"What's Takayuki doing lately? Isn't he supposed to be focusing on developing the new console and games? Why is he suddenly promoting this Creative Workshop thing on Battle.net?"
Hayakawa Ujito frowned as he looked at the latest updates regarding Takayuki.Gamestar Entertainment's core focus had always been home consoles and handhelds, so why was Takayuki suddenly pouring attention into the PC-based Battle.net platform?
Previously, Ujito had assumed Battle.net was simply a product of Takayuki's collaboration with the Morgan Group—a platform created to satisfy the partner's needs.But now… it seemed Takayuki had taken a strong personal interest in it?
"President, I think Takayuki's just getting overconfident," said one of Surui Electronics' mid-level managers. "He probably thinks he already dominates the console market, so now he's moving on to explore other markets without even considering us a threat."
Ujito furrowed his brow. Takayuki was indeed hard to read.
But he doubted it was that simple.
...
...
He had watched the Creative Workshop presentation too.In essence, Takayuki hadn't released a groundbreaking new game—he was just trying to encourage players to create their own content and expand gameplay themselves.
But… was that even realistic?
It felt more like free labor—asking players to do the work. Why would players willingly create anything interesting under those circumstances?
Expecting a game to sell more purely based on player creativity?
Sure, Counter-Strike was an excellent game. Its competitive aspect was undeniable.Besides the official tournaments, tons of regional Counter-Strike competitions had popped up like mushrooms after rain—proof that the game had strong potential in esports.
Ujito had always admired Counter-Strike and StarCraft for the popularity and income they generated through competitive play.
StarCraft practically ruled the Korean esports scene, sustaining hype for years without even needing much promotion from Takayuki. It had become a stable, evergreen source of revenue.
Counter-Strike was no different.
Yet now, instead of doubling down on esports, Takayuki was pushing something completely unrelated—the Creative Workshop. It was baffling.
Still, Takayuki's every move had historically proven to be a success. So Ujito didn't dare dismiss it outright.
Video games had become one of Surui Electronics' core businesses, rivaling the influence of their Detroit Pictures division. So Ujito paid close attention to any industry trends—especially those involving Takayuki.
This was also influenced by his father, Kenta Hayakawa, who firmly believed that video games were the future's dominant entertainment form, destined to surpass all other media.
"Do you think we could implement something like this Creative Workshop ourselves?"
"Well... that might be tricky," another executive responded. "It would mean letting players access game program files freely. If we did that, our console would likely get cracked wide open in no time."
Console hacking was already a serious headache in the industry.
Takayuki had always been relatively relaxed about anti-piracy, applying only minimal restrictions. But then again, his ecosystem was streamlined, and Gamestar often ran deep discounts—making piracy less appealing than just buying the real thing.
Surui Electronics didn't have that luxury.
If their consoles were cracked on a large scale, it would immediately damage developer trust, causing sales to plummet. That would make future collaborations much harder to secure.
Ujito nodded. That was probably why Takayuki only launched modding tools on the PC-based Battle.net. Doing the same on consoles would basically be handing the keys to the kingdom over to hackers.
"So, we really can't replicate this model?"
"Not exactly. We could release a few titles on PC. But that could hurt our console sales too. Piracy is rampant on PC—those players won't pay if they can get games for free."
Ujito immediately shut that idea down.
They'd worked hard to build a loyal player base for their first-party games—players who were willing to spend more on Surui consoles. Porting those games to PC could risk alienating their fans. He wasn't willing to take that risk.
Gamestar's approach was more selective. They only released very old titles on PC, usually at extremely low prices—or games that were already intended for PC from the start, like StarCraft and Counter-Strike.
Major franchises like Zelda or Super Mario? Never. And since Gamestar had always positioned itself as a multi-platform company, players were more accepting of their PC ports.
Surui didn't have that kind of leeway.
Another executive chimed in, "President, maybe we could make a few exclusive PC games to compete with Gamestar on that front?"
"Compete on PC?" another manager scoffed. "Please. The PC market is tiny. Wasting time on that wouldn't be worth it."
He didn't think much of PC gaming—he felt the titles there were lower in quality, and the player base smaller than on consoles.
Just look at Gamestar's Battle.net. Only a few titles—like StarCraft—had broken a million units. Meanwhile, on consoles, Gamestar had multiple games selling over ten million copies. There was simply no comparison.
Ujito nodded in agreement.
"President," said another executive, "I don't think we need to worry too much about this Creative Workshop thing. Frankly, I think this might be Takayuki's biggest misstep yet. It's like he's asking players to develop content for his games—for free—just to boost sales and hype. Who would actually do that?"
Ujito paused, then looked around the room. "Do you all feel the same way?"
Everyone nodded. "Yes. This Creative Workshop thing probably won't amount to much."
"Alright then," Ujito said. "Let's not waste more time on it. Let's move on to planning our development roadmap and checking on the progress of our upgraded console…"