Video Game Tycoon in Tokyo-Chapter 988: One of the Things I Hate the Most

"Mr. Takayuki, please reconsider."

The hippie-style man looked embarrassed by Takayuki's blunt refusal.

He had done a lot of homework just to get this meeting and hoped to explain all the advantages of his game encryption product.

The biggest selling point, of course, was that it could generate more profit for clients' games.

Logically speaking, wouldn't any normal company be eager to accept such a product?

But Gamestar Electronic Entertainment had never been a normal company.

Ordinary companies couldn't maintain such a consistently high level of game quality for over two decades.

Aside from a few niche titles that split opinions, nearly all of their releases were well above average.

And among them were countless masterpieces rated full marks by professional critics.

Other companies would proudly plaster media scores on their game covers if they scored a perfect review. Gamestar didn't need to.

A simple company logo on the bottom left corner of the cover was already a symbol of quality.

"No—unless you can guarantee your product won't impact runtime performance at all. Then I might consider it. But only consider."

Normally, Takayuki wasn't too reactive. He rarely got overly emotional about any product or idea.

Most of the time, he stayed calm and observant like someone who had seen it all.

But some exceptions existed.

Game encryption systems were one of the few things he absolutely hated.

Back in his original world, he couldn't stop Denuvo-like DRM from spreading—anti-piracy measures that made legitimate games run worse than pirated ones.

As hardware advanced, some developers became lazy. They'd ship poorly optimized games, slap on DRM, and call it a day.

Players who paid full price suffered poor performance, while pirates often had a better experience.

So this was one topic where Takayuki refused to compromise.

The hippie's face darkened at the hard rejection.

"Mr. Takayuki, this is a groundbreaking product—it can empower your games and create—"

"Stop. I don't want to hear buzzwords."

Takayuki had had enough. These startup-style catchphrases were starting to give him a headache.

"Let me just explain—"

"As I said. If your system doesn't affect game performance during runtime, I'll consider it. If it does—then my answer is no."

The man stood up, visibly irritated.

"Mr. Takayuki, I respect your status in the game industry. You've made great contributions. But you're starting to sound outdated. You should consider catching up with the times."

Takayuki didn't hesitate: "And you think your product represents the times?"

"I do."

"Then we're simply not aligned. You can leave."

"You'll regret this! When I help other companies boost their profits, you'll see you made the wrong call!"

"There's only one thing I'd regret," Takayuki replied calmly.

"And what's that?"

"Regretting that I gave players a worse experience by choosing your product."

...

In the end, the hippie left Gamestar Electronic Entertainment feeling completely dejected.

Only afterward did Takayuki realize he never even caught the man's name—not that it mattered.

To him, this was just another brief encounter, soon forgotten.

But the hippie didn't forget.

He was a young European developer with a bit of talent, and with a partner had created a relatively unique encryption system.

Soon after launch, a few European game companies began using it. They quickly saw sales jump by over 10%.

Backed by this early success, they gained a few rounds of investment, and their startup reached a valuation of about $100 million.

Feeling confident, the hippie looked to expand—not first to the U.S., but to Japan.

After all, Japan was the birthplace of gaming. If he could convince them, cracking the American market would be easy.

And at the top of his target list was Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.

Too bad it didn't work out.

Gamestar's business department had taken the meeting seriously. The product sounded profitable, but it was hard to judge its side effects—so they left the final decision to Takayuki.

And the moment it got to him, everything changed.

Takayuki seemed strangely familiar with the product—almost too familiar. He immediately asked the one question that exposed its biggest weakness: performance impact.

The hippie hadn't expected that.

Shortly after leaving Gamestar Tower, his phone rang.

"How did the pitch go in Japan?" asked his co-founder.

He replied bitterly, "It failed. I blew it. The god of gaming rejected us flat-out."

"What? Why? Did you not explain the benefits clearly?"

The hippie laughed dryly. "I didn't even get the chance. That guy... he already understood everything. It was like he saw right through us."