"What do you think will win Ga of the Year this ti?"
"Probably that 'socially correct' ga, right? It's been hyped up by a certain group for quite a while."
"Yeah, I think so too. Gas like that are easier to generate discussion around. But honestly, it still doesn't sit right with that that kind of ga might take the top spot."
"Well, there's nothing we can do. The Ga of the Year Awards are still a relatively small organization. They can't really compete with the bigger institutions."
"But doesn't Kazuo Murakami have Gastar Electronic Entertainnt behind him? He's not without backing, right?"
"Gastar? Sure, they dominate the video ga scene, but that doesn't an much outside of it."
In the crowd, a few people chatted quietly about the upcoming Ga of the Year awards.
They were all people from within the industry.
...
Like many, they hadn't been immune to outside pressure.
Back when the so-called "activist warriors" were at their loudest, their studio had caved and produced a few gas they really hadn't wanted to make.
Those gas all had one thing in common — the characters were noticeably unattractive.
The gaplay was still solid, but players just didn't take to them.
It had been a rough patch for their company.
Now that Gastar had seemingly chased off those shrill voices, the pressure was finally easing up. Things weren't nearly as suffocating as they had been.
Still, after experiencing that pressure firsthand, they doubted even Gastar could win a full-on clash with so of the bigger voices — especially when many of them had political backing. That kind of power wasn't sothing a regular, comrcially driven company could go head-to-head with.
If it weren't for that, they wouldn't have complied with those demands in the first place.
Takayuki didn't hear these murmurs, but even if he had, he probably wouldn't have paid them much mind.
From a business perspective, those "activists" were certainly a pain — a constant source of headaches for developers, who were forced to alter their visions just to avoid backlash.
But in his eyes, this was just a minor footnote in the greater journey of the gaming industry.
In his original world, the pressure had been far more intense. Yet gas continued to thrive regardless — their growth undeterred by all the noise.
Back there, Japanese developers made whatever they wanted. Male or female characters, they were always designed to be beautiful — societal comntary be damned.
This world hadn't reached that level of creative freedom yet.
But here, most devs still leaned toward making the gas they wanted to make, even if there were a few exceptions who gave in.
In that sense, this world was actually doing better than the one he ca from.
Takayuki hoped this spirit would endure — otherwise, his own continued passion for ga developnt would feel aningless.
He had no interest in a world where every ga needed to be wrapped in a bow of "political correctness" just to get released.
That's why he was so committed to pushing back now — to setting things right.
And tonight's Ga of the Year Awards just happened to be the perfect opportunity.
"Ladies and gentlen, welco to this year's Ga of the Year Awards!"
As the quiet discussions faded, the theater lights dimd and Kazuo Murakami erged from behind the curtain, dressed in a sharp suit.
Not long ago, he'd been just an ordinary middle-schooler.
Now, he stood confidently under the spotlight — no longer awkward or shy, having grown rapidly in recent years.
He began by thanking all the developers in attendance, offering heartfelt appreciation to the teams behind every nominated ga.
As always, Gastar Electronic Entertainnt, serving as both a major sponsor and judging panel mber, did not submit any of their own gas for nomination. Including them would basically be unfair — they'd sweep everything, leaving no room for other studios to breathe.
This was a tacit agreent across the entire industry. Everyone knew Gastar was the industry's undisputed king — the unofficial Ga of the Year, every year.
And when people thought of that, they couldn't help but glance toward Takayuki, sitting front and center.
He really was a godlike figure in this world of gas.
Murakami shot Takayuki a subtle look from the stage.
Takayuki gave a slight nod in return — the silent cue that the ceremony could begin in earnest.
Murakami steadied himself and began presenting each award one by one.
"Best Action Ga of the Year: Crusader Hunt!"
"Ohhh yeah!!"
"Best Sound Design: Hobound!"
"Yes! We did it!"
"Best Technical Achievent: Realm of the Gods!"
"Hahahaha! It's ours! The award's ours!"
...
With every award announced, pockets of celebration erupted from different corners of the theater.
For ga developers, these awards were more than just trophies — they were validation. They ant prestige. They gave studios the montum to attract more investnt and fund bigger, more ambitious projects.
"Best Role-Playing Ga of the Year: Sun Knight: Dark World!"
"Oh yeah!"
In one part of the audience, a group cheered loudly — the core team behind the Sun Knight series.
They were a first-party team under Surei Electronics, and among the most technically capable developers in the company.
Winning Best RPG this year was well deserved.
Even Takayuki acknowledged their work.
Despite his busy schedule, he'd taken ti to play the latest Sun Knight entry.
In his view, the ga was already on par with the 8-9/10 RPGs from his original world.
Years of developnt experience had truly paid off — they had finally co into their own.
Among all studios not under Gastar, this was the one most adept at making RPGs.
Even Mystic Dragon's Hoard, the evergreen MMORPG from Brown Entertainnt, didn't quite compare.
That ga was more like a budget World of Warcraft. Popular, sure — but in Takayuki's eyes, not particularly impressive.
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