Look at Konami, the industry veteran. They can't even get a basic top-down shooter right.
The Managing Director's vision and boldness were a hundred times sharper than those of the producers at old-school major studios who clung to their outdated ways.
"How's this game performing on our Jupiter platform?" Takuya Nakayama asked casually.
"Very poorly, if not terribly," Oguchi Hisao answered truthfully. "Players have no patience for this kind of rushed, sloppy 3D game. Many would rather spend their coins at the arcade playing Dead or Alive to admire the female characters'—uh, physics feedback—than pay a premium for a disc that's a pain to play."
Takuya Nakayama couldn't help but chuckle. "Tomonobu Itagaki's ingenuity is far more appealing than Konami's half-baked mess. At least he knows what players want."
"Managing Director, should we take advantage of Konami's major failure and do something in the PR department? Give them a little nudge?" Oguchi Hisao asked tentatively.
"We don't need to do a thing." Takuya Nakayama waved a hand dismissively, his gaze turning to the bustling Tokyo streetscape outside the floor-to-ceiling window. His tone was calm yet brimming with confidence. "The players have eyes, and they know what they're seeing. Konami is smashing their own reputation. If we go in and kick them while they're down, it'll just make us look cheap. All we need to do is stick to our plan, make our own games, and grow our ecosystem. The market share they vacate in their decline will naturally flow into our pockets."
Just as Takuya Nakayama had predicted, the sales of Contra: Legacy of War saw only a brief, initial spike in its first week, riding on the IP's lingering prestige. After that, they plummeted catastrophically.
On major gaming forums and in the discussion sections of physical magazines, mentions of the game were pitifully few.
A few veteran players posted complaints about the abysmal controls, but their threads were quickly drowned out by newer topics like Super Mario 64 or online gaming. Out of nostalgia for their old Famicom days, players didn't want to openly trash Contra in front of their friends, but they would absolutely never recommend anyone else buy it.
A few days later, David's review—steeped in raw, personal emotion—was prominently published in Electronic Gaming Monthly.
He gave the game the lowest score for an action shooter of the year, concluding his review with a final, definitive verdict in bold black text: "This is a soulless, industrial waste of a game that shamelessly exploits the nostalgia of its players. Konami's first major foray into the 32-bit 3D era has ended in an unmitigated disaster. If they don't wake up now, their era is truly over."
November 29th, Tokyo, the top floor of the Konami Headquarters Building.
Kazumasa Kozuki sat behind his massive, heavy mahogany desk. The office was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, save for the "tick-tock" of the wall clock, each second hammering into his nerves.
Spread across the desk was an urgent sales report just faxed over from the North American branch.
The title read: Contra: Legacy of War — First Week Sales and Channel Feedback.
The numbers were abysmal—even "appalling" would be an understatement.
Commissioner Nishida stood rigidly before the desk. The professional, practiced smile he always wore was gone, replaced by a tense expression. He hardly dared to breathe.
The two men stared each other down for a full two minutes, neither speaking a word.
"The return rate has already exceeded thirty percent—"
Nishida finally broke the suffocating silence, his voice raspy as he forced the words out. "The customer service lines at the branch office are being blown up by several major North American distributors. They're demanding we bear the losses for unsold inventory caused by the game's abysmal quality. Some retailers are even threatening to boycott all our products if Konami doesn't provide a satisfactory explanation."
Kazumasa Kozuki remained expressionless. He simply extended a hand, spotted with age, and flipped the report to the second page.
The page was densely packed with a summary of scores from North America's most authoritative gaming media outlets.
On a ten-point scale, this highly anticipated 3D transition—a project they had pinned all their hopes on—had managed a pitiful average score of only three.
Attached beside the scores was a photocopy of David's scathing review. Phrases like "industrial waste" and "a desecration of the franchise" leaped off the page.
"Outsourcing our most core flagship title to a small Eastern European firm like Appaloosa—a company that only knows how to do contract work—was an utterly foolish mistake." Kozuki slammed the report shut. His voice wasn't loud, but it seethed with suppressed fury. "They couldn't even grasp the basics of polygons, let alone make a 3D game!"
"President, we had no choice at the time. The budget and schedule were just too tight," Nishida quickly bowed his head in defense. "For the past two years, the company's main development teams and funding have been diverted to Tokimeki Memorial spin-offs and merchandise. We simply didn't have the resources to build a new 3D action engine from scratch—"
Kazumasa Kozuki shot Nishida a cold glance, his gaze as sharp as a blade.
"Stop making excuses. We are severely behind the times in 3D technology."
Kozuki's fingers drummed heavily on the desk. "You've botched even the most basic camera transitions and Z-axis detection. Do you really expect players—who've already been spoiled by Gundam Battle Operation and Super Mario 64—to buy this? Nostalgia isn't a trash can!"
Nishida swallowed hard and hastily pulled another document from his briefcase, trying to divert attention.
"President, these are the first-month figures for Heart of the Vandals."
Kozuki took the paper, his eyes scanning the core data column.
480,000 copies.
"The critical reception is stable, and we have some die-hard fans in Japan and North America, but... the sales just aren't growing."
Nishida added cautiously, "After all, the target audience for tactical RPGs is limited. The ceiling is just too low."
Kazumasa Kozuki tossed the document aside.
Sales of less than 500,000 copies were a mere pittance for a top-tier third-party publisher aspiring to dominate the 32-bit era. They couldn't even begin to uphold Konami's prestige or bolster its financial reports.
In that instant, a name flashed uncontrollably through his mind.
Hideo Kojima.
That stubborn young man who had once stood in this very office, his eyes red with emotion as he slammed a script onto the desk, demanding absolute creative freedom.
"What about Sega?" Kozuki asked, lifting his cooled tea in an attempt to suppress his frustration.
Nishida clearly understood the President's implication. He immediately flipped open the black notebook in his hand, his voice trembling slightly, a tremor he himself seemed unaware of.
"According to statistics from a third-party data firm, the global lifetime sales of Metal Gear Solid 2 on the Jupiter platform have already surpassed 3.9 million copies." Nishida took a deep breath before reading out the devastating figure. "Based on current weekly sales trends, we will officially break the 4 million mark by next week at the latest."
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