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CAPCOM Wild Game Boys (カプコン電子の猛者たち) is a book comprising a collection of interviews with 32 CAPCOM employees and managers. Dedicated to aspiring developers and businesspeople, it explores game development techniques and management approaches.
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Published: 30/06/2000
Hardcover: 255 Publisher: Enterbrain ISBN-10: 4757700547 ISBN-13: 9784757700543 |
GAME PRODUCTION METHODS
WHAT IS A GAME?
The word “game” refers to a form of play conducted under certain rules. Therefore, football's a game, and chess is undoubtedly a game. However, in Japan in the year 2000, the term “game” generally refers to video games. Widely recognized as a new form of entertainment in Japanese society with the release of “Space Invaders” in 1978, video games differed from existing medal games and board games in that they featured rapidly changing visuals and stimulating electronic sounds in response to player input, leading to their unique evolution. Initially, there was skepticism it would be a fleeting fad, and indeed, game centers—where video games were first introduced—were generally avoided as hangouts for delinquents, so there was a possibility people would quickly grow tired of them. However, when Nintendo's Famicom entered households across Japan, video games became a major industry and form of mass entertainment rivaling pop music, pro sports, and Hollywood movies. Looking at the ongoing buzz surrounding the PlayStation 2 and Xbox in the midst of a prolonged economic downturn, one may even start to think video games have become an indispensable tool for conglomerates seeking global domination. That said, traditional games like baseball boards and flower cards haven't gone away. Traditional toys, sports, video games, even “PostPet” which is far removed from the concepts of rules and strategies... If we include all these, the definition of “game” has expanded to its limits.
A GAME'S STRUCTURE
However, the spotlight remains on video games. This is because they offer jobs comparable to those of film directors, screenwriters, illustrators, graphic designers, CG animators, and composers. Additionally, there's the work of planning and programming the rules and systems of games. While the mindset of “create an entertaining game that'll delight customers” is essential for those in the entertainment industry, it's clear this is an environment where young aspiring creators can fully utilize their skills and achieve self-realization.
CAPCOM's game software series “BIOHAZARD” (hereinafter referred to as “BIO”) is a good example of how the above jobs are evenly distributed throughout the production process. The composition of the production (referred to as “development” in the industry) team for the BIO series is as follows.
• Producer
• Director
• Planning (Planner, Game Designer)
• Software (Programmer)
• Graphics (Character, BG (Background))
• Sound (Composer, SE (Sound Effects))
WHAT IS A GAME?
The word “game” refers to a form of play conducted under certain rules. Therefore, football's a game, and chess is undoubtedly a game. However, in Japan in the year 2000, the term “game” generally refers to video games. Widely recognized as a new form of entertainment in Japanese society with the release of “Space Invaders” in 1978, video games differed from existing medal games and board games in that they featured rapidly changing visuals and stimulating electronic sounds in response to player input, leading to their unique evolution. Initially, there was skepticism it would be a fleeting fad, and indeed, game centers—where video games were first introduced—were generally avoided as hangouts for delinquents, so there was a possibility people would quickly grow tired of them. However, when Nintendo's Famicom entered households across Japan, video games became a major industry and form of mass entertainment rivaling pop music, pro sports, and Hollywood movies. Looking at the ongoing buzz surrounding the PlayStation 2 and Xbox in the midst of a prolonged economic downturn, one may even start to think video games have become an indispensable tool for conglomerates seeking global domination. That said, traditional games like baseball boards and flower cards haven't gone away. Traditional toys, sports, video games, even “PostPet” which is far removed from the concepts of rules and strategies... If we include all these, the definition of “game” has expanded to its limits.
A GAME'S STRUCTURE
However, the spotlight remains on video games. This is because they offer jobs comparable to those of film directors, screenwriters, illustrators, graphic designers, CG animators, and composers. Additionally, there's the work of planning and programming the rules and systems of games. While the mindset of “create an entertaining game that'll delight customers” is essential for those in the entertainment industry, it's clear this is an environment where young aspiring creators can fully utilize their skills and achieve self-realization.
CAPCOM's game software series “BIOHAZARD” (hereinafter referred to as “BIO”) is a good example of how the above jobs are evenly distributed throughout the production process. The composition of the production (referred to as “development” in the industry) team for the BIO series is as follows.
• Producer
• Director
• Planning (Planner, Game Designer)
• Software (Programmer)
• Graphics (Character, BG (Background))
• Sound (Composer, SE (Sound Effects))
Let's explain the roles of each member on this team.
【Producer】CAPCOM introduced the “Producer System” in 1996. Under this system, developers become the overall responsible parties for game software, involved in all aspects from content creation to marketing, promotion, and sales, and ultimately overseeing the final profits. This means even creators must consider the balance of revenue and expenses when developing software. Similar to the internal company system, each item has an independent structure, and the producer acts as the virtual president at the top of the development team. However, the definition of “producer” is vague in Japan, and even within CAPCOM, the approach to work varies greatly depending on the individual producer (some come from planning, others from publicity). It's important to know the producer's the top decision-maker who considers all balances to ensure the product's success.
【Director】Under the producer, the director oversees content creation. In films, this role would be called a director. Their main role's assigning work to subordinates or external staff according to set policies and checking the progress, but at the same time, they're required to have the eye of a game designer as well as planning skills, making it a tough job requiring a tough person.
【Planning】In other software companies or publishers, there are often no dedicated planners, and staff members brainstorm ideas together to plan a game's rules and systems, commonly referred to as “gameplay.” This is also the case at CAPCOM, but the fact the planning role remains firmly established reflects the company's commitment to games. Specifically, the job involves deciding specifications and submitting planning documents, but also requires management skills such as setting deadlines along with communication skills for coordinating opinions among the staff members.
【Software】This is how programmers are referred to at CAPCOM. Since they're making games, simply knowing programming languages isn't enough. Simply writing code that follows given specs isn't sufficient either. Sometimes, you must return specs to the planners or graphic designers or propose better ideas. Moreover, programmers are responsible for finalizing the data that comes in from other departments. While other staff members are celebrating the completion of their work, programmers must continue debugging and making adjustments. This requires patience and composure.
【Graphics】In the era of 2D games, there were only “dot artists” who drew pixel art. In 3D games though, there are processes similar to those in regular 3DCG, such as modeling, rendering, animation, and effects. Those responsible for the graphics of moving objects like characters must divide these tasks as needed and work on them accordingly. Prior to that of course, character design sketches must be drawn, and background artists must separately put together maps. In 3D games where the graphics engine renders in real-time according to the program, the workload for graphics artists should've been lighter than in 2D games (since 2D games operate on the same principle as cel animation, where individual frames are read and animated, making it impossible to process graphics through calculations, so all graphics must be drawn as “art” from scratch). However, in reality, the workload has only continued to grow exponentially.
【Sound】While outsourcing composition isn't unheard of, sound effects (SE), and sound production, sound's primarily produced in-house. Due to the nature of the work however, the sound team's located on a different floor from other development sections. Additionally, BGM composition and SE production are handled by completely different individuals.
【Producer】CAPCOM introduced the “Producer System” in 1996. Under this system, developers become the overall responsible parties for game software, involved in all aspects from content creation to marketing, promotion, and sales, and ultimately overseeing the final profits. This means even creators must consider the balance of revenue and expenses when developing software. Similar to the internal company system, each item has an independent structure, and the producer acts as the virtual president at the top of the development team. However, the definition of “producer” is vague in Japan, and even within CAPCOM, the approach to work varies greatly depending on the individual producer (some come from planning, others from publicity). It's important to know the producer's the top decision-maker who considers all balances to ensure the product's success.
【Director】Under the producer, the director oversees content creation. In films, this role would be called a director. Their main role's assigning work to subordinates or external staff according to set policies and checking the progress, but at the same time, they're required to have the eye of a game designer as well as planning skills, making it a tough job requiring a tough person.
【Planning】In other software companies or publishers, there are often no dedicated planners, and staff members brainstorm ideas together to plan a game's rules and systems, commonly referred to as “gameplay.” This is also the case at CAPCOM, but the fact the planning role remains firmly established reflects the company's commitment to games. Specifically, the job involves deciding specifications and submitting planning documents, but also requires management skills such as setting deadlines along with communication skills for coordinating opinions among the staff members.
【Software】This is how programmers are referred to at CAPCOM. Since they're making games, simply knowing programming languages isn't enough. Simply writing code that follows given specs isn't sufficient either. Sometimes, you must return specs to the planners or graphic designers or propose better ideas. Moreover, programmers are responsible for finalizing the data that comes in from other departments. While other staff members are celebrating the completion of their work, programmers must continue debugging and making adjustments. This requires patience and composure.
【Graphics】In the era of 2D games, there were only “dot artists” who drew pixel art. In 3D games though, there are processes similar to those in regular 3DCG, such as modeling, rendering, animation, and effects. Those responsible for the graphics of moving objects like characters must divide these tasks as needed and work on them accordingly. Prior to that of course, character design sketches must be drawn, and background artists must separately put together maps. In 3D games where the graphics engine renders in real-time according to the program, the workload for graphics artists should've been lighter than in 2D games (since 2D games operate on the same principle as cel animation, where individual frames are read and animated, making it impossible to process graphics through calculations, so all graphics must be drawn as “art” from scratch). However, in reality, the workload has only continued to grow exponentially.
【Sound】While outsourcing composition isn't unheard of, sound effects (SE), and sound production, sound's primarily produced in-house. Due to the nature of the work however, the sound team's located on a different floor from other development sections. Additionally, BGM composition and SE production are handled by completely different individuals.
