Kobayashi Tetsu went to the patent office to inquire, but unfortunately, there were no new patents related to games recently.
—Well, the CD patent had already been registered, boasting a storage capacity of 800 MB.
But there was a serious issue.
A CD by itself was useless…
Japan's market was paradoxically both extremely open and extremely closed.
Open, because the latest technologies always appeared quickly and performed brilliantly. Closed, because companies would immediately wall off all patent avenues to ensure nobody else could use them. So even though the CD medium now existed, there was nowhere to apply it—no home console could read discs yet.
The same problem appeared everywhere—games included.
Anyone who had played games had surely noticed that when the camera got too close to a wall, it would zoom in abruptly, making it impossible to see anything clearly.
There were ways to mitigate it—zooming in the character, blurring the model, etc.—but they were imperfect.
Yet some games simply didn't have this problem.
In those titles, when the camera neared a wall, the wall itself would fade out, preserving the player's vision and control.
A simple and brilliant solution… that almost nobody used.
The reason? Konami had patented wall-transparency. Anyone wishing to use the technique had to license it—and the license fee was very expensive.
Very, very, very expensive.
Thus, aside from Konami and the companies they licensed, players everywhere suffered through clumsy camera collisions.
As a gamer, Kobayashi Tetsu despised these tactics. But now that he was a game developer, he chose to play along.
His approach: charge extremely low licensing fees, but take a percentage of sales in return.
He checked the patent office records.
"According to your request, we've intercepted several authorization inquiries over the past few months and did not notify you. Here are their contact details."
Kobayashi glanced at the notebook—sure enough, all familiar companies.
"Nintendo really did come for authorization, huh? This is the cheapest way to implement a light-gun system. Unless you're building a huge arcade cabinet, everyone has to do it this way."
He noted the date.
Nintendo had submitted their request last week—which meant their first home-console light-gun game probably hadn't been released yet. There was still time.
He apologized, pointed at some bills on the floor the clerk "had dropped," then happily borrowed their office phone.
Before dialing, he took a deep breath.
If Nintendo wanted something from him, it was a perfect opportunity to stage a little… playful marketing.
"Ahem… hmm!!"
Kobayashi cleared his throat, lowered his voice behind his collar, and changed his tone.
"Hello? Is this Mr. Uehara from Nintendo?"
The other end instantly erupted in chaos. After a moment, a tired middle-aged voice returned.
"This is Uehara. And you are… Ten Cents?"
"It's me," Kobayashi said curtly. "I heard you want to purchase my light-gun patent. Fine. I'll send someone to negotiate. The licensing fee will be low, but I require a percentage of sales."
Uehara exhaled in relief.
"That's wonderful news! This light-gun system will be extremely important—"
"You're celebrating too soon."
"…Huh?"
Kobayashi continued, "Transfer me to someone at Nintendo who actually has authority. Miyamoto Shigeru, Yokoi Gunpei—either is fine. If neither is available, Yamauchi Hiroshi will do."
Silence.
Long, heavy silence. If not for the faint static on the line, Kobayashi would've thought they hung up.
Just as he prepared to end the call, a new voice finally came through.
"Hello… Ten Cents, was it? This is Yokoi Gunpei. The call has been transferred to my office."
Kobayashi shot upright.
Yokoi Gunpei was no ordinary figure. He was one of Nintendo's early technological pillars—the mind behind many hardware breakthroughs, including handheld systems.
It was fair to say that in Nintendo's early days, Yokoi's contributions outweighed even Miyamoto's. Miyamoto was a genius creator, but without Yokoi's hardware, there would've been no stage for his brilliance.
Kobayashi had only mentioned his name casually, not expecting the call to actually reach him.
He quickly calmed himself.
"I recently discovered bootleg cartridge sellers operating around Shibuya Central Street. Truly despicable. As a champion of justice, I cannot tolerate this. I strongly encourage Nintendo to carry out a thunderous, surgical strike—eliminating these pirates from the market permanently!"
Yokoi nearly choked, coughing violently. Kobayashi had to hold the receiver away from his ear.
Why was he so shaken?
He was telling the truth!
After a long moment, Yokoi spoke through gritted teeth. "Why isn't SEGA arresting them themselves?!"
"You must be mistaken," Kobayashi replied smoothly. "I am Ten Cents. I have nothing to do with SEGA. I have never had any connection of interest with SEGA whatsoever."
A pause. Then Yokoi's cold voice:
"Your light-gun patent was registered less than a month when SEGA released an identical light-gun game—perfectly timed to block the project we were developing. Are you telling me that was a coincidence?"
"I never said that." Kobayashi changed the topic immediately. "As a righteous citizen, I simply trust in Nintendo's legal department. I sincerely hope your company will bring swift justice upon these criminal bootleggers and restore peace to Japan!"
More silence. Then finally:
"Would you object to visiting Nintendo for a face-to-face meeting?"
"I object. Very much." Kobayashi suppressed a laugh. "If I visit, you'll probably kill me offline."
Yokoi actually chuckled.
"What a shame. I was hoping to meet the young genius behind this light-gun system. SEGA has nothing for you. If you ever consider joining Nintendo, we would pay you handsomely. And no—offline murder is not our style. As for your… request, I will take it under consideration."
The call ended.
Kobayashi exhaled deeply.
That should do it.
There were two invincible legal departments on Earth: Nintendo and Disney.
Even in the '80s, Nintendo's commitment to protecting IP was formidable.
It wouldn't be long before Tokyo's streets saw a dramatic decrease in bootleg cartridge vendors.
Kobayashi tugged down his cap and rose lightly to his feet.
Time to go home.
Time to solder cartridges.
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