, just as the Mac once did." Jobs capped his marker and drew his conclusion.
The release schedule for the film and game to launch simultaneously had been finalized.
With the endorsement of Hollywood's industrial standards, combined with Sega's channel capabilities in North America, a massive sales net covering the entire Christmas holiday season had been cast.
Everything was ready, just waiting for the products to hit the shelves.
November 19, 1995, Los Angeles.
Outside the El Capitan Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, the red carpet stretched for dozens of meters.
The frequency of the camera flashes was blinding.
This was Disney's home turf, and they had pulled out all the stops. Tom Hanks and Tim Allen had barely stepped out of their stretch Lincoln when they were completely surrounded by the media's array of cameras and microphones.
Next to the theater, Disney, with its deep pockets, had erected a temporary playhouse from scratch.
It was a 1:1 recreation of Andy's room from the movie.
Giant building blocks, a desk lamp, and a wooden floor covered with a colorful rug. Children were running around inside, with their parents following behind to take pictures.
Tom Kalinske, dressed in a sharp custom-made suit, stood at the entrance of the playhouse, watching the scene.
As the President of Sega of North America, he had been invited to attend the premiere.
While the Disney executives were busy dealing with reporters on the red carpet, Kalinske's attention was entirely on the children.
"These Hollywood folks certainly know how to build hype," Bernard said, standing next to Kalinske, holding a program. "But this is only the first half."
Kalinski chuckled.
The premiere of the film itself was turning into a subtle "Tale of Two Cities" regarding ownership.
The next day, San Francisco.
The Regency Theatre had been booked out.
There were no Hollywood stars here, nor were there any clamoring fans.
Walking along both sides of the red carpet were middle-aged men in casual wear or ill-fitting suits.
Larry Ellison arrived.
Andy Grove arrived, too.
Half of Silicon Valley had gathered here.
This was a venue Jobs had rented at his own expense, a premiere led by Pixar.
Inside the screening hall, the lights dimmed.
Without inviting director John Lasseter onto the stage, Jobs walked into the spotlight, wearing his signature black turtleneck.
There was no long-winded speech.
With just a few simple opening remarks, he cut straight to the point.
This was the Steve show, after all.
The tech titans in the audience watched the fully computer-generated images on the big screen, one after another praising Jobs for producing something truly remarkable with this investment.
It wasn't until the movie ended, the lights came on, and thunderous applause erupted.
November 22nd, the day before Thanksgiving.
"Toy Story" was officially released in theaters across the United States.
At an AMC theater near Times Square in New York.
The long line at the ticket counter wrapped all the way around the street corner.
"Three tickets for the 2:00 PM showing of 'Toy Story', two adult, one child," a middle-aged man said, sliding his credit card into the ticket window.
"I'm sorry, sir, the 2:00 PM showing is sold out. The earliest available is at 7:30 PM," the ticket seller said, typing skillfully on the keyboard.
The middle-aged man turned to look at the little boy tugging on his sleeve, sighed, and said, "Then we'll take the 7:30."
On the other side of the theater lobby, the crowd was buzzing.
Sega's promotional team had moved into major theaters across the US a week earlier.
Posters for the game, released simultaneously with the movie, were placed right next to the movie posters for "Toy Story".
And on this official release day, they had set up demo stations and sales booths in the most prominent spots in the ticket lobby.
Three Jupiter consoles running the Toy Story game were connected to large CRT televisions.
On the screens, Woody was racing the remote-controlled car through a room from a miniaturized perspective.
"Dad! I want to play this!" A young boy who had just bought his ticket, his eyes locked on the screen, tugged at a middle-aged man and headed toward the booth.
The area in front of the booth was packed with children waiting for their turn to play.
A Sega staff member nearby took the opportunity to hand out brochures.
"Sir, this is the tie-in game released simultaneously with the movie," the salesperson said, pointing to a console in a glass display case at the center of the booth. "If you purchase the game along with this limited-edition Jupiter console now, there's a special Thanksgiving discount.
"You can also choose a limited-edition collaboration action figure from the merchandise area over there."
The middle-aged man followed the salesperson's finger.
It wasn't an ordinary Jupiter.
The casing didn't use Sega's traditional black; instead, it boldly featured the white, green, and purple color scheme of Buzz Lightyear's space suit.
The chassis lines were redesigned, and a joint Sega and Disney logo was printed on the optical disc drive cover.
The final design of this unit was finalized in Steve Jobs' office, where Kalinski had flown to San Francisco with the blueprints three months earlier.
Jobs had stared at the drawings for a full ten minutes before giving them the unprecedented praise of being "tasteful."
"How much?" the middle-aged man asked.
"Three hundred and ninety-nine dollars for the console and game bundle."
The young boy had already squeezed in front of the demo station, gripping the controller and refusing to let go.
The middle-aged man felt his wallet; this budget was originally intended to buy his son a bicycle.
"Charge it." He handed back the credit card he had just retrieved, while taking the voucher to redeem for a figurine.
Scenes like this were playing out simultaneously in hundreds of movie theaters across the United States.
Many families came out of the movies with their emotions at a peak; seeing the game on the demo station, they had absolutely no resistance.
Some, who didn't originally own a next-generation console, went so far as to bring home the Jupiter along with the game.
Los Angeles, Sega North America headquarters.
Kalinski watched the real-time sales data aggregating on his terminal, picked up his coffee mug, and took a sip.
Many families, upon leaving the theater, were still riding high on emotion. Seeing the demo stations, they had absolutely no resistance.
Even more extreme cases involved families who didn't own a next-generation console, who, for the sake of this game, immediately bought the game along with the Jupiter console and moved it back home.
Los Angeles, Sega North America Headquarters.
Kalinski looked at the real-time sales data aggregated on his terminal and took a sip from his coffee mug.
The best-selling item at the demo stations was exactly that, the Buzz Lightyear co-branded Jupiter set.
He recalled the transoceanic phone call with the Tokyo headquarters two months ago.
Sega had long maintained a strict policy regarding limited-edition hardware.
Once something was labeled as a limited edition, it would never be re-released.
Although Kalinski was known for his bold approach, he remained cautious when it came to breaking such established rules.
His initial production plan reported to Tokyo for this co-branded console was only 30,000 units.
On the other end of the line, after listening to the report, Takuya Nakayama asked only one question.
"Who is the primary target audience for this movie?"
"Children. It's a family film," Kalinski replied.
"If it's for the whole family, how could 30,000 units possibly be enough? Surely there will be a large number of parents bringing their children to watch it," Takuya Nakayama's voice came through the static of the transoceanic cable. "Change it to 100,000 units."
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