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THE PRODUCTION PROCESS
How does a team composed of professionals from each of the aforementioned departments proceed with game development? Using the BIO series as an example, let's explain the process. Common anecdotes about game development include “working all night to debug without even showering” or “the director was so annoying I quit the company as soon as I finished my map!” Such negative incidents aren't unique to game development but are commonplace in any creative field, so there's no need to dwell on them. Of course it's ideal to avoid having staff members quit midway through a project, but producers and directors in charge of production must consider the possibility of drop-outs (and the resulting decline in production quality) while assigning the right people to the right roles and striving to get through the two-year development period. Once actual work begins, each team member fulfills their responsibilities, assembles the completed parts, then makes adjustments until the game's finished. The path forward is clear, and getting there is where the producer and director's skills come into play. As a product, deadlines are non-negotiable. Even if an artistically inclined creator were given unlimited time and funds by a patron (a generous investor), they'd still want to release the product as soon as possible to see how the public reacts. Whether the motivation for production is to maintain the company (meet quotas) or artistic expression, there are several things that must be done first. These include deciding on the product concept, setting sales targets and budgets, scheduling, and staffing. You may also wonder about technical research. In fact, some companies begin research once the game production's already started. However, regardless of whether there's a dedicated research department, most companies conduct ongoing research, so this isn't something to be overly concerned about in the early stages of game production. Concerns about technical limitations are a separate issue. Once the plan's decided, the next step's familiarizing the staff with the project details and preparing for the actual work. If new technology's to be introduced, a short trial period's conducted to determine its feasibility. If the staff lacks the necessary skills, training's provided. For games with a strong storytelling element, such as adventure games or role-playing games, a pre-production phase is required, similar to that of a movie. This includes writing the script, setting the art, costumes, characters, making storyboards and layouts, and drawing the storyboards. Of course, research must be conducted beforehand. Location scouting overseas is also not uncommon. |
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Once all preparations are complete, individual tasks commence. Team members collaborate across departments. For example, when creating characters on the screen, a graphic designer (who may further specialize in design, modeling, texturing, or motion), a programmer, and a planner coordinate their ideas. If this production system functions smoothly, the various components—such as sound, characters, maps, and events—are delivered almost automatically. These parts are assembled, tested to ensure they work seamlessly, and any issues are checked and adjusted until the game's complete. Concerns include whether there are any critical bugs that could cause the game to crash, whether the visual style's consistent, whether any elements are missing, whether certain controls function as intended, and most importantly, whether the game's fun. The list of potential issues is endless.
RELEASING A GAME TO THE WORLD
So far, I've written about the process of creation, but haven't written about “how to come up with ideas” or “how to master individual techniques.” Nor is it certain these topics will be covered in subsequent interviews. As for individual techniques, you'll have to master them on your own. You can learn on your own or attend some kind of school. As for ideas, while the process of coming up with them is indeed painful, there are many books written about how to use your mind to generate ideas, and anyone can come up with ideas. Moreover, everyone has their own way of thinking about game design, so there's no point teaching it here.
What we should really be thinking about is how to approach game development when it's requested of us. For example, suppose you're creating a game as an expression of your artistic sensibilities or as a hobby, rather than as a job. If there are no deadlines though, would you be able to complete the game? It's the coercive power of work that enables you to complete (finish) it. Making games is often done as work. This means you must make a game that sells—a game consumers want to buy and enjoy—rather than a game you want to create. By keeping production costs low, setting the highest possible price, and selling in large quantities, you can make significant profits. However, high-priced products that can be sold in large quantities require high production costs, and it's unlikely you can set a high price for a low-cost product. Some production companies keep prices low by paying their employees low wages aiming to make consumers happy. Such business calculations are also part of product planning. Of course, there may be cases where the concept for a game you've been nurturing for a long time can be directly applied. I don't deny that possibility, but in practice, you're more likely to be tasked with coming up with new products from scratch, or improving existing genres or making sequels to a popular series to ensure profitability.
CAPCOM holds a fundamental stance of prioritizing the creation of enjoyable games using stable technology over chasing new technologies that may end up failing. This is why there are many opportunities to make sequels to their series. In that sense, the interviews on the following pages should provide practical knowledge. I hope some know-how on making games will be conveyed through this book.
So far, I've written about the process of creation, but haven't written about “how to come up with ideas” or “how to master individual techniques.” Nor is it certain these topics will be covered in subsequent interviews. As for individual techniques, you'll have to master them on your own. You can learn on your own or attend some kind of school. As for ideas, while the process of coming up with them is indeed painful, there are many books written about how to use your mind to generate ideas, and anyone can come up with ideas. Moreover, everyone has their own way of thinking about game design, so there's no point teaching it here.
What we should really be thinking about is how to approach game development when it's requested of us. For example, suppose you're creating a game as an expression of your artistic sensibilities or as a hobby, rather than as a job. If there are no deadlines though, would you be able to complete the game? It's the coercive power of work that enables you to complete (finish) it. Making games is often done as work. This means you must make a game that sells—a game consumers want to buy and enjoy—rather than a game you want to create. By keeping production costs low, setting the highest possible price, and selling in large quantities, you can make significant profits. However, high-priced products that can be sold in large quantities require high production costs, and it's unlikely you can set a high price for a low-cost product. Some production companies keep prices low by paying their employees low wages aiming to make consumers happy. Such business calculations are also part of product planning. Of course, there may be cases where the concept for a game you've been nurturing for a long time can be directly applied. I don't deny that possibility, but in practice, you're more likely to be tasked with coming up with new products from scratch, or improving existing genres or making sequels to a popular series to ensure profitability.
CAPCOM holds a fundamental stance of prioritizing the creation of enjoyable games using stable technology over chasing new technologies that may end up failing. This is why there are many opportunities to make sequels to their series. In that sense, the interviews on the following pages should provide practical knowledge. I hope some know-how on making games will be conveyed through this book.
HIDEKI KAMIYA, Director (p.017-21)
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HIS WINTER PERIOD
If you were to hear he's the director of “BIOHAZARD 2”, you might imagine him as a man of authority. Surprisingly though, Kamiya's life story isn't that impressive. “I failed my high school entrance exam and had to repeat the year. In our school district, public high schools are private schools, but those of us who failed the exam went to cram school in our junior high school uniforms. The system was we had to go to school in the uniform of the school we were attending. So I'd be pedaling along on my bike and I'd see my old classmates going down the street in their regular clothes, clearly heading in the direction of high school. When I was taking the middle school third-year mock exam, I asked the teacher how I should write the year and class number in the relevant column, and he told me to write "fourth year" (laughs). My female cousin, who was the same age as me, of course went on to high school as normal. Due to things like that, my heart was in winter.” Kamiya's dark teenage years didn't end there. The year he describes as winter was the year he became the most addicted to video games in his life. In a sense, he was leading a healthy gamer lifestyle that year, playing games like "Gradius" at the arcade. After going on to high school and being given a NEC PC8801 however, he got addicted to a whole new kind of game - the kind focused on eroticism. At the time, Kamiya's introverted personality meant he couldn't even speak to his cousin, so he became a typical otaku who played around with virtual girls. |
A member of Production Studio 4. Director of "BIOHAZARD 2". He was born on December 19th 1970. After graduating from the Department of English & American Studies at Kyorin University, he joined CAPCOM in 1994. He's currently working on a BIO for the PS2 & “challenging new methods of expression not bound by the series' framework”.
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He soon grew out of his otaku phase though, which may be related to present-day Director Hideki Kamiya. A classmate who attended the same seminar at university was a “normal” person with social skills and spoke to Kamiya without any hesitation. Through this friendship, Kamiya learned proper social skills like drinking and movie-going. Then when he came home for spring break, he was attracted to a girl from his high school days who worked at a local video shop. He cursed his fat body, which weighed 78kg, and suddenly started dieting. After spending two months hardly eating or drinking, Kamiya succeeded in losing 16kg, so when he returned home again, he boldly went into the video shop. As he continued to scout, he found out the girl he had his eye on apparently had a boyfriend, so in the end there was nothing he could do. Perhaps this instilled some confidence in him though, and Kamiya suddenly started to let loose. That was his college debut.
GETTING A JOB AT CAPCOM
Even though he was able to enjoy college life like everyone else, Kamiya, having always loved video games, still had his eye on working in the video game industry. However he was also well aware it was a very narrow path. As city life didn't suit him, he tried finding a job in his hometown Matsumoto, but he couldn't give up attachment to video games, so he threw himself into the job hunt anyway without much hope, and to his surprise, he was accepted by two companies. One was a game production company in the Kanto region, and the other was the Kansai-based company, CAPCOM.
KAMIYA: I thought if I wrote a proposal in text, nobody would read it, so I composed it almost entirely of pictures. I didn't study drawing, but I liked drawing. The company in Kanto evaluated me based on my drawings and asked me if I'd be interested in becoming a character designer. CAPCOM, on the other hand, offered me a job based on my game planning, so I was torn... Kansai's far away, and it's like the Galapagos Islands of Japan, so it's very insular. I was a bit reluctant to come, but planning was the job I wanted to do, so I thought it wasn't the time to be picky about where I worked. You only get one chance in your lifetime to do the job you want to do.
GOTO: Have you always been interested in making games?
KAMIYA: Yes, I have. Whenever I played games I'd be thinking "I'd do it like this" and I really wanted to make that known. Despite having no clue about commercial considerations (laughs). Even though I learned a little about other games at university, I think it was natural I aspired to work in the game industry.
GOTO: You also like drawing pictures, but was that just a means to a larger end, to make games? Like you used it as a weapon to present an image in the proposal you mentioned earlier.
KAMIYA: Yes, indeed. I think it became a weapon. Among the tens of thousands of planning proposals sent in, the people interviewing don't read them carefully to communicate with the applicant, so in that sense, I think my proposal including many pictures was quite eye-catching. I feel like it was an advantage, or I benefited from it.
