Nagao spoke decisively.
To be fair, working overtime is pretty normal — especially in Japan, where it's practically the norm.
In fact, companies like Gamestar Electronic Entertainment that don't push overtime are considered the outliers.
At most Japanese companies, not staying at the office until 9, 10, or even 1 a.m. almost feels like you're slacking.
There's a kind of subconscious cultural acceptance of overwork.
But even in Japan — a country used to long working hours — there are limits.
And the developers at YOO had already reached theirs.
If the game had sold well, maybe that would've been a morale boost — a kind of "buff" to keep them going.
But with the game's sales completely tanking, it was like they'd worked themselves to the bone for nothing. It was hard to stay motivated.
...
...
Especially when Nagao coldly said, "Just work overtime."The game lead felt a chill run down his spine.
How much more overtime could they possibly do?
Even before the game launched, they were already working 15–16 hours a day. And now, with bug fixing in full swing, things were even worse. It simply wasn't sustainable.
But Nagao was the company president. And this was Japan. Hierarchies were strict. The whole idea of "overthrowing your boss" was something you'd only find in fiction.
"…Understood."
The lead developer opened his mouth, wanting to say something — but in the end, swallowed it all back down.
"I want two new tracks within a week. And more car models. You've got unused concepts and scrapped content lying around, right? Dig them up! Don't let that go to waste!"
"..."
The lead developer simply nodded and stood up silently. Then he remembered something.
"President… about the issue of compensation…"
"You don't have to worry about that. You'll get your money. But I need you to deliver results first."
…
YOO's racing game had turned into a complete disaster. Even industry insiders were baffled. Logically speaking, big investments should yield solid returns. That had been the pattern — even if a game wasn't a hit, it at least broke even.
But this? YOO had faceplanted.
Everyone started dissecting what went wrong.
Most people who played the game didn't find anything wrong with it per se — but it just didn't click.
And among those who tried it was Takayuki, of course. He and his team at Gamestar had tested all of YOO's recent games — part of competitive research.
Take YOO's FIFA-style football game: it had heavy investment and produced decent results. Maybe not top-tier, but definitely above average for a football title. A solid three and a half stars from Takayuki's more critical, future-informed perspective.
For the players of this world, though, it was already considered a very good game.
That's the power of money — especially in game development, where costs rival that of filmmaking. A well-funded team can almost always make something better.
But Takayuki — a "bug" from the future — was a whole different story.
Armed with future knowledge and proven design principles, he could create titles that completely outclassed the competition. Even with lower budgets, Gamestar's games were more fun.
Now onto YOO's first-person shooter.
It was a solid title. Not as high-priority as the football game — you could tell from the slightly smaller budget and scope — but still a decent effort.
Riding the positive buzz from their football game, it sold a respectable 800,000+ copies in its first week.
It was fun — polished gunplay, satisfying feedback. Takayuki gave it a passing grade, even by his high standards.
But once he finished playing… that was it. No urge to replay.
If it had been in his past life, this was the kind of game he would've beaten once and then immediately resold secondhand.
And then… came YOO's racing game.
To avoid direct competition with Gamestar, YOO had chosen a more "professional" track-racing approach. But they had very few real licensed cars. Most of the vehicles were fantasy models — heavily modified to avoid licensing issues, but lacking the authenticity that real data could provide.
That wasn't a dealbreaker, though. In this world, players didn't yet have refined standards for racing games. As long as it was fun, they'd enjoy it.
And in that regard, Takayuki did find the game somewhat fun.
But there was something very obvious — it screamed "rushed."
And for a game that supposedly cost over $100 million to make… it looked rough in too many places.
If there were no licensing fees, where did the money go?
Either they were burning cash, or they had overreaching ambitions that didn't pan out.
Because from what Takayuki saw, this game did not look like a $100 million product.
His first suspicion?
Maybe YOO was exaggerating the budget.
It was possible.
But knowing Nagao's personality, that didn't quite fit. He wasn't the type to lie about these things — he loved bragging about numbers and achievements. Faking it would've turned all his boasts into jokes.
If Takayuki had been given $100 million, he could've made a game five or six times better.
For context — even his own Need for Speed game, with all its licenses, cost just $70 million. Among the three titles he released — shooter, racing, and sports — it was the second cheapest.
The cheapest? Counter-Strike.
That game required no licensing at all. Its competitive nature meant the focus was on balance and gameplay, not flashy visuals. The budget was under $30 million.
Over 70% of that was labor — because Takayuki refused to force overtime. So he hired more people to get things done. That inflated manpower costs significantly.
So back to the question:
Why didn't YOO's racing game look like it was worth $100 million?
Maybe it ran into trouble during development.
Game development can be chaotic. More chaotic than film production in many cases.
One conflicting vision or disagreement can derail progress, sending time and money down the drain.
There were plenty of games in Takayuki's past life that shifted direction over and over — burning through their budgets long before anything playable emerged.