Faced with the flood of anonymous emails, Kazuo Murakami chose not to respond.
At the sa ti, he noticed that the voting page on his ga review website was showing more and more votes for those so-called "correct" gas.
But those gas weren't fun.
Murakami silently watched all of this unfold.
Had so of his beliefs beco outdated?
When did discussions about gas stop being about "fun" or "cool," and start being about "correctness"?
Was he really supposed to go against his conscience and give those gas higher scores?
That was sothing he never wanted to do.
...
...
Suddenly, he found himself hoping that a Gastar Electronic Entertainnt ga could win Ga of the Year.
Because Gastar's gas were practically free from controversy—nobody could find fault with them.
Gastar's titles were the pinnacle of the gaming industry.
If Gastar entered the Ga of the Year competition, it would easily dominate the list. Almost no other ga company could compare.
Murakami hoped it would happen—then he wouldn't have to deal with all this pressure.
But he couldn't do that. Gastar was already a mber of the judging panel for the Ga of the Year awards. If their gas were also eligible to win, it would create a PR nightmare—being both judge and contestant.
Gastar themselves probably wouldn't want that kind of controversy.
Wait!
Murakami's eyes suddenly lit up.
Maybe he could show all of this to Gastar and ask for the opinion of the "God of Gas" himself.
At first, he thought of contacting his mysterious benefactor—but that person rarely replied to his ssages, clearly preferring to keep a distance. Murakami understood that and had stopped reaching out too often.
So, without hesitation, he reached out to Takayuki, hoping to talk to him directly about the current state of the gaming industry.
At that mont, Takayuki was in the critical phase of developing Monster Hunter: World.
Since completing the ga's frawork, promotional work had already begun, and developnt was entering its final stretch.
Thanks to Gastar's massive developnt team, there was no need for overti—everything was on schedule.
As Monster Hunter continued gaining popularity, Takayuki also felt more confident about ignoring those critics who claid the ga was "problematic."
People like that never brought anything positive to the gaming world—only trouble.
Just then, Takayuki's private phone rang.
There weren't many people who had this number—only the core mbers of his company and fewer than ten outsiders.
He glanced at the caller ID. It was Kazuo Murakami. So he picked it up.
It was rare for Murakami to call him directly.
They didn't talk often, except during the annual Ga of the Year season, when Murakami would reach out as a formality to discuss the event.
Takayuki was one of the key judges for the awards now.
He even had a special privilege—a "decisive vote."
This ant that aside from the top award, Takayuki could cast a single, absolute vote that would guarantee any ga he chose would win in its category.
Even if the ga was terrible, that one vote would make it a winner.
It was a privilege granted to him as the undisputed leader of the ga industry.
And almost no one questioned it.
Takayuki did a quick ntal check—it was indeed ti for the Ga of the Year process to begin. Murakami was likely calling to discuss the usual award details.
"Hello, Murakami. It's been a while," Takayuki greeted as he answered the call.
"Takayuki-senpai, I usually don't dare to bother you—wouldn't want to interrupt you while you're busy making great gas," Murakami joked warmly.
Their relationship was close, even though they didn't talk often.
Murakami was much younger than Takayuki. Back when he first entered the industry, it was Takayuki who supported and ntored him.
In many ways, Takayuki was Murakami's benefactor.
After a bit of small talk, Takayuki got straight to the point. "So, I assu you're calling about this year's Ga of the Year?"
"That's right. I wanted to discuss the selection process."
Takayuki said, "I haven't played many gas this year, so I'll trust your judgnt. If your pick doesn't get enough votes, feel free to use my decisive vote."
"No, Takayuki-senpai. I actually don't have a problem with the voting process this year—it's sothing else I'm struggling with."
"Sothing else? Like what?" Takayuki asked, puzzled.
"Have you noticed how the atmosphere in the gaming industry is changing lately?"
Takayuki paused. "The atmosphere? In what way exactly?"
"I an how people judge gas. It's no longer just about whether a ga is fun or well-designed. They're adding all sorts of new criteria."
Takayuki nodded. "That's not necessarily a bad thing. More ways to evaluate a ga can an progress for the industry. But... it sounds like you've got more on your mind."
Murakami gave a wry smile. "If it were just about gaplay chanics or creativity, I wouldn't be bothering you. But lately, I've noticed the industry is being increasingly influenced by outside forces."
"Can you give an example?"
"Do you know the ga Deep Space Exploration?"
"I've heard of it. But I haven't had much ti for new gas lately—I've got too many projects on my plate."
Takayuki was currently juggling multiple ho console gas and preparing for entry into the mobile market. He barely had ti to play anymore.
Originally, his dream was to live a laid-back life, playing and enjoying the gas of this world.
But clearly, fate had other plans.
Murakami explained, "It's a space exploration ga. The story is decent, and in its genre, the quality is above average."
"Are you thinking of giving it an award? That's fine too," Takayuki replied.
"No... it's not that I want to give it an award—it's that certain groups want to. But I don't really want to."
Takayuki imdiately said, "I trust your judgnt. You make the call. I'll back you."
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