From the very beginning, getting into traditional theaters was only meant to be the icing on the cake.
Takayuki's real goal was to get more people to buy his discs and cartridges.
Back in the GBA era, some animations had been released in cartridge form—for example, Nintendo's flagship franchise, Pokémon, had GBA animation cartridges.
But at that time, cartridge production was very expensive, and storing video content on them was considered a luxury. That was around the early 2000s.
Now, however, flash memory technology had advanced significantly, and the cost of storage had dropped drastically compared to the past.
Movies didn't require ultra-high resolution, at least not yet, so standard capacities were more than sufficient.
Under these circumstances, distributing movies on cartridge had real potential in the market.
But for the public to accept this kind of product, it needed a compelling title—one that people would feel regretful not owning.
...
...
And clearly, Final Fantasy VII was the perfect choice.
After his call with Bob, the Facebook CEO, Bob immediately sprang into action.
First, he started running internal promotions for his video platform on several ad sections of his social network.
Takayuki had mentioned it, and Bob had been wanting to see whether this "break-even" department could achieve a real breakthrough.
Soon, some subtle—but still eye-catching—ads began appearing across the platform, which now had over 100 million users.
These ad spaces had always been reserved for internal use—never sold externally. Occasionally, they were used for public service campaigns to boost the platform's image, helping people see Facebook as pure and user-first.
Even in normal circumstances, ads from this section had strong results. If the content quality went up, the effect would be extraordinary.
Alvin was a devoted Facebook user.
Originally a journalist and editor in the electronics field, he had gained popularity after several glowing reviews of Gamestar Electronic Entertainment. Many players appreciated how quickly he picked up on the magic of video games.
Eventually, he started his own review site, covering a wide range of products—from portal websites to various gadgets and games. He was now fairly well-known.
In terms of personal influence, he probably had more reach than Murakami Kazuo, the Japanese university student-turned-game media star cultivated by Takayuki.
Murakami had his own popular "Game of the Year" program, but Alvin ran a site that spanned multiple categories—his position was closer to what IGN used to be.
And unlike the later versions of IGN, Alvin still had integrity—closer to the platform's more honest, original days.
Alvin considered himself someone who'd seen it all.
Lately, though, tech development seemed to have hit a wall. He couldn't say exactly why—just that a lot of new gadgets felt lazy, with no real innovation.
Still, the new company founded by Redfruit's former CEO, Myron Case, was a bright spot. Its products were clean and minimal, with a kind of elegant simplicity. But aside from aesthetics, there wasn't much tech progress.
Even so, it was the kind of company worth encouraging. At least it gave him material to work with—unlike those that did nothing but brag about performance specs.
These days, his daily routine included browsing tech news in the office, then diving deep into Facebook.
He didn't know why, but Facebook had a strange magic to it—he could sit there for hours, glued to his seat.
Everyone on there spoke so eloquently. So many talented voices.
Especially in the Social Square section—he could always find people sharing wild, creative ideas.
For a reviewer like him, it was a goldmine.
That day, as usual, he was browsing the Social Square on his work computer.
The platform had evolved into something resembling a trending-topic hub. The top 20 items were always the most-discussed topics across the entire network.
Sometimes it was a celebrity scandal. Other times, political news. He made it a habit to check the list every day so he wouldn't fall behind.
After checking the trending topics, he usually browsed to see if anyone had shared new insights or ideas.
But today, something in the fourth trending spot caught his eye:
"Cloud, please try a little harder."
At first glance, it sounded like someone pleading with a guy named Cloud.
If you didn't know who that was, you'd probably find it confusing.
But Alvin's heart skipped a beat when he read it.
Cloud.
He knew that name all too well.
The protagonist of Final Fantasy VII.
A character who'd gone through countless harrowing adventures. The death of the quirky and beautiful Aerith had hit Alvin like a truck.
It was the first time a video game had ever stirred such powerful emotions in him.
When he first saw video games at an international electronics expo, he thought they were just fun. And they were—he got hooked immediately.
But that was all they were to him: fun. A casual pastime. No deeper meaning. Just something like tennis or golf… or a movie.
But after playing through Final Fantasy VII, his entire view changed.
He realized games could be deep.
