The game development world in this reality seemed to have fallen into a strange trap.
If Tsukino Aya hadn't brought it up, Takayuki might not have even noticed.
This wasn't just a problem faced by the three girls.
And it wasn't simply that they were overly ambitious.
Part of the issue was that the current industry environment was increasingly biased toward glorifying big-budget productions.
But this wasn't a healthy trend.
In a truly healthy cultural and entertainment industry, both high-budget and low-budget indie works should have their own audiences.
Especially indie productions — they should stand shoulder to shoulder with large, industrial-scale games. Indie games are not inherently inferior to big-budget titles; they hold unique value and significance.
…
…
The film industry already had a healthy model like this.
Lesser-known indie directors would often explore creative directions that big productions wouldn't dare to attempt — they could afford to take low-cost risks. Then, once an indie film achieved a breakthrough, big-budget studios would follow up and expand on that success.
This way, indie films had the chance to shine on their own, and big studios could identify new successful directions through relatively low-risk experiments.
It was a complementary relationship between indie and blockbuster films — a healthy system.
And the same model should apply to the game industry.
Big-budget games couldn't afford to take risks easily — not with hundreds of millions of dollars on the line.
No investor would accept the loss of a hundred million dollars.
That's why indie games should go first — testing the waters and paving the path, while larger games follow up and refine it. That would be the ideal direction.
But this world was different.
In this world, there was very little soil for indie games to grow. You could even say it was almost nonexistent.
Takayuki had tried several times to promote individual game development. He had even hosted game dev competitions with indie themes.
But the results had been disappointing. Most people, once they acquired some game dev skills, chose to join game companies instead — becoming just another cog in the massive machinery of big-budget productions.
Takayuki sat in deep thought for over ten minutes, his expression focused. Tsukino Aya watched him patiently, knowing him well enough not to interrupt. When he got like this, he was thinking intensely — and it was never just about the question in front of him. Clearly, her mention of the three girls had triggered something much larger in his mind.
"Aya."
"Mm?"
"It seems… I've led the game industry down a path I never really wanted it to take."
Tsukino Aya froze.
She didn't quite understand what Takayuki meant.
Takayuki murmured,"This world lacks fertile ground for indie development. And that… that's not normal. It's not right."
Tsukino asked in confusion,"Why? Isn't the game industry thriving right now?"
Takayuki nodded."Yes… but…"
But it was thriving because of him — because he had continuously pushed the industry forward.
Developers in this world saw him as the benchmark. All they thought was: as long as I follow Takayuki's path, I'll succeed.
In this world, Takayuki had become the unquestioned godfather of the gaming industry.
But that also meant everyone looked up to him — and only him.
Naturally, this gave Takayuki unrivaled influence. In this industry, his words were practically gospel.
But his brilliance had become too blinding — so bright that it overshadowed all the little sparks flickering underneath.
And at the end of the day… he was still just human. Not a real god.
His creativity had limits. Sure, for now, he could keep pushing new ideas, one after another. But once he burned out… the entire industry, still staring at him, might be thrown into confusion and stagnation.
And when that happened… Takayuki feared the industry might suffer a collapse not unlike the Atari crash from his previous life.
Of course, that was an unlikely outcome. With the decades of gaming knowledge from his past life, Takayuki probably wouldn't even run out of ideas in this lifetime. There were more than enough great games from the past that he could still reintroduce to this world.
But that didn't mean it was okay for the industry to rely entirely on him. Something had to change.
At last, Takayuki snapped out of his thoughts and looked at Tsukino Aya, who had been silently watching him the whole time. And at that moment, an emotion stirred in his heart — something rare since coming to this world. A sudden impulse to do something. But he quickly pushed down the whirlwind of ideas that had started spinning in his head.
"Aya, like I just said — the industry shouldn't develop this way. We need to create space for indie games to have a voice."
Takayuki's first thought was to use his own reputation to encourage more developers to try indie game development.
But that wasn't enough. Simply encouraging people was like buying lottery tickets and hoping a genius would emerge from the indie scene with a breakout title.
If that was his only approach, he might as well gamble.
Tsukino Aya asked calmly,"So what do you want to do?"
"I want to…" Takayuki's eyes lit up."I want to develop a game without using my name. I'll make it entirely by myself — no help from anyone else. Just like when I first created the FC console, I'll handle every aspect of the game's development."
From music, to art, to programming, to level design and gameplay — Takayuki would do it all alone, producing a truly solo indie title.
And he already had the perfect game in mind — one that was ideal for this world at this time.
In his mind, a scene formed: a simple 2D character, a pickaxe, and a letter.
The name of the game:Stardew Valley.