Kobayashi Tetsu, who was trying to become an indie game developer, ran into his first major problem after only three hours of work.
And it was a big one.
He searched the information and discovered the issue: the SG1000 cartridge's storage capacity was way too small!
Storage chips were incredibly expensive back then—something people from the future could never imagine.
In an age where a 1TB SSD costs just a few hundred dollars, it's hard to believe that in the 1980s, even a top-end home computer only had 1MB of storage.
What players in 2025 dismiss as outdated mechanical hard drives would've made Gordon Moore faint from shock in the 80s.
Yes—Gordon Moore, one of Intel's founders, the man who proposed Moore's Law, which states that hardware performance doubles every two years while cost halves.
To keep costs low, the SG1000 only used cartridges with 8KB of total storage.
After accounting for verification data, sound, and visuals, that left just 7KB of usable space.
To put that in perspective—7KB equals 7168 bytes. A single Chinese character takes up 2 bytes.
In other words, a typical 3,000-word novel chapter saved as a text file would take around 7–8KB.
Meaning, all the code Kobayashi could write for his entire game had to fit within just 7,000 bytes—barely enough for one short chapter!
Yet he needed to fit an entire story in there: plot, characters, conflict, resolution, a beginning and an end—and seven unique characters, because Tetris had seven block types: S, Z, L, J, I, O, and T.
And on top of that, it had to appeal to people all over the world, regardless of language or culture.
Kobayashi buried his face in his hands, nearly losing his mind.
Too hard.
He couldn't code this.
He let out a long sigh.
Life was like a never-ending game of Tetris, waiting for that one perfect "I" block.
Without it—you just couldn't fit anything in place.
---
Meanwhile, at Sega's headquarters…
The SG console line had gone through several hardware iterations. Although the first version was less powerful than Nintendo's Famicom, the final version's specs eventually surpassed it.
That was Nintendo's style—their consoles were never the strongest in performance, earning them the nickname "the gameplay company."
Even though the SG seemed weak, it was 1983—and it could already support quite a few games.
Kentarō Kobayashi, the acting head of Sega's home console development division, took his work very seriously.
After Sega's leadership finally approved his hardware budget request, he could now begin major improvements to the SG1000 system.
But at this moment, Kentarō wasn't at his desk.
He had just received a call and was now standing in the office of Hideki Satō, a senior executive.
Satō wasn't some made-up figure—he was a real historical heavyweight, known as the father of Sega's home consoles, and the man who led their early hardware projects.
In company terms, his title of "Division Director" was equivalent to a department general manager—someone with real power.
"Mr. Kobayashi, have a seat," Satō said pleasantly.
He seemed far calmer than he had been during yesterday's tense meeting.
"How are you adjusting to life back in Japan after your time in America?" he asked kindly.
Kentarō nodded in response.
After a few more polite exchanges, Satō's tone suddenly shifted.
"Mr. Kobayashi, I heard someone in the SG1000 development team requisitioned a $5,000 development kit. As the acting head of the division, do you know anything about that?"
Kentarō stood and bowed slightly. "Yes, that was me."
Satō froze.
He hadn't expected such a blunt answer. It was… un-Japanese. Where was the humility? The evasiveness? The indirectness?
What kind of Japanese person are you—?
Oh right. You're American now. Never mind.
Kentarō continued calmly, "My son, Tetsu, has taken an interest in game development. I submitted a purchase request and paid for the kit out of my own pocket. I don't believe that violates company policy, does it?"
Satō forced a smile. "Of course not."
At the time, $1 USD was worth about 200 yen—soon to drop to 100, then 80, and by the late '80s, nearly 50 yen.
So that $5,000 kit was worth about one million yen—half a Japanese office worker's yearly salary.
It was even mentioned in Doraemon how much a million yen meant back then.
For Kentarō, however, that amount wasn't unbearable. As an acting director, his salary was in the tens of millions of yen per year.
Still, Satō was displeased.
"Mr. Kobayashi, that's far too extravagant—a million-yen toy for a child? That's a professional development kit, not something to play house with!"
Kentarō bowed slightly. "Whether it's one million or ten million, as long as it's put to good use, the value is justified. I don't think this matter needs to trouble you further, Director Satō."
Satō clicked his tongue.
"Well then, let's talk about something more important." He raised a finger. "You have one month. I expect a practical, working optimization plan for the SG hardware—something real, not just paperwork. After all, we hired you from America for your expertise, didn't we?"
Kentarō frowned. "One month is far too short. Just developing a viable proposal will take time—testing and implementing it could take much longer!"
Satō leaned forward over his desk, staring him down.
"So you're saying you can't do it? Sega didn't spend a fortune hiring you just to hear 'impossible.' If you have time to buy expensive toys for your son, you have time to optimize hardware."
He returned to writing, then looked up again.
"Well? Why are you still here, Mr. Kobayashi?"
"…Understood." Kentarō took a deep breath, anger simmering beneath his composure. He bowed stiffly and left the room.
Only after he was gone did Satō smirk.
"One million yen to play with your kid? I'd sooner believe in that than believe you can produce a working optimization plan in a month."
Yes, Satō was targeting him deliberately.
A foreign-hired manager with a stellar résumé—clearly a threat to his position.
If he didn't suppress Kentarō now, who knew how much power he might lose later?
But from the looks of it, Satō decided he had nothing to worry about.
A man who'd spend a million yen just to play with his child clearly wasn't someone to fear.
Promoting him beyond "acting director" was out of the question.