Capital is the most ruthless thing in the world—it never wavers due to emotion.
As long as it can maximize profit, it wouldn't even hesitate to sell its soul.
Detroit Pictures Group, a top-tier film studio and commercial powerhouse, was no exception.
Once Hayakawa Ueto realized the value of the Unreal Engine, he decisively put aside any competitive tension with Takayuki and personally reached out to license the engine.
Takayuki, generous as always, agreed to the licensing. However, since they were competitors, he charged Detroit a significantly higher rate than other clients. Hayakawa didn't argue—he was fine with paying more, so long as the product delivered.
Detroit Pictures also bundled in licensing rights for film VFX production, and currently, multiple films were using Unreal Engine.
The Unreal Engine's main appeal was cost-efficiency. For the same 90% visual fidelity that other engines provided, Unreal could achieve it at 30% less cost.
Of course, trying to push the visuals to a full 100% would still be expensive—this was a known tradeoff.
But the average moviegoer doesn't have the time or eye to distinguish between 90% and 100% quality.
...
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Scenes in movies move far too quickly for that. Only nitpickers would care—and those people don't exactly spend more money at the box office.
As a result, Detroit Pictures had become increasingly dependent on Unreal Engine for their visual effects.
Still, while relying heavily on it, Detroit didn't hesitate to help their parent company apply pressure on Gamestar Electronic Entertainment. In their minds, there was no contradiction.
Detroit operated from behind the curtain. While orchestrating the boycott through filmmakers like Alfonso, they quietly continued to use Gamestar's tech—no one dared to question it.
But Alfonso now felt completely duped.
Regret began to settle in.
Not that it made much difference anymore. His film was already deep in production; it was impossible to switch engines at this point.
So, he simply bit the bullet and pushed forward.
"I'll put in more funding. I can invest another $30 million. Can you raise the visual quality to a higher level with that?" he asked.
"Of course," the VFX lead replied. "We can get it to about 95% quality."
"Then let's do it," Alfonso said, making the call. It pained him, but he began injecting more cash into the VFX team.
This was real money—hard cash. But there was no better option at this point.
This was his passion project, years in the making. The movie's actual content was solid—if it could just get released, it would likely at least break even.
Still… he couldn't stop thinking about the Unreal Engine.
That system was undeniably powerful. It saved money and delivered results.
Too bad it belonged to the very company he'd helped boycott.
A real shame.
So, Alfonso adopted a "might as well go all in" attitude.
If he couldn't use the engine, then he'd just keep tearing it down.
He figured Gamestar had already blacklisted him anyway.
That night, he went on a talk show as a guest.
It was a popular American late-night show with a provocative host, known for stirring things up—think of it as this world's version of Jimmy Kimmel Live. The show was broadcast live and often aired on the same day it was recorded.
Alfonso was a seasoned guest. After a few pleasantries with the host, he went straight into the usual rhetoric: denouncing Gamestar Electronic Entertainment for stepping into the film industry irresponsibly.
His talking points were the same old lines—about how a game developer trying to override a director was disrespectful to the entire film industry.
"If you ask me," Alfonso said, "Gamestar shouldn't be getting involved in film. They're already incredibly successful in their own field—they should stick to that. If they have an IP they want to adapt into a movie, then they should collaborate with a professional studio, not try to make the film themselves."
The host smirked and replied playfully, "So what you're saying is… you think you'd be a good partner for them?"
The comment hit right at the heart of things. This host was a natural instigator.
"Me? Absolutely not," Alfonso scoffed. "Gamestar's values clash completely with mine. Even if they came begging, I'd still say no."
He paused, then pivoted into self-promotion. "But speaking of movie IPs, I've been working on a film recently. The VFX are phenomenal—we've already done private screenings, and the feedback has been great. It's the kind of movie made for the big screen. If the audience is interested…"
"Hold on! Excuse me, hold on a second!"
Just as Alfonso was about to plug his movie—and the host was clearly teeing it up for him—someone shouted from the audience.
The camera quickly cut to the crowd, and a spotlight landed on a young man, probably in his early twenties, who looked visibly upset.
The host addressed him, "You, friend—do you have a question?"
"Yes," the young man said, voice full of conviction. "Mr. Alfonso, what gives you the right to say that Takayuki's Final Fantasy movie is terrible?"
"That's simple," Alfonso replied with a shrug. "He's not from the film industry. He's not a professional."
And, to be fair, that wasn't entirely false. Takayuki wasn't well-versed in movie production logistics. Otherwise, he wouldn't have delegated creative execution to a director while keeping the concept lead role himself.
So on the surface, Alfonso's answer seemed reasonable.
But the young man pressed on. "Then maybe you don't really know Takayuki. The stories in the games he's created are incredible—some are considered masterpieces. They're on par with the best films."
Alfonso looked at him calmly and said, "So what? Just because someone is successful in game development means they'll be successful in movies too? Kid, you're still too young. The film industry isn't as easy as you think. Every industry has its own challenges. You think some outsider can just waltz in and beat seasoned professionals like us? If that really happened, then everything we've worked for would be a joke."