The bustle of Los Angeles gradually subsided as the E3 Expo drew to a close.
But the aftershocks were only just beginning to spread.
Inside the editorial office, an old window-mounted air conditioner hummed under the strain. The layout software struggled to run on the 486 PC, freezing for several seconds every time a picture was dragged.
David tossed a stack of freshly developed photos onto Paul's desk. The top one showed the endless line snaking past the Nintendo booth.
"The Editor-in-Chief has spoken," David said, pulling up a folding chair. "The 'Most Anticipated Games of 1997' list is going to be a double-page spread on the front section. And we need a deep-dive analysis of Carmack's general-purpose engine to go with it. Nobody's leaving tonight."
Paul stuffed half a donut into his mouth and mumbled a complaint, "An anticipation list? This is getting ridiculous. Look at the top ten—half of them don't even have a playable demo. Square's Final Fantasy VII just showed a few CG screenshots, not even a single battle screen, yet players on the BBS are already hailing it as the next-gen's number one RPG. How can a game make the list based on a few pictures?"
"This is how the game is played now." David rapped his knuckles on the desk. "After the last two E3s, the players' appetites have completely changed. They've fully accepted this business model."
Dangle the carrot at E3, then let the players savor it over the next year—or even longer.
Over a development cycle spanning two or three years, game companies need to maintain momentum. A few concept art pieces, a short CG trailer, or a producer's interview can keep players debating on forums for months.
Naturally, the gaming media became the central hub of this information war.
Previews, dev diaries, and hype rankings—content once dismissed as filler—had now become the most reliable traffic drivers for magazines and websites.
The landline on the desk rang.
Paul picked up, listened for a few seconds, then covered the mouthpiece and turned to David.
"Sega of North America's PR Department. They've got a batch of new high-res screenshots for Virtua Fighter 3. They're asking if we have any space left in the next issue's inner pages."
David snapped his fingers. "Give them two pages. Tell them we want an exclusive."
The developers were more than happy to adapt to this new ecosystem.
They no longer hoarded their development progress for fear of competitors copying their work. Instead, they proactively collaborated with the media, releasing promotional materials in a carefully timed sequence.
After hanging up the phone, Paul took a finely crafted plastic figure from his drawer and placed it beside his monitor. It was the newly released Sonic the Hedgehog figure from Sega.
"My nephew had a birthday yesterday, so I got him one of these," Paul said, poking the figure's blue quills. "He doesn't really play games, but everyone in his class is collecting them. I bought one for myself, too. It's a great stress reliever on my desk."
David stared at the figure.
The gaming industry was crossing its original boundaries.
It was no longer just a niche hobby for a few geeks in their basements, or a pastime for children in front of the TV.
The industry was thoroughly entering the mainstream entertainment and consumer product market.
Tokyo, Ōta Ward, Sega Headquarters.
Oguchi Hisao placed a thick financial report on Takuya Nakayama's large desk.
"The data just came in from the North American branch. In the third quarter, our brand licensing revenue grew by 400% quarter-over-quarter." Oguchi Hisao flipped open the report. "Beyond traditional arcade and console hardware sales, we've signed new major contracts for apparel, toys, and even fast-food meal toys."
Takuya Nakayama flipped through the documents, his gaze lingering on several licensing fees.
"Mario can be printed on McDonald's bags, and so can Sonic." Takuya closed the file and leaned back in his chair. "In the past, people only talked about games when they picked up a controller. Once they turned off the TV, games vanished from their lives. That needs to change."
Oguchi Hisao nodded.
The expansion of a game's fame no longer relied solely on the software's own sales.
The rollout of merchandise turned first-party games into ubiquitous cultural symbols.
A person who didn't play games might wear a T-shirt with Pac-Man on it, buy a box of cereal with Crash Bandicoot on the cover at the supermarket, or even watch a terrible movie adapted from a game at the cinema.
The essence of entertainment consumption is the fight for the user's eyeballs.
In this era where the attention economy was just beginning to emerge, Sega, Nintendo, Sony, and all other gaming companies were frantically expanding their revenue boundaries.
They were no longer just selling an optical disc or a cartridge, but a lifestyle—a massive ecosystem capable of continuous monetization.
"Nintendo's N64 is priced at only $199," Hisao Oguchi raised his concerns. "They won't make much money on the hardware, so they will inevitably rely on software and peripherals to recoup their losses. Sony is even more proficient in this regard, able to mobilize the resources of Columbia Pictures and Sony Music at will. The competition we face is no longer confined to what's inside the screen."
"That's why I'm having you take over the software ecosystem," Takuya Nakayama said, looking at him. "Broaden your horizons. Sega is not just a technology company; it must become an entertainment giant."
In a basement computer lab at UC Berkeley, California.
Eric stared at the dense C language code on his screen.
A few of the latest gaming magazines lay scattered on his desk.
The cover headline screamed: The Era of Universal Engines: Who Will Be the Next Millionaire?
He had managed to snag a business card from EA's Investment Department at the E3 South Wing Pavilion. It was just a piece of cardstock, but it was enough proof for his roommate that this industry was paved with gold.
"Optimize the collision detection module again," Eric said without looking back, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard. "We need to get the demo ready by next month."
His tall roommate handed him a cup of coffee. "Even if we finish it, why would a giant like EA care about us? Their mailroom is probably overflowing with demo discs every single day."
"That's why we need to learn how to sell a dream," Eric turned around, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "Code alone isn't enough. Go find someone in the Art Department who can do concept art. Pay them to draw a few flashy, cutting-edge sketches. We'll send those to the editors at GamePro and tell them we're making a revolutionary RPG."
His roommate paused, stunned. "Isn't this just fraud?"
"It's called pre-launch marketing," Eric corrected him. "Once the media publishes it and players get excited, EA's investment managers will be the ones calling us. Everyone does it."
After two years of E3's baptism, even the most bottom-tier indie developers were beginning to grasp the rules of the game.
In this summer ignited by E3, countless developers like Eric, countless journalists like David, and tens of millions of players converged into a massive torrent. This torrent washed away old business models and pushed video games to unprecedented heights. Everyone was searching for their place in this grand feast. Major studios fought for platform dominance, small teams hunted for funding, and the media reaped the traffic.
And the players, holding their magazines and staring at those dazzling concept art pieces, waited willingly for the next miracle to descend.
A golden age of video games was thus unfolding, with a fervor bordering on madness.
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