Video Game Tycoon in Tokyo-Chapter 989: I Want Revenge!

The hippie-style man recounted everything that had happened at Gamestar Tower to his business partner, who responded in disbelief.

"He figured out the flaw in our product that quickly? How?"

"Who knows," the hippie replied irritably. "But I have a feeling that so-called god of gaming may have worked on something similar in the past and scrapped it after discovering the flaw."

His partner replied, "But is that flaw really such a big deal? I mean, if the game is fun enough, who cares if our product takes up a bit of system performance?"

From his perspective, Gamestar Electronic Entertainment's games were so good that even if the user experience took a slight hit, players would still happily pay for them.

And just that alone should be enough to justify any tradeoff.

But clearly, Gamestar didn't see it that way.

Especially not Takayuki himself—he cared most about quality and experience. Deep down, he always considered himself a gamer first and a developer second.

That mindset had never changed.

Since he saw himself as a player, he would never allow his games to offer a subpar experience. It would ruin his own enjoyment.

But people outside of Gamestar probably couldn't understand such extreme standards.

Most of them still viewed video games as just products: if it makes money, it's a good product. Experience? That can be worked on later.

In their eyes, when it comes to profit, user satisfaction can take a back seat.

"Forget it. If we can't work with this company, there are plenty of others in Japan. Not every studio is like Gamestar."

The partner tried to comfort the hippie.

But the man scowled. "I'm not letting this go. Gamestar might be the biggest name in gaming, but they've been around for decades. They're already out of touch. I need to prove to them that encryption is what truly adds value to modern games."

"Huh? What are you planning to do?"

The hippie's voice turned sharp. "Our team has always worked on cracking and anti-cracking tech, right?"

"Yeah... for developing stronger anti-piracy tools."

"Then why don't we just upload fully cracked games online? Best case scenario, we hit most of Gamestar's PC titles in one sweep."

"...Wait, what?"

The partner was stunned.

"That's going too far, isn't it? Feels a little underhanded."

"It's not underhanded—it's necessary. If we don't show the world that games need our encryption, our work will be dismissed as useless. That would destroy us."

His justification was flimsy, but there was some twisted logic to it.

Their company existed to make money.

If Gamestar could keep profiting without their encryption—if players still bought games and the losses from piracy were negligible—it would send the message that encryption systems like theirs were unnecessary.

That would kill their business.

"Put a hold on all other tasks. Upload every cracked game we've already finished to the web. Make sure it's completely untraceable. No mistakes."

The hippie was completely focused on revenge.

What he told his partner earlier was just to manipulate him. He didn't care that much about profits. This was personal.

He wanted to hurt Gamestar and Takayuki for turning him down.

That old man was clearly past his prime, he thought. It was time for the new generation—his generation—to take over.

The partner, hearing how determined he was, didn't protest further. He still thought it was unethical, but didn't speak up.

"Okay... I'll get everything ready."

The hippie said, "I'll keep pitching to other game companies. If we can show our encryption improves sales while Gamestar refuses it, we'll make them regret ever looking down on us."

He fantasized as he spoke, a smug grin forming on his face.

In his mind, this scenario was already a done deal. He was already imagining how he'd one day force Gamestar to beg for his product—at double the price.

Over the next month, he visited numerous Japanese studios, and soon after, boarded a flight to the U.S.

If Japan was the birthplace of gaming, then the U.S. was its most profitable market—one of the biggest in the world.

People often said: conquer America, and you've conquered the world.

As it stood, Gamestar still held 70% of the U.S. market.

They made the most money. But that didn't mean the other 30% should be ignored.

There were others: MCF, the growing tech conglomerate; Brown Entertainment, an old veteran of the industry; and a slew of ambitious newcomers.

Many of them shared one trait: they owned recognizable IPs, and they used industrialized methods to churn out formulaic open-world games.

These games weren't amazing, but they were "good enough" to sell to loyal fans.

Piracy remained a problem for them.

Since their games weren't must-play experiences, curious players often just downloaded pirated versions instead of buying.

So when the hippie pitched his encryption solution, many of them were interested.

After all, most of them were profit-driven. Everything else was secondary.