The story seemed simple—just a spiky-haired blonde punk going on an adventure.
But it wove in real-world themes like energy exploitation, showing how overuse of resources could lead to destruction.
Of course, those messages were secondary—they added depth, but weren't what truly moved Alvin.
What really got to him was the emotional arc: Sephiroth's descent, the characters' growth, and most of all, Aerith's heartbreaking death.
Every character in Final Fantasy VII had a clear, distinct personality. None of them were redundant.
And that's what made the story so touching.
Sometimes, the simplest thing—writing good, believable characters—is enough to move people.
Playing that game felt like watching a brilliant movie… or reading an epic serialized novel. It left him wanting more.
When the story ended—when the team united to stop the meteor and save the world—he felt a bittersweet emptiness.
"If only the story could go on…"
He had high hopes for Final Fantasy VIII, hoping it would continue where VII left off.
But unfortunately, it didn't. There was no true sequel.
Final Fantasy VII merchandise, however, dropped immediately and sold like wildfire.
Most iconic were the character figurines.
In the U.S., a high-quality, posable figure could go for over $500—enough to buy ten copies of the game.
Even so, they sold out instantly.
Rumor had it Gamestar made over $100 million just from figure sales. Who knew if that was true.
What was certain was the absurd level of demand.
Other companies could only watch in envy—none of them had managed to create a game with that kind of legacy.
So when Alvin saw that name on the trending list again years later, he clicked in without hesitation.
He assumed it was just another wave of nostalgia.
He felt the same, after all. That game still lived in his heart.
But once the page loaded, he realized this wasn't the usual discussion thread.
It was a special link.
At the top center was a large video module.
And the logo loading in? The Final Fantasy VII emblem.
Thanks to high-speed internet, the video loaded in no time.
It was a trailer for the Final Fantasy VII movie.
But unlike the brief teaser from before, this one was far more complete—it showed Aerith, Tifa in a new outfit, and even more stylized, striking character designs.
Alvin had watched the entire Gamestar Carnival livestream, so he already knew about the Final Fantasy VII movie announcement at the end.
He was excited then—felt like his wishes had finally come true.
But… it was a movie, not a game.
And it was fully CG. That dampened his enthusiasm.
He preferred live-action films. Special effects were fine, but full CG? That was for kids.
If not for the Final Fantasy VII name, he would've closed the tab already.
Half-heartedly, he let the video play while he worked.
The new trailer ran for a full five minutes—basically summarizing all the major plot points of the film.
The story took place after the meteor was stopped, in the city once ruled by Shinra.
Mako extraction had ceased, and the company had fallen into decline.
The old president was dead, and his successor—his child—seemed to be hiding something, even wearing a mask.
From the trailer, it looked like the city was suffering from a mysterious illness, mostly affecting children.
It was called Geostigma.
Then, Cloud appeared—wearing a slick new outfit, wielding an even cooler sword.
This time, the sword could split apart.
He sped across the wastelands on a new motorcycle.
Suddenly, a trio of mysterious figures blocked his path, leading to an insane motorcycle duel.
But the trailer cut off just as the battle began.
It left viewers hanging.
Somewhere along the way, Alvin had completely stopped working. His eyes were wide, glued to the screen.
This trailer was longer, higher quality, and packed with more details.
When it cut to black at the most exciting moment, he froze—wondering if the video had crashed.
He hit refresh, hoping to see the rest.
Same result. The trailer ended at the exact same point.
Who did this?!
Why stop there?
It was only a minute or so from the climax—just show the whole thing!
Damn it!
Alvin was losing his mind.
Sure, he knew Cloud would be fine. He was the protagonist—he wasn't going to die.
But still. Knowing and seeing are two different things.
He tried refreshing a few more times, but it was no use. It always stopped at that critical point.
Finally, he gave up.
But the frustration still burned inside him.
Now with nothing else to do, he explored the rest of the page.
It was Facebook's new video section.
Many familiar TV and movie titles were listed. For a small fee, you could unlock more content.
Alvin had never cared before.
But when he saw that subscribing would grant early access to Final Fantasy VII trailers?
He didn't hesitate.
He clicked straight to the payment page—and bought a three-year subscription on the spot.