GOTO: After joining the company, have you found it useful when creating a project image or writing specifications?
KAMIYA: That I have. To convey an image, it's better to be able to draw pictures than just talk about it.
GOTO: In the secret file, I forget what the title was, but there was a page that introduced the animation patterns of the characters. And the person in charge of graphics commented that the original drawings by the planner were better.
KAMIYA: There are people among planning who are from character design. Of course I can't compete with people like that, but I think visuals are something I'm really particular about. Like the beauty of the shot composition in BIO2. There are times when being too particular can make the game feel less game-like, but I think pushing the beauty of the visuals is something that's my own individuality. If you think back to when you were a child, I was always doodling in class, or even when reading a book, you'd imagine pictures in your head.
Normally, people who can draw become illustrators, manga artists or animators, aspiring to become professional artists. Of course, there are parts of game production that also require drawing skills. Sometimes these skills have a significant impact on the worldview and game systems, but basically, the people who design the games, or the planners, have the authority to make up the main part of the game. Kamiya didn't want to participate in game production as a specialist in individual parts, but rather he wanted to create and control his own world from the very beginning. For Kamiya, the invitation from Shinji Mikami to try his hand at directing BIOHAZARD 2 must've been extremely attractive.
LIFE AS A DIRECTOR
Kamiya’s encounter with Mikami goes back to the first "BIO HAZARD" game. In a sense, his time being involved in this game was Kamiya's training period. Kamiya, who was still influenced by the feelings of users, recalls having a narrow perspective, helped along by his hot-bloodedness, and "didn't understand half of what Mikami was saying, and thought he was annoying". At the time, under Mikami's direction as the director, Kamiya was suddenly given the position of main planner. As it was a totally new game, not a sequel to a popular series, the company's instructions were "As long as you sell 300,000 copies, that's fine. Go ahead and make a game that's as niche as can be". The sales pressure was low and the team was made up of many new recruits, so it was an experimental unit of sorts. Here, Kamiya negotiated with and checked the work of the people in charge of each part of the game, such as the characters and programming, and he also drew storyboards for the event scenes. He was given this task as his artistic ability was highly regarded.
KAMIYA: The key points were handled by people with experience, but it was a fairly young team. They hadn't been tainted by the game industry yet, and maybe that freshness was good. Mikami had gathered together staff with that kind of creativity, who'd focus on the kind of things you wouldn't normally focus on.
GOTO: There was a sense of unity, or excitement, or enthusiasm...
KAMIYA: I think there was quite a bit. Anyway, it was a game, so there was almost no attempt at distortion. For example, when you shoot a gun, the bullet casing should fly away, and when a casing hits a wall, it should bounce back with a ringing sound. The sound of footsteps should be clopping, while on a carpet, they should change to a 'boof-boof' sound.
GOTO: When I first saw the screenshots, I was surprised.
KAMIYA: The quality of the CG, with polygonal characters walking around inside the CG and the shots changing, was something only Mikami had in his head. When we went from full polygonal screens to those kinds of rendered CG backgrounds (due to hardware limitations), the team was in a slump, but when we showed them the actual visuals, even those who complained at first started to see the vision of "this is the kind of game we wanna make", so the team got even more excited from there.
There's no shortage of examples of how having a clear blueprint can boost team morale. However, Kamiya failed spectacularly in presenting his vision when he made his directorial debut, the sequel to BIO HAZARD. "I think I didn't really understand the job of a director. That's why the failure of "1.5" happened. It was in the style of BIO, but I think it was just a copy. I was so overwhelmed with the fact I was directing for the first time that I was quite lax in my checks of the finished visuals. I'd just say "Oh, that's fine" and give the OK, but in the end it was very low quality. 1.5's failure made me realize it's very difficult to have a clear vision as a director. I started to think more deeply about that. Afterwards we started 2 all over again."
BIO2 moved the setting from a mansion to a police station. Kamiya's biggest mistake was that, in his desire to create a realistic depiction, he forgot about the game's map being fun and created an inorganic building. After taking a year to make, the unfinished product was buried as a failure. The price was high, but in the year that followed, Kamiya completed "2" and redeemed himself. It was a huge hit, selling 4.8 million copies in Japan and overseas (as of the end of March 2000, excluding the DualShock Ver). Kamiya somewhat stubbornly reflects on 2's gameplay, where the scenario constrains your actions, saying, "I admit it was stressful, but I have no regrets." Games belong to the users, but they're boring if they have no originality. "In the game I'm currently working on, I'm doing whatever I want." Kamiya laughed softly, leaving us with some defiant words.
Even though he was able to enjoy college life like everyone else, Kamiya, having always loved video games, still had his eye on working in the video game industry. However he was also well aware it was a very narrow path. As city life didn't suit him, he tried finding a job in his hometown Matsumoto, but he couldn't give up attachment to video games, so he threw himself into the job hunt anyway without much hope, and to his surprise, he was accepted by two companies. One was a game production company in the Kanto region, and the other was the Kansai-based company, CAPCOM.
KAMIYA: I thought if I wrote a proposal in text, nobody would read it, so I composed it almost entirely of pictures. I didn't study drawing, but I liked drawing. The company in Kanto evaluated me based on my drawings and asked me if I'd be interested in becoming a character designer. CAPCOM, on the other hand, offered me a job based on my game planning, so I was torn... Kansai's far away, and it's like the Galapagos Islands of Japan, so it's very insular. I was a bit reluctant to come, but planning was the job I wanted to do, so I thought it wasn't the time to be picky about where I worked. You only get one chance in your lifetime to do the job you want to do.
GOTO: Have you always been interested in making games?
KAMIYA: Yes, I have. Whenever I played games I'd be thinking "I'd do it like this" and I really wanted to make that known. Despite having no clue about commercial considerations (laughs). Even though I learned a little about other games at university, I think it was natural I aspired to work in the game industry.
GOTO: You also like drawing pictures, but was that just a means to a larger end, to make games? Like you used it as a weapon to present an image in the proposal you mentioned earlier.
KAMIYA: Yes, indeed. I think it became a weapon. Among the tens of thousands of planning proposals sent in, the people interviewing don't read them carefully to communicate with the applicant, so in that sense, I think my proposal including many pictures was quite eye-catching. I feel like it was an advantage, or I benefited from it.
GOTO: After joining the company, have you found it useful when creating a project image or writing specifications?
KAMIYA: That I have. To convey an image, it's better to be able to draw pictures than just talk about it.
GOTO: In the secret file, I forget what the title was, but there was a page that introduced the animation patterns of the characters. And the person in charge of graphics commented that the original drawings by the planner were better.
KAMIYA: There are people among planning who are from character design. Of course I can't compete with people like that, but I think visuals are something I'm really particular about. Like the beauty of the shot composition in BIO2. There are times when being too particular can make the game feel less game-like, but I think pushing the beauty of the visuals is something that's my own individuality. If you think back to when you were a child, I was always doodling in class, or even when reading a book, you'd imagine pictures in your head.
Normally, people who can draw become illustrators, manga artists or animators, aspiring to become professional artists. Of course, there are parts of game production that also require drawing skills. Sometimes these skills have a significant impact on the worldview and game systems, but basically, the people who design the games, or the planners, have the authority to make up the main part of the game. Kamiya didn't want to participate in game production as a specialist in individual parts, but rather he wanted to create and control his own world from the very beginning. For Kamiya, the invitation from Shinji Mikami to try his hand at directing BIOHAZARD 2 must've been extremely attractive.
LIFE AS A DIRECTOR
Kamiya’s encounter with Mikami goes back to the first "BIO HAZARD" game. In a sense, his time being involved in this game was Kamiya's training period. Kamiya, who was still influenced by the feelings of users, recalls having a narrow perspective, helped along by his hot-bloodedness, and "didn't understand half of what Mikami was saying, and thought he was annoying". At the time, under Mikami's direction as the director, Kamiya was suddenly given the position of main planner. As it was a totally new game, not a sequel to a popular series, the company's instructions were "As long as you sell 300,000 copies, that's fine. Go ahead and make a game that's as niche as can be". The sales pressure was low and the team was made up of many new recruits, so it was an experimental unit of sorts. Here, Kamiya negotiated with and checked the work of the people in charge of each part of the game, such as the characters and programming, and he also drew storyboards for the event scenes. He was given this task as his artistic ability was highly regarded.
KAMIYA: The key points were handled by people with experience, but it was a fairly young team. They hadn't been tainted by the game industry yet, and maybe that freshness was good. Mikami had gathered together staff with that kind of creativity, who'd focus on the kind of things you wouldn't normally focus on.
GOTO: There was a sense of unity, or excitement, or enthusiasm...
KAMIYA: I think there was quite a bit. Anyway, it was a game, so there was almost no attempt at distortion. For example, when you shoot a gun, the bullet casing should fly away, and when a casing hits a wall, it should bounce back with a ringing sound. The sound of footsteps should be clopping, while on a carpet, they should change to a 'boof-boof' sound.
GOTO: When I first saw the screenshots, I was surprised.
KAMIYA: The quality of the CG, with polygonal characters walking around inside the CG and the shots changing, was something only Mikami had in his head. When we went from full polygonal screens to those kinds of rendered CG backgrounds (due to hardware limitations), the team was in a slump, but when we showed them the actual visuals, even those who complained at first started to see the vision of "this is the kind of game we wanna make", so the team got even more excited from there.
There's no shortage of examples of how having a clear blueprint can boost team morale. However, Kamiya failed spectacularly in presenting his vision when he made his directorial debut, the sequel to BIO HAZARD. "I think I didn't really understand the job of a director. That's why the failure of "1.5" happened. It was in the style of BIO, but I think it was just a copy. I was so overwhelmed with the fact I was directing for the first time that I was quite lax in my checks of the finished visuals. I'd just say "Oh, that's fine" and give the OK, but in the end it was very low quality. 1.5's failure made me realize it's very difficult to have a clear vision as a director. I started to think more deeply about that. Afterwards we started 2 all over again."
