Alan Adham put down the report.
Through this battle, Blizzard's foundation in the PC gaming sector had been deeply rooted in the soil.
He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed the number for Sega of America.
"Please convey my thanks to Executive Director Nakayama in Tokyo on my behalf," Alan Adham said in a formal tone. "His suggestion allowed this game to step into a new era ahead of time. Blizzard looks forward to maintaining such constructive exchanges with Sega in more areas in the future."
In May, the sun in Los Angeles began to shine glaringly.
The 1996 E3 Electronic Entertainment Expo was about to kick off at the Los Angeles Convention Center.
The exhibition was scheduled to be held from May 16th to 18th.
According to the arrangements made by the Interactive Digital Software Association, the first two days were open only to media, distributors, and industry insiders, while the final day, Saturday, was the public day for general gamers to enter.
With exactly one week left until the opening, the South Hall of the Los Angeles Convention Center was in chaos.
The sounds of electric drills, clashing steel pipes, and workers shouting were mixed together.
Hisao Oguchi, wearing a grey work jacket that didn't quite fit, stood in the center of the Sega exhibition area.
The blue Sega logo was printed on the back of the jacket.
He held a roll of blueprints in his hand, checking the positions of the spotlight rigs hanging overhead.
Sega's booth size this year was one-third larger than the previous year.
This was Hisao Oguchi's first time independently coordinating an international exhibition of this scale.
At last year's E3, Takuya Nakayama had been at the forefront, using an aggressively offensive strategy to catch Sony and Nintendo off guard.
This year, the Managing Director had handed the entire project over to him.
"Has the Managing Director's flight been confirmed?" Oguchi asked the assistant walking toward him.
"Confirmed. All Nippon Airways flight NH106, arriving at Los Angeles International Airport on the afternoon of the 16th," the assistant said, flipping through the schedule book. "The Managing Director is only attending the events on the 17th."
The 17th—the second day of the exhibition.
In an independent conference hall next to the central exhibition area, Takuya Nakayama would be representing Sega to sign a partnership agreement with John Carmack of id Software regarding the UE engine open-source community.
That was the centerpiece of this year's E3, one truly capable of changing the underlying logic of the gaming industry.
As for the demos, business negotiations, and media interviews on the exhibition floor, Takuya Nakayama was letting go of it all.
Oguchi rolled up the blueprints and tapped them against his palm.
Delegating power meant trust, but it also meant responsibility.
This exhibition area of over four thousand square feet was the exam paper he had to hand in.
"How's the Ghost in the Shell demo area looking?" He walked towards the left side of the venue.
The lighting there had been deliberately dimmed, and several sets of custom neon tubes emitted a cold glow, creating the oppressive atmosphere of an alleyway in New Port City.
Several Jupiter consoles connected to CRT TVs were already in place.
"As you requested, the demo version is locked to the hacking and stealth sequence in level three, with the difficulty set to maximum." The test engineer pressed a few buttons on the controller, and on the screen, Motoko Kusanagi activated her optical camouflage, vanishing into the darkness. "Honestly, even our internal team crashes and burns on this difficulty. Aren't you worried about pissing off the media reporters?"
"That's exactly what I want—for them to crash and burn," Oguchi Hisao said, watching the screen. "The more frustrated they are, the more it will ignite the competitive spirit of those hardcore gaming journalists. They need material for deep-dive reviews, not just a dry, straightforward account of beating the level. Assign two commentators who know the mechanics best to the demo area, and have them provide commentary for the gameplay being projected onto the big screen."
After surveying the venue, Oguchi Hisao returned to the makeshift office trailer.
The air conditioning in the trailer was running strong.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up the exhibitor directory from the table.
Nintendo's booth was in the West Hall.
The N64 was their absolute centerpiece this year.
Shigeru Miyamoto arrived with Super Mario 64, posing a formidable challenge.
On the other side of the South Hall, Ken Kutaragi had booked an entire area, preparing a massive lineup of third-party exclusive titles purchased at great expense, in an attempt to regain ground in terms of buzz.
With one week left until the opening of the second annual E3 (Electronic Entertainment Expo), game industry professionals from across North America were converging on the city.
Flights were fully booked, and hotels around the convention center had all put up "No Vacancy" signs.
Most manufacturers in the industry were gearing up for this second E3, ready to make a big splash.
The reason was simple: the promotional impact of the inaugural E3 last year had far exceeded everyone's expectations.
Game companies had finally shaken off the predicament they faced at the Consumer Electronics Show (CES).
For a long time, video games had been viewed as cheap children's toys.
When exhibiting at CES, Nintendo and Sega's booths were often tucked away in remote corners, with vendors selling high-power vacuum cleaners on their left and booths playing adult videos on their right.
It was noisy, chaotic, and crowded.
No one cared about these things that people used to amuse themselves by controlling images on a TV screen.
E3 changed all of that.
On this dedicated stage, all the spotlights were fixed on games.
Media reporters don't need to hunt for news among a cluttered array of electronic products; they can just walk around the convention center with a notebook and write an entire special edition.
Beyond the direct promotional effects, what drives the exhibitors truly wild is the swift and convenient business negotiation process.
The owner of an independent game studio from Texas called "Extreme Click" is sitting in a café outside the Los Angeles Convention Center, flipping through a business card holder.
Last year, he came to E3 with nothing but two floppy disks and a second-hand laptop, cornered an executive from a publisher in the South Hall lounge, and secured his first round of development funding with a five-minute demo.
This year, he rented a standard business negotiation booth.
"Listen, our 3D rendering technology has improved by more than just a notch since last year," the boss gestures to the investor sitting across from him. "With just another $500,000, this racing game will be finished before Christmas. E3 is the best showcase platform—you can see the real feedback from players right here on the scene."
The investor took a sip of black coffee, his gaze drifting through the cafe window to the crowd across the street lining up to pick up their exhibitor badges.
"I'll come by your booth for a live demo. If the frame rate holds steady at 30 FPS, we'll sign the contract right there on the show floor." The investor set down his coffee, left those words, and stood up to leave.
This convenience benefited the entire industry chain.
Sales representatives from gamepad OEMs, ad agents for game magazines, owners of small print shops specializing in arcade cabinet stickers—even the catering contractors for the event—could all find business opportunities here that they otherwise wouldn't have access to.
Everyone was industry-related, keeping communication costs low and avoiding the "needle in a haystack" scramble that used to happen at CES.
Everyone was scrambling for resources, booking booths, and planning eye-catching demos.
There were, of course, exceptions.
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