The game didn't appear in any big display.It was on a side shelf, between productivity utilities and strange simulators. The cover was simple: a light background, a small character with a sword, and a title that promised nothing beyond what it could deliver.
Hiroshi Tanaka hadn't planned to buy a game that day.He had gone to Akihabara for a SCSI cable he probably didn't need, but thought would solve a problem he didn't yet understand. As usual, he ended up browsing used magazines and software boxes.
He saw the price.It wasn't expensive.
He read the back cover. No grandiose phrases. Just a dry list:
Action RPG
Dungeon exploration
Compatible with NEC PC-9801
Nothing more.
He picked up the box, hesitated for a few seconds, and took it to the counter.
It was the first copy sold.
No one at Kisaragi Soft knew.
That night, Hiroshi arrived at his apartment. He turned on the PC-98, connected the external disk drive, and inserted the first disk. The system loaded without errors.
That already seemed like a good sign.
The menu was simple. Clear FM music, no distortion. The character moved precisely. No awkward delays or unnecessary loading times.
"It works…" he murmured.
He progressed.The first dungeon wasn't difficult, but it was well designed. He didn't need a manual. The layout guided him without pushing. Each enemy had a recognizable pattern.
After an hour, he realized something unexpected.He wasn't frustrated.
It wasn't a brilliant game. No cinematics, no spectacular graphics. But it respected his time. Every action had a response. Every mistake was his own.
He saved his progress and went to the kitchen to make tea.
When he returned, he kept playing.
Two hours later, he turned off the machine with a strange feeling: he had enjoyed something he didn't expect to enjoy.
The next day, he brought the game to the office. During lunch break, he showed it to a colleague.
"It's small," he said."But well made."
Not an enthusiastic recommendation.Better.
Meanwhile, at Kisaragi Soft, sales began moving slowly. No calls. No celebrations. Just a weekly fax from the distributor.
"Thirty copies," Kisaragi read aloud.
No one reacted.
The following week:"Fifty-two."
Mori looked up."That's more than last week."
"Yes," Kisaragi replied."But still small."
No disappointment.No excitement.Exactly what they expected.
A technical magazine published a short review. Two paragraphs. No numeric score.
"Correct design. Stable performance. Recommended for players seeking something simple and honest."
Sato clipped it and pinned it to the board."They didn't crush us," he said.
That, too, was a victory.
I observed everything without commenting. I knew the game wouldn't make history. It wouldn't change the medium. It wouldn't create imitators.
But people were playing it.That made it real.
That night, as I closed the source code for the last time, I thought of Hiroshi Tanaka, unknown to me, sitting in front of his PC-98.
At least once, someone had inserted a disk into their computer and hadn't regretted it.
For a first game,that was enough.