BIO2 moved the setting from a mansion to a police station. Kamiya's biggest mistake was that, in his desire to create a realistic depiction, he forgot about the game's map being fun and created an inorganic building. After taking a year to make, the unfinished product was buried as a failure. The price was high, but in the year that followed, Kamiya completed "2" and redeemed himself. It was a huge hit, selling 4.8 million copies in Japan and overseas (as of the end of March 2000, excluding the DualShock Ver). Kamiya somewhat stubbornly reflects on 2's gameplay, where the scenario constrains your actions, saying, "I admit it was stressful, but I have no regrets." Games belong to the users, but they're boring if they have no originality. "In the game I'm currently working on, I'm doing whatever I want." Kamiya laughed softly, leaving us with some defiant words.
HIROKI KATO, Director (p.022-027)
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TALENT WITHOUT GUTS?
The motivation behind Hiroki Kato's decision to join CAPCOM, his face bearing a resemblance to Tomoyasu Hotei, probably involved a rebellious streak and sense of adventure. "There are a lot of big shots at the top, but so long as you're there, you can get a job one way or another, and whether you work hard or not doesn't really matter that much in terms of promotion. I didn't like those sorts of old-fashioned companies that valued academic achievement so much. The game industry, on the other hand, was new. The companies were young so if you could produce results and gain recognition, you could move up. I also like gambling, so I wanted to put myself to the test. Naturally, my parents were opposed. They asked why I was going to university to get involved in such a yakuza-like business. To me though, you can only make that kind of gamble when you're young, so I decided to give it a try. I didn't care where I was so long as I had an environment where I could try things out, but since I liked games, the game industry was first to come to mind." Kato was born in Oita Prefecture. In front of his family home was a port. Behind it was a mandarin orange orchard where monkeys would come down from the mountains in winter. |
A member of Production Studio 4. Director of "BIOHAZARD CODE:Veronica". He was born on April 22nd 1970. After graduating from the Department of Economics at Yokohama National University in 1994, he joined CAPCOM in April that same year. He has many hobbies, including movies, billiards, driving & traveling, but he describes himself as "easily bored."
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They'd come to eat the mandarins since they'd ran out of food. When it was hunting season, for some reason wild boars that'd been hunted would be floating in the sea. Perhaps soaking them in salt water was a way of preserving them. After spending his teenage years in such a bold natural environment, he went on to study at the National Defense Academy in Yokosuka, Kanagawa Prefecture, but was unable to bear the suffocating dormitory life and dropped out after three weeks. He changed his course from science to the humanities and retook the entrance exam for Yokohama National University. He passed, and after graduating from university, he joined CAPCOM as a new graduate.
He played baseball at elementary school but lost to a no-hitter by the young pitcher Kenjiro Kawasaki (now a member of the Yakult Swallows professional baseball team), who was enrolled at a nearby elementary school at the time. He got fed up and stopped playing. In middle school, he became absorbed in tennis, but in the end never made a career out of sports. The creators interviewed for this book all say being able to recognize your own aptitude for a job's also a talent in and of itself. The difference in talent between sports and the arts is something those involved are most keenly aware of. So, when we see the talent of Kawasaki, whom Kato describes as "unusually good", it's not right to criticize him as "having no guts" for quitting baseball. Similarly, in the process of Kato becoming a director, there must've been many young people who gave up on the path of being game creators.
A DIRECTOR'S REALITIES
When he was little, he used to play games a lot. He remembers playing on a "Cassette Vision" machine that was a little older than the popular ones at the time, so it seems he was familiar with LSI games rather than Famicom games. His family also ran a small candy store, so there were always two or three arcade game cabinets inside the store, just like in an arcade. Kato used to play these arcade games a lot too. He stopped playing games during middle and high school, but once he entered university he bought a Super Famicom and returned to a life with games. What changed from when he was in elementary school was that he enjoyed gambling-style competitions with his friends, where you bet on how many points you'd get in a sports game. Additionally, not being one for sitting still, Kato worked hard despite not really needing the money. He worked as a bartender in a bar, a waiter in a karaoke bar, a private tutor, and a cleaner in a public bath. He worked evening 'til morning, and when he had classes to attend during the day, he'd park his car in the university car park to take a nap, and once his classes were over, he'd go home, take a shower, then go to his evening jobs. He was earning 300,000 yen a month from his part-time jobs, but his love of gambling meant it wasn't unusual for him to spend all his earnings at the racetrack the same day he received his pay. Due to his personality, he never played time-consuming games like role-playing or adventure games as a hobby, but after joining CAPCOM, he became involved in the production of story-focused games. Having been responsible for planning on the first BIO HAZARD and its Saturn port version, Kato was appointed director for the first time with "BIOHAZARD CODE:Veronica" (hereafter "Veronica"). In Veronica's case, after the initial development stage when the game's overall structure, such as the map and scenario, was being finalized, the actual work of devising the puzzle-solving mechanisms and capturing the motion data necessary for the characters' movements began. Up to that point, there was a lot of work for the director to do, but after that, it was just a matter of checking the details and issuing appropriate instructions, so there were many times he was left with nothing to do. Rather than the actual work, it's probably more important for the director to keep a clear head and have a certain image of the finished product in mind (not that they're stuck to the initial idea), and to allocate work to the staff while checking over the results in accordance with that vision.
KATO: The finished product's in my head from the very start. I have the general framework of the scenario, events, traps, etc. Then I break it down and assign them to each section, and that's how we give it shape. We don't look at the separate parts then try to put them together. There are about 70 staff working on it. They're all creators, so everyone has their own ideas and tastes. If you leave everything to the individual's own judgment, you'll end up with something really all over the place. It won't come together at all. So the director's job is to take something that's already been put together, take it apart, then correct the direction if it starts to go off-track.
GOTO: If that deviation's unexpectedly good or interesting, do you sometimes adjust other parts to make the most of it?
KATO: That happens a lot. We don't change the core of the idea, but if something more interesting than we expected comes up in the branches and leaves, and it causes inconveniences around it, we often rework it to match the interesting parts. It'd be strange if it didn't get better as it took shape. Sometimes a good idea comes to mind when I look at a picture, and sometimes I think of something when I move or touch it myself. I add things like that. After it leaves my hands, the planners flesh it out, then it goes into the hands of the designers and programmers who flesh it out even more, then once it finally comes back to me, I judge whether to flesh it out some more, pass it through as is, or remake it due to its direction going off-course. The game's finished through this sort of repetition.
GOTO: I think whether or not the tree diagram in your head is organized and tidy also has something to do with directing, but are you the kind of person who's meticulous and keeps everything in your drawers in order? I mean, are you the kind of person who can grasp the whole picture down to the minutest detail?
KATO: Hmm, I'm quite methodical. As long as the deadline's set, the amount of work that can be done before that deadline is also set. So if the work progresses in the wrong direction due to checks being delayed because I didn't fully understand it, then all that work will have been wasted. So the director needs to have a plan in their head about how the work's progressing and when they need to check it. The people on the production side don't request checks. Some people don't want to show work that's only halfway done. From our side though, we can tell the difference in direction even with a work-in-progress, and if we don't make a decision at that point, we won't be able to meet the deadline.
During the production of BIO HAZARD, Shinji Mikami's said to have told Kato "making games isn't the hardest part". Kato wondered why he'd say that, but now that he's a director, he understands what those words meant. Kato spends half his time on actual game production (or labor). The other half's spent on things like coordinating human relations, making sure the overall process runs smoothly, and liaising with publicity and sales. The creators responsible are the ones who make the game's contents. Kato says "the director's role is to make it easier for the people responsible to do their jobs", and this is undoubtedly a genuine feeling. Bearing deadlines in mind, the staff, each having a huge amount of work to do, are expected to work even if it means staying overnight or working on their days off. Forcing them to work won't make them more motivated though. In order to stimulate the staff's instinct for "making something good", the director himself must maintain a stance of making something good. During Veronica's latter half of production, Kato hardly slept at home.
A DIRECTOR'S DECISIONS
There are various ways of coming up with ideas for games. For example, when making an action game, one way's looking up verbs in a dictionary. You can then come up with ideas for including these kinds of action elements like kick, throw or bounce. There are also people who try to make games that fuse stimuli they get from movies, amusement park attractions or gambling. Kato says, "If you want to work in fields of expression, you should consider how you can express your individuality. Focus on this too much though, the game will end up being a one-size-fits-all product. You should think how the users who play the game will feel about it," he advises the younger generation. Even with there being processes such as debugging and monitoring, the director's the one who ultimately decides whether the game's interesting or not. The number of monitors is incomparable to the number of users who'll buy the final product, and moreover, during the production process, the only person you can consider the player is yourself. You have to keep asking yourself questions over and over, so if you lack the ability to make decisions, you can't be a director.
"The thing that worries me most is deciding how to set the difficulty of the traps and how strong the enemies are. If you make something where everyone can somehow get to the end, it doesn't mean everyone will be highly satisfied. If you don't narrow down the target audience to a certain extent, you won't be able to achieve a high level of satisfaction overall. For that reason, you might have to cut out certain parts, or you may need to make compromises and request patience from certain types of users. That's not really a matter of "words" anymore. You have to draw the line based on your own experience."
Despite the Dreamcast's swift data loading times, the time taken for doors to open in Veronica's demos was deliberately made longer, as long as the older PlayStation versions. This was a device to excite players, making them think "what's waiting for me behind this door?" This was another decision based on Kato's experience.
When he was little, he used to play games a lot. He remembers playing on a "Cassette Vision" machine that was a little older than the popular ones at the time, so it seems he was familiar with LSI games rather than Famicom games. His family also ran a small candy store, so there were always two or three arcade game cabinets inside the store, just like in an arcade. Kato used to play these arcade games a lot too. He stopped playing games during middle and high school, but once he entered university he bought a Super Famicom and returned to a life with games. What changed from when he was in elementary school was that he enjoyed gambling-style competitions with his friends, where you bet on how many points you'd get in a sports game. Additionally, not being one for sitting still, Kato worked hard despite not really needing the money. He worked as a bartender in a bar, a waiter in a karaoke bar, a private tutor, and a cleaner in a public bath. He worked evening 'til morning, and when he had classes to attend during the day, he'd park his car in the university car park to take a nap, and once his classes were over, he'd go home, take a shower, then go to his evening jobs. He was earning 300,000 yen a month from his part-time jobs, but his love of gambling meant it wasn't unusual for him to spend all his earnings at the racetrack the same day he received his pay. Due to his personality, he never played time-consuming games like role-playing or adventure games as a hobby, but after joining CAPCOM, he became involved in the production of story-focused games. Having been responsible for planning on the first BIO HAZARD and its Saturn port version, Kato was appointed director for the first time with "BIOHAZARD CODE:Veronica" (hereafter "Veronica"). In Veronica's case, after the initial development stage when the game's overall structure, such as the map and scenario, was being finalized, the actual work of devising the puzzle-solving mechanisms and capturing the motion data necessary for the characters' movements began. Up to that point, there was a lot of work for the director to do, but after that, it was just a matter of checking the details and issuing appropriate instructions, so there were many times he was left with nothing to do. Rather than the actual work, it's probably more important for the director to keep a clear head and have a certain image of the finished product in mind (not that they're stuck to the initial idea), and to allocate work to the staff while checking over the results in accordance with that vision.
KATO: The finished product's in my head from the very start. I have the general framework of the scenario, events, traps, etc. Then I break it down and assign them to each section, and that's how we give it shape. We don't look at the separate parts then try to put them together. There are about 70 staff working on it. They're all creators, so everyone has their own ideas and tastes. If you leave everything to the individual's own judgment, you'll end up with something really all over the place. It won't come together at all. So the director's job is to take something that's already been put together, take it apart, then correct the direction if it starts to go off-track.
GOTO: If that deviation's unexpectedly good or interesting, do you sometimes adjust other parts to make the most of it?
KATO: That happens a lot. We don't change the core of the idea, but if something more interesting than we expected comes up in the branches and leaves, and it causes inconveniences around it, we often rework it to match the interesting parts. It'd be strange if it didn't get better as it took shape. Sometimes a good idea comes to mind when I look at a picture, and sometimes I think of something when I move or touch it myself. I add things like that. After it leaves my hands, the planners flesh it out, then it goes into the hands of the designers and programmers who flesh it out even more, then once it finally comes back to me, I judge whether to flesh it out some more, pass it through as is, or remake it due to its direction going off-course. The game's finished through this sort of repetition.
GOTO: I think whether or not the tree diagram in your head is organized and tidy also has something to do with directing, but are you the kind of person who's meticulous and keeps everything in your drawers in order? I mean, are you the kind of person who can grasp the whole picture down to the minutest detail?
KATO: Hmm, I'm quite methodical. As long as the deadline's set, the amount of work that can be done before that deadline is also set. So if the work progresses in the wrong direction due to checks being delayed because I didn't fully understand it, then all that work will have been wasted. So the director needs to have a plan in their head about how the work's progressing and when they need to check it. The people on the production side don't request checks. Some people don't want to show work that's only halfway done. From our side though, we can tell the difference in direction even with a work-in-progress, and if we don't make a decision at that point, we won't be able to meet the deadline.
During the production of BIO HAZARD, Shinji Mikami's said to have told Kato "making games isn't the hardest part". Kato wondered why he'd say that, but now that he's a director, he understands what those words meant. Kato spends half his time on actual game production (or labor). The other half's spent on things like coordinating human relations, making sure the overall process runs smoothly, and liaising with publicity and sales. The creators responsible are the ones who make the game's contents. Kato says "the director's role is to make it easier for the people responsible to do their jobs", and this is undoubtedly a genuine feeling. Bearing deadlines in mind, the staff, each having a huge amount of work to do, are expected to work even if it means staying overnight or working on their days off. Forcing them to work won't make them more motivated though. In order to stimulate the staff's instinct for "making something good", the director himself must maintain a stance of making something good. During Veronica's latter half of production, Kato hardly slept at home.
A DIRECTOR'S DECISIONS
There are various ways of coming up with ideas for games. For example, when making an action game, one way's looking up verbs in a dictionary. You can then come up with ideas for including these kinds of action elements like kick, throw or bounce. There are also people who try to make games that fuse stimuli they get from movies, amusement park attractions or gambling. Kato says, "If you want to work in fields of expression, you should consider how you can express your individuality. Focus on this too much though, the game will end up being a one-size-fits-all product. You should think how the users who play the game will feel about it," he advises the younger generation. Even with there being processes such as debugging and monitoring, the director's the one who ultimately decides whether the game's interesting or not. The number of monitors is incomparable to the number of users who'll buy the final product, and moreover, during the production process, the only person you can consider the player is yourself. You have to keep asking yourself questions over and over, so if you lack the ability to make decisions, you can't be a director.
"The thing that worries me most is deciding how to set the difficulty of the traps and how strong the enemies are. If you make something where everyone can somehow get to the end, it doesn't mean everyone will be highly satisfied. If you don't narrow down the target audience to a certain extent, you won't be able to achieve a high level of satisfaction overall. For that reason, you might have to cut out certain parts, or you may need to make compromises and request patience from certain types of users. That's not really a matter of "words" anymore. You have to draw the line based on your own experience."
Despite the Dreamcast's swift data loading times, the time taken for doors to open in Veronica's demos was deliberately made longer, as long as the older PlayStation versions. This was a device to excite players, making them think "what's waiting for me behind this door?" This was another decision based on Kato's experience.
KAZUHIRO AOYAMA, Director (p.028-033)
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HIS TURN TO BEING A FIGHTER & SETBACKS
In Kazuhiro Aoyama's case, the 20-odd years before he joined CAPCOM might've been more eventful than his time at the company. Very roughly speaking, Aoyama's youth was comprised of three main activities: choir, karate club and drama club. BIOHAZARD 3 LAST ESCAPE definitely feels like more of an action game compared to the previous two titles. As its director, Aoyama was expected to be a very active person. Contrary to expectations however, Aoyama was a "cultured type" who was no good at sports as a child. He liked collecting insects and drawing pictures. From what Aoyama says, it seems he didn't come from a particularly wealthy family, but his parents still sent him to lessons such as abacus and calligraphy (his older siblings also took lessons, so he was encouraged to do so as well, almost by force, saying "It wouldn't be fair if you didn't do it too"). Perhaps due to this upbringing, when he was in elementary school he liked studying and was interested in biology and astronomy. He was familiar with the stories behind the origins of the constellations, so when he was leafing through picture books at the library, he'd say things like "I saw this insect at the shrine the other day", and I imagine he felt a slight intellectual excitement as he matched his experiences with his knowledge. After entering junior high, he started singing in the choir and thought he was going to pursue a career in the arts in the end, but his rebellious phase in his second year of junior high became a turning point in his life. |
A member of Production Studio 4. He was born on December 27th 1971. After graduating from Kanazawa Institute of Technology, he joined CAPCOM in 1995. After working as a planner on titles such as "BIO HAZARD", he became director on "BIOHAZARD 3." Regarding the title he's currently working on, he says, "I can't tell you what I'm making. I'm making something unique."
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"I said things like, "I've got better things to do! I don't wanna go to cram school!" I shouted, "I can do well at sports too!", so I turned things around in one go. When I was in the first year of junior high, I was quite good at studying. I stopped studying in the second year, but the high school I went on to was a good one. However, my parents nagged me telling me to "Study!" and "Go to cram school!" Well that's fine I thought, I might as well just go. But even as I said that, I pretended to go to cram school, but skipped it and went out to play somewhere else, or joined a sports club without telling my parents. I thought I had to get stronger somehow. So I started to get involved in judo and other martial arts clubs, getting pretty into them. I think the reason I wanted to get stronger was partly a reaction against my parents, who kept telling me to study, and partly a reaction against the people around me. It was like... I didn't mind if they thought I was smart, but I really just didn't want people to see me that way. You know, the way people see you as "Oh that kid's smart. He can't do anything else though." I wanted to change that, so I thought I'd get stronger."
He didn't aim to be good at both academics and sports. He had a sudden change of heart, saying, "I don't wanna do academics anymore! I wanna do martial arts! Ka is justice!" However, his change of heart to the "martial arts faction" was no passing fancy. The budding martial arts boom stimulated and brought to light the memories of fighting engraved in his genes, and after a sensitive teenage period, Aoyama chose a life to keep fighting even after entering university.
Aoyama enrolled at Kanazawa Institute of Technology and knocked on the karate club's door. This was where he experienced his first setback. A typical sports-oriented hierarchical society, in this club the first-year students were responsible for covering all the club's expenses. Even if it wasn't quite a pyramid scheme, the burden wouldn't have been so severe if the number of club members in each year was equal, but unfortunately, there were only four first-year students, including Aoyama, who were new members of the club, while there were ten senior club members in each year. It was a reverse pyramid.
"How am I supposed to pay for the club fees for 30 people? I won't be able to eat!" It was too late to shout, and thanks to the training he'd done during his growth spurt, his weight, which had been 75kg, plummeted to 50kg. The muscular, brawny figure that had been Aoyama's hallmark vanished without a trace.
AOYAMA: And that was the one time I briefly strayed off the right path. I thought, "I can't keep doing this."
GOTO: So you felt like the top-down society had beaten you down?
AOYAMA: I wanted to continue with the movement and become stronger, but I realized I was getting weaker (laughs). I was working too much and couldn't eat. In the end, I was getting 60,000 yen a month from my parents to cover living expenses, and the dormitory room fee was 30,000 yen, so after paying that, I was left with 30,000 yen. But I also had to pay 30,000 yen to the club, so I had nothing left (laughs). So I'd go to my friends' houses and ask them to feed me, or I'd ask the lady in the dorm to give me whatever food was left over. It's a sad story, but when I had a little extra money, for example, I'd find a bargain at the supermarket, buy five corn cobs for 100 yen, boil them, cut them up into small pieces, and store them away. Then I'd eat them one by one, little by little. After three months of living like that - well, it wasn't really living, but my weight dropped to about 50kg. I collapsed. I was given an IV at the hospital and thought to myself, "This isn't right..." After quitting the club, I continued living in a daze for a while. I passed the university entrance exam, but I didn't want to go on to university to study. I wanted to do karate to become tougher, but I pondered what I should do. I think it was when I became a third-year student that I realized just sitting around doing nothing wasn't going to help, so I started looking for something interesting to do. Then I happened to see an ad in a newspaper for a theater company seeking new members, and I figured I'd give it a try. I started acting without really thinking about it and ended up getting hooked on it. During my time at university, I spent my time thinking, "I'm gonna make a living acting."
GOTO: At that point, you hadn't connected acting with the job of making games, had you?
AOYAMA: That's right. I wanted to be able to do what I wanted to do and still be able to earn a living. That's my basic style, so I wanted to create an environment where I could earn a living just from acting. I also wanted to change the image of acting, which is often seen as being difficult. Even now, when people hear the word "theater", they tend to think of it as being artistic or avant-garde, believing it difficult and shunning it, or they think of it as being something only poor people do. If you were to ask a girl out, and you said "I play soccer, would you like to come watch a game?" or "I do theater, would you like to come watch a play?" which would she be more likely to go for? I think 90% of the time she'd go for the soccer. This was just a guess, but I had that kind of image before I started. The argument goes like this: Only a limited number of people will accept you. No one will come to see you -> You won't be able to improve your skills as no one will see you -> You won't make any money -> You'll be poor. I think this is a vicious circle. I felt artistic quality was a load of crap, and I was aiming to create a play with a high level of entertainment anyone could enjoy. My ideal play would be like a combination of the Yoshimoto Shinkigeki and the Shiki Theater Company, divided by two.
GOTO: So, were you able to eat?
AOYAMA: I was still poor. I spent most of the money I earned from my part-time job on improving my acting, so my diet was pretty bad. You know how there are those three-pack 100 yen bags of fresh udon noodles in the supermarket? I'd eat one of those bags for my entire day's food, so that's 33 yen a day. I really got creative with how to make those 33 yen taste good. That's why I'm pretty confident in my udon cooking skills.
GOTO: Are there any points in your acting that've been reflected in your game-making?
AOYAMA: I don't think the way I think about making games is any different from anyone else's, but I do think it's been really useful. How do I move and act on stage? How does that come across to the audience? I don't really understand the theory behind it, but I've learned it through experience. I've also made a few independent films and I've been really conscious of how I move and act on screen to make myself look cool and interesting, so I think that's been really useful for games like BIO.
GOTO: I heard you planned a professional wrestling game for the company entrance exam. What kind of game was it?
AOYAMA: It started with becoming a professional wrestler, then depicted the path to becoming a main eventer. I didn't know how to write a proposal document, so looking at it now, it's highly embarrassing. The wrestling matches were almost the same as "Tōkon Retsuden", with the three basic moves of strike, throw and pin, and the training was almost the same as "Pro-Wrestling Sengokuden" where you had to decide which parts of yourself to strengthen to make a winning wrestler. If I may say so, this was a project I had in mind before those two. I really wanted to do it. What's a little different about this is you compete to see who can make the best match-ups and put on the best fights, get the audience excited and boost the revenue. If I look at myself, I went from being a bookworm to a physical person, and I recall how much my body grew during that time. I remember how I went from being someone who struggled to lift a 40kg barbell to being able to lift a 100kg barbell a year later. That made me really happy. And when I was happy, I'd train even harder. That repetition's what makes training interesting, so I thought if I could do that in professional wrestling, the ultimate competition for strength, that'd be great.
GOTO: After joining the company, you participated in BIO HAZARD and DualShock Ver. as a planner. How'd you perceive the work of producers and directors at that time?
AOYAMA: Producers think about how to make something from the perspective of how to sell it and how much it'll sell for. Directors are the people who convey to the staff what they think is interesting, then oversee it to make it even more interesting.
GOTO: In BIOHAZARD 3, which was the first time you were in charge as director, you were able to achieve that.
AOYAMA: I don't know about that. It was my first time, so I learned as I went along, but I think I did a pretty good job when you look at the outline of the entire game content, adjustments made to the finished product, and supporting the planning, contents, and time-frame. In terms of management though, I had to manage and coordinate the schedule while playing the tandem role of bully and the bullied, but I spent a lot of time supporting the planning, so I wasn't very good at that. I don't think I'm very good at management. That's not a good thing, though.
GOTO: Do you think you'll be able to make all the games you want to make? While you're alive.
AOYAMA: Hmm... I don't think I'll be able to do it (laughs). I can say that for sure. I'm thinking I shouldn't make games after I turn 30. I think if I don't encourage other younger people to make games, then the industry will become less dynamic. So I think I should make the most of the time I have left. That's what I think.
GOTO: So when you turn 30, what do you think you'll be doing?
AOYAMA: I haven't really thought about it yet. It's a bit of a strange thing to say though, but I'd like to take another look at whether or not I want to be involved in making games. You only have one life, so I want to experience lots of things.
Aoyama enrolled at Kanazawa Institute of Technology and knocked on the karate club's door. This was where he experienced his first setback. A typical sports-oriented hierarchical society, in this club the first-year students were responsible for covering all the club's expenses. Even if it wasn't quite a pyramid scheme, the burden wouldn't have been so severe if the number of club members in each year was equal, but unfortunately, there were only four first-year students, including Aoyama, who were new members of the club, while there were ten senior club members in each year. It was a reverse pyramid.
"How am I supposed to pay for the club fees for 30 people? I won't be able to eat!" It was too late to shout, and thanks to the training he'd done during his growth spurt, his weight, which had been 75kg, plummeted to 50kg. The muscular, brawny figure that had been Aoyama's hallmark vanished without a trace.
AOYAMA: And that was the one time I briefly strayed off the right path. I thought, "I can't keep doing this."
GOTO: So you felt like the top-down society had beaten you down?
AOYAMA: I wanted to continue with the movement and become stronger, but I realized I was getting weaker (laughs). I was working too much and couldn't eat. In the end, I was getting 60,000 yen a month from my parents to cover living expenses, and the dormitory room fee was 30,000 yen, so after paying that, I was left with 30,000 yen. But I also had to pay 30,000 yen to the club, so I had nothing left (laughs). So I'd go to my friends' houses and ask them to feed me, or I'd ask the lady in the dorm to give me whatever food was left over. It's a sad story, but when I had a little extra money, for example, I'd find a bargain at the supermarket, buy five corn cobs for 100 yen, boil them, cut them up into small pieces, and store them away. Then I'd eat them one by one, little by little. After three months of living like that - well, it wasn't really living, but my weight dropped to about 50kg. I collapsed. I was given an IV at the hospital and thought to myself, "This isn't right..." After quitting the club, I continued living in a daze for a while. I passed the university entrance exam, but I didn't want to go on to university to study. I wanted to do karate to become tougher, but I pondered what I should do. I think it was when I became a third-year student that I realized just sitting around doing nothing wasn't going to help, so I started looking for something interesting to do. Then I happened to see an ad in a newspaper for a theater company seeking new members, and I figured I'd give it a try. I started acting without really thinking about it and ended up getting hooked on it. During my time at university, I spent my time thinking, "I'm gonna make a living acting."
GOTO: At that point, you hadn't connected acting with the job of making games, had you?
AOYAMA: That's right. I wanted to be able to do what I wanted to do and still be able to earn a living. That's my basic style, so I wanted to create an environment where I could earn a living just from acting. I also wanted to change the image of acting, which is often seen as being difficult. Even now, when people hear the word "theater", they tend to think of it as being artistic or avant-garde, believing it difficult and shunning it, or they think of it as being something only poor people do. If you were to ask a girl out, and you said "I play soccer, would you like to come watch a game?" or "I do theater, would you like to come watch a play?" which would she be more likely to go for? I think 90% of the time she'd go for the soccer. This was just a guess, but I had that kind of image before I started. The argument goes like this: Only a limited number of people will accept you. No one will come to see you -> You won't be able to improve your skills as no one will see you -> You won't make any money -> You'll be poor. I think this is a vicious circle. I felt artistic quality was a load of crap, and I was aiming to create a play with a high level of entertainment anyone could enjoy. My ideal play would be like a combination of the Yoshimoto Shinkigeki and the Shiki Theater Company, divided by two.
GOTO: So, were you able to eat?
AOYAMA: I was still poor. I spent most of the money I earned from my part-time job on improving my acting, so my diet was pretty bad. You know how there are those three-pack 100 yen bags of fresh udon noodles in the supermarket? I'd eat one of those bags for my entire day's food, so that's 33 yen a day. I really got creative with how to make those 33 yen taste good. That's why I'm pretty confident in my udon cooking skills.
GOTO: Are there any points in your acting that've been reflected in your game-making?
AOYAMA: I don't think the way I think about making games is any different from anyone else's, but I do think it's been really useful. How do I move and act on stage? How does that come across to the audience? I don't really understand the theory behind it, but I've learned it through experience. I've also made a few independent films and I've been really conscious of how I move and act on screen to make myself look cool and interesting, so I think that's been really useful for games like BIO.
GOTO: I heard you planned a professional wrestling game for the company entrance exam. What kind of game was it?
AOYAMA: It started with becoming a professional wrestler, then depicted the path to becoming a main eventer. I didn't know how to write a proposal document, so looking at it now, it's highly embarrassing. The wrestling matches were almost the same as "Tōkon Retsuden", with the three basic moves of strike, throw and pin, and the training was almost the same as "Pro-Wrestling Sengokuden" where you had to decide which parts of yourself to strengthen to make a winning wrestler. If I may say so, this was a project I had in mind before those two. I really wanted to do it. What's a little different about this is you compete to see who can make the best match-ups and put on the best fights, get the audience excited and boost the revenue. If I look at myself, I went from being a bookworm to a physical person, and I recall how much my body grew during that time. I remember how I went from being someone who struggled to lift a 40kg barbell to being able to lift a 100kg barbell a year later. That made me really happy. And when I was happy, I'd train even harder. That repetition's what makes training interesting, so I thought if I could do that in professional wrestling, the ultimate competition for strength, that'd be great.
GOTO: After joining the company, you participated in BIO HAZARD and DualShock Ver. as a planner. How'd you perceive the work of producers and directors at that time?
AOYAMA: Producers think about how to make something from the perspective of how to sell it and how much it'll sell for. Directors are the people who convey to the staff what they think is interesting, then oversee it to make it even more interesting.
GOTO: In BIOHAZARD 3, which was the first time you were in charge as director, you were able to achieve that.
AOYAMA: I don't know about that. It was my first time, so I learned as I went along, but I think I did a pretty good job when you look at the outline of the entire game content, adjustments made to the finished product, and supporting the planning, contents, and time-frame. In terms of management though, I had to manage and coordinate the schedule while playing the tandem role of bully and the bullied, but I spent a lot of time supporting the planning, so I wasn't very good at that. I don't think I'm very good at management. That's not a good thing, though.
GOTO: Do you think you'll be able to make all the games you want to make? While you're alive.
AOYAMA: Hmm... I don't think I'll be able to do it (laughs). I can say that for sure. I'm thinking I shouldn't make games after I turn 30. I think if I don't encourage other younger people to make games, then the industry will become less dynamic. So I think I should make the most of the time I have left. That's what I think.
GOTO: So when you turn 30, what do you think you'll be doing?
AOYAMA: I haven't really thought about it yet. It's a bit of a strange thing to say though, but I'd like to take another look at whether or not I want to be involved in making games. You only have one life, so I want to experience lots of things.
JUN TAKEUCHI, Director (p.034-039)
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A GUN NUT'S FIXATIONS
Jun Takeuchi, director of Onimusha, is a self-confessed gun nut. During production of BIO HAZARD and BIOHAZARD 2, he made suggestions to the sound staff like "If a shotgun shell bounces, it doesn't make a 'ting' sound. It's made of plastic, so make it a 'thunk'", brimming with the fixations of a true enthusiast and making great contributions to the settings and depictions of firearms in the game. Of course, for the staff under his direct supervision, it might've been a huge inconvenience - but the work was well worth the effort, as the BIO series was featured in major domestic gun magazines like "Monthly GUN" & "COMBAT MAGAZINE", with air guns based on the series released by model gun/air gun manufacturer Tokyo Marui, so it was a job with a certain amount of publicity value. This is an example of how play can become a job if you're thorough about it. Takeuchi was a child who never studied. He demonstrated his mischievousness by tearing off the legs of the guardian dogs at a shrine, growing up healthy and playing all day long. If you forcefully look for the opportunity that led to his current job, it'd be the Gundam model kit boom around 1980. He became a regular customer at a toy store where he'd queue up to buy Gunpla (he'd spend three or four hours chatting with the shop's owner on his way home from elementary school), then once he reached high school he started working there part-time. He still has a close relationship with the family who run the store. It's difficult to say whether the time he spent at this toy store helped develop his discernment when it comes to entertainment products and his customer awareness. If you include the time he spent behind the counter helping out at the bar his mother started while he was in high school, it's probably fair to say it certainly helped develop his communication skills. As Takeuchi's speech flowed so smoothly it seemed to anticipate the interviewer's every question, like water flowing from a tap. |
A member of Production Studio 2 & director of "Onimusha". He was born on August 24th 1970. He joined CAPCOM in 1991. He was in charge of background graphics for the Super Famicom version of "Street Fighter II" & motion design for "BIO HAZARD" & "2". He was later selected to become a director. He's a born gun nut.
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200 MOVIES
His current title's Director in Production Studio 2, but Takeuchi's not a planner by background, originally he was an artist. When I asked him if building Gunpla helped him to develop his ability to grasp three-dimensional space, he denied this assumption. "It was movies that helped me develop that ability. After attending a vocational school for a year, I got a vague idea of what it was like. It was also very much like a job placement agency, but the point is you can just go and learn things you want to learn. The first year was the basics, and the second was the applied course, so I spent the second year studying hard at home. I majored in graphic design, but for advertising and things like that. I skipped classes and watched around 200 movies a year. My parents made me watch "Blade Runner" when I was in sixth grade, and I've loved movies ever since. At the vocational school, there was a course in scenario writing, so every time I watched a movie, I'd go talk to the teacher about it, telling him how it was like this or that. For a while after joining CAPCOM, I thought I wasn't really being of much use. Surprisingly though, before I knew it, I was being useful."
As he says, for a while after joining the company, Takeuchi didn't come across any games that needed scenario writing. He didn't submit enough assignments or attend enough classes, so in the end he never graduated from the vocational school, but fortunately his job offer wasn't rescinded, allowing him to join CAPCOM as a graphic designer. He drew 2D pixel art (now, character design, 2D graphic production, and 3D graphic production are each assigned to different departments, but at the time there was no such division) and was in charge of background design, then after about two years came a turning point. "We're going to start serious research into 3DCG. If there are any volunteers among consumer..." There was an appeal within the company and Takeuchi was first to respond, saying "Let me do it!"
He used a UNIX OS workstation and Softimage for the first time. He calculated physics using XYZ three-dimensional coordinates and manipulated three-dimensional models. Looking back now, it seems like a simple task, but it was a fresh and exciting experience. As an extension of his research, he'd been working on things like creating an animation of CAPCOM's company logo for use in early PlayStation software, but he lacked the accumulated know-how to incorporate this technology into game production, so practical use of it was delayed compared to other companies. Then one day, Shinji Mikami approached Takeuchi while he was hard at work with the goal of making a 3D fighting game. A core staff member had left the company and he wanted Takeuchi to join a project team that was already in motion to help out. His direct supervisor also readily agreed to the transfer. Takeuchi felt gloomy, thinking "I've been demoted..." Nowadays, BIO HAZARD's a big title that represents CAPCOM, but at the time it was just an experimental game tentatively titled "Horror". No one in the company knew what sort of game it'd turn out to be. When Takeuchi joined, the Horror game was being developed with 3D real-time rendering for the backgrounds and 2D bitmap animations for the characters, with the player character (main character) being "just some ordinary-clothed guy walking a path with a sword in hand". There was no sign of the kind of visuals we're familiar with today. Takeuchi had the power to make a difference. What was the point of all that movie watching? What was the point of all that CG research? What was the point of all that work experience?
BLOSSOMING TALENT?
As soon as he joined the Horror team, Takeuchi was asked to "do something about the team members' motivation". Of course, as an artist, he was also ordered to model and animate the player at the same time, but compared to those tasks which were work he was used to, the job of raising motivation seemed like quite a challenge. The chief developer who'd been there since it started up wasn't a specialist in 3D, so he was in a situation where he needed to study and teach at the same time, leaving no room for him in the team at all. At the same time, it was clear the staff were worried since the vision of what the final game would be like was only in Mikami's head. So Takeuchi worked with the programmers to create just one scene in the game. A Zombie appears, the player aims at it and fires their gun. A pool of blood spreads out from the fallen Zombie... At last, someone said, "This is interesting!" and the team's morale started to rise. This experience of doing a job that was very human in nature - "raising motivation" - and doing it as expected, is clearly connected to your current job as a director, isn't it?
TAKEUCHI: Yeah, I guess so (laughs). In that sense, I guess I'm a bit more like a director. On Onimusha, this is my first time as a director, but even after over a year, there are still some parts I don't get, I'm like "What's a director?" I'm good at motivating people and controlling situations, so I've become a director who puts those skills to the fore. I think it's a bit special having people who can integrate a range of skills into being a director.
GOTO: So it's not necessarily the case that planners become directors or anything like that.
TAKEUCHI: Not at all anymore, in our company's case. The person who can do it becomes the director. Back when we were working on BIO HAZARD, for example, the planners were made to do the animation as they were good at it.
GOTO: There are times when making a game's easier to understand if you can show it to someone in pictures. So, as a basic skill, you need to be able to draw.
TAKEUCHI: Yeah, you still need people who have visual images in their heads, even if they can't draw them. I think making games is a job of making visual images. How do you convey these visual images to a user to get them to play? I'd like people coming into the industry to study how to create images that appeal to users. Even for planners. It's not a case of "I'm a planner, so I just need to think about the gameplay".
GOTO: What feels good?
TAKEUCHI: What feels good? Visuals are the part that changes the most with the times. Even back in the days of BIO HAZARD, Mikami recognized visuals were an element hard to separate from the game. When development began he was really bothered by the fact real-time backgrounds inevitably resulted in mediocre-looking graphics. He said, "What I wanna do is cinematic direction." I don't know what he was thinking, but suddenly the combination of still-image rendered CG backgrounds and polygonal characters came about. It was a surprise to us, too.
GOTO: It was a process of trial and error, or rather, a lot of wasted effort.
TAKEUCHI: Yes, that's right. A person who digs their own grave upping their workload ends up growing the most. From the point of view of someone efficient, they may say, "What're ya doing taking on that kind of work? You'll end up with more work", but someone who does that actually ends up in a good position after a few years, having accumulated skills. You should take on hardships while you're young. That's what people used to often say.
Takeuchi, who took on hardships, is now the director of the PlayStation 2 game Onimusha currently under development. He's incorporated a solid "game-like" feel into a BIOHAZARD-type sword fighting game which has a scenario, sound and graphics all the more like a movie.
"What surprised me was that young people don't know about the Battle of Okehazama. I asked them, 'Do you know who Oda Nobunaga was?' and they said, 'He was some great guy, wasn't he?' That's all they knew! (laughs) No one knows Kinoshita Tōkichirō warmed his sandals in his pocket, was called a monkey, and served under Nobunaga. So I thought maybe it'd be better to not focus on that and just go with Momotarō-samurai. It wouldn't be interesting if it was all tatami mats and sliding doors, right? So I decided to just tell one big lie and added elements of a world of lies, a magical world. Games aren't about form. It's either interesting to play or interesting to watch. In "Starship Troopers" for example, the whole thing's a big lie from the start. When you're on a spaceship about to attack another planet, why are there flesh-and-blood humans holding guns? (laughs) You think why don't they just use some awesome weapon and blast the planet to pieces? (Once you're into the movie, you don't notice that anymore) They tell one big lie to make that happen. I think that's a good way of doing it."
His current title's Director in Production Studio 2, but Takeuchi's not a planner by background, originally he was an artist. When I asked him if building Gunpla helped him to develop his ability to grasp three-dimensional space, he denied this assumption. "It was movies that helped me develop that ability. After attending a vocational school for a year, I got a vague idea of what it was like. It was also very much like a job placement agency, but the point is you can just go and learn things you want to learn. The first year was the basics, and the second was the applied course, so I spent the second year studying hard at home. I majored in graphic design, but for advertising and things like that. I skipped classes and watched around 200 movies a year. My parents made me watch "Blade Runner" when I was in sixth grade, and I've loved movies ever since. At the vocational school, there was a course in scenario writing, so every time I watched a movie, I'd go talk to the teacher about it, telling him how it was like this or that. For a while after joining CAPCOM, I thought I wasn't really being of much use. Surprisingly though, before I knew it, I was being useful."
As he says, for a while after joining the company, Takeuchi didn't come across any games that needed scenario writing. He didn't submit enough assignments or attend enough classes, so in the end he never graduated from the vocational school, but fortunately his job offer wasn't rescinded, allowing him to join CAPCOM as a graphic designer. He drew 2D pixel art (now, character design, 2D graphic production, and 3D graphic production are each assigned to different departments, but at the time there was no such division) and was in charge of background design, then after about two years came a turning point. "We're going to start serious research into 3DCG. If there are any volunteers among consumer..." There was an appeal within the company and Takeuchi was first to respond, saying "Let me do it!"
He used a UNIX OS workstation and Softimage for the first time. He calculated physics using XYZ three-dimensional coordinates and manipulated three-dimensional models. Looking back now, it seems like a simple task, but it was a fresh and exciting experience. As an extension of his research, he'd been working on things like creating an animation of CAPCOM's company logo for use in early PlayStation software, but he lacked the accumulated know-how to incorporate this technology into game production, so practical use of it was delayed compared to other companies. Then one day, Shinji Mikami approached Takeuchi while he was hard at work with the goal of making a 3D fighting game. A core staff member had left the company and he wanted Takeuchi to join a project team that was already in motion to help out. His direct supervisor also readily agreed to the transfer. Takeuchi felt gloomy, thinking "I've been demoted..." Nowadays, BIO HAZARD's a big title that represents CAPCOM, but at the time it was just an experimental game tentatively titled "Horror". No one in the company knew what sort of game it'd turn out to be. When Takeuchi joined, the Horror game was being developed with 3D real-time rendering for the backgrounds and 2D bitmap animations for the characters, with the player character (main character) being "just some ordinary-clothed guy walking a path with a sword in hand". There was no sign of the kind of visuals we're familiar with today. Takeuchi had the power to make a difference. What was the point of all that movie watching? What was the point of all that CG research? What was the point of all that work experience?
BLOSSOMING TALENT?
As soon as he joined the Horror team, Takeuchi was asked to "do something about the team members' motivation". Of course, as an artist, he was also ordered to model and animate the player at the same time, but compared to those tasks which were work he was used to, the job of raising motivation seemed like quite a challenge. The chief developer who'd been there since it started up wasn't a specialist in 3D, so he was in a situation where he needed to study and teach at the same time, leaving no room for him in the team at all. At the same time, it was clear the staff were worried since the vision of what the final game would be like was only in Mikami's head. So Takeuchi worked with the programmers to create just one scene in the game. A Zombie appears, the player aims at it and fires their gun. A pool of blood spreads out from the fallen Zombie... At last, someone said, "This is interesting!" and the team's morale started to rise. This experience of doing a job that was very human in nature - "raising motivation" - and doing it as expected, is clearly connected to your current job as a director, isn't it?
TAKEUCHI: Yeah, I guess so (laughs). In that sense, I guess I'm a bit more like a director. On Onimusha, this is my first time as a director, but even after over a year, there are still some parts I don't get, I'm like "What's a director?" I'm good at motivating people and controlling situations, so I've become a director who puts those skills to the fore. I think it's a bit special having people who can integrate a range of skills into being a director.
GOTO: So it's not necessarily the case that planners become directors or anything like that.
TAKEUCHI: Not at all anymore, in our company's case. The person who can do it becomes the director. Back when we were working on BIO HAZARD, for example, the planners were made to do the animation as they were good at it.
GOTO: There are times when making a game's easier to understand if you can show it to someone in pictures. So, as a basic skill, you need to be able to draw.
TAKEUCHI: Yeah, you still need people who have visual images in their heads, even if they can't draw them. I think making games is a job of making visual images. How do you convey these visual images to a user to get them to play? I'd like people coming into the industry to study how to create images that appeal to users. Even for planners. It's not a case of "I'm a planner, so I just need to think about the gameplay".
GOTO: What feels good?
TAKEUCHI: What feels good? Visuals are the part that changes the most with the times. Even back in the days of BIO HAZARD, Mikami recognized visuals were an element hard to separate from the game. When development began he was really bothered by the fact real-time backgrounds inevitably resulted in mediocre-looking graphics. He said, "What I wanna do is cinematic direction." I don't know what he was thinking, but suddenly the combination of still-image rendered CG backgrounds and polygonal characters came about. It was a surprise to us, too.
GOTO: It was a process of trial and error, or rather, a lot of wasted effort.
TAKEUCHI: Yes, that's right. A person who digs their own grave upping their workload ends up growing the most. From the point of view of someone efficient, they may say, "What're ya doing taking on that kind of work? You'll end up with more work", but someone who does that actually ends up in a good position after a few years, having accumulated skills. You should take on hardships while you're young. That's what people used to often say.
Takeuchi, who took on hardships, is now the director of the PlayStation 2 game Onimusha currently under development. He's incorporated a solid "game-like" feel into a BIOHAZARD-type sword fighting game which has a scenario, sound and graphics all the more like a movie.
"What surprised me was that young people don't know about the Battle of Okehazama. I asked them, 'Do you know who Oda Nobunaga was?' and they said, 'He was some great guy, wasn't he?' That's all they knew! (laughs) No one knows Kinoshita Tōkichirō warmed his sandals in his pocket, was called a monkey, and served under Nobunaga. So I thought maybe it'd be better to not focus on that and just go with Momotarō-samurai. It wouldn't be interesting if it was all tatami mats and sliding doors, right? So I decided to just tell one big lie and added elements of a world of lies, a magical world. Games aren't about form. It's either interesting to play or interesting to watch. In "Starship Troopers" for example, the whole thing's a big lie from the start. When you're on a spaceship about to attack another planet, why are there flesh-and-blood humans holding guns? (laughs) You think why don't they just use some awesome weapon and blast the planet to pieces? (Once you're into the movie, you don't notice that anymore) They tell one big lie to make that happen. I think that's a good way of doing it."
MASAMI UEDA, Sound Composer (p.064-068)
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BRASS BAND & GIRLS
The sound of video games from the 1980s, once known as “ping pow” sounds, have evolved to the point where it's now represented by the PlayStation 2 as we approach the new millennium. The electronic ping pow sounds are rare now though. The work of creating lively sounds using square waves and white noise eventually split into two roles: sound effects and composition using the musical scale. Those responsible for these tasks also shifted from programmers to sound specialists. With the rise of games that prioritize storytelling, “game music” has taken on a stronger role as background music, increasingly resembling film soundtracks. When talented musicians are faced with the choice of how to make a living, seeking employment at a game production company is by no means uncommon. The game industry's a competitive society lacking the dominance of older generations, much like the music world. It may be a suitable world for free-spirited musicians to survive. Masami Ueda also recognized his talent at a young age and decided to make a living in the world of games. “I'd already decided that in high school. Until then, I'd studied as my parents told me to, and since I had decent grades in high school, they told me to go to this university. I studied hard enough to take the entrance exam, but at the time, I was also in the brass band and really wanted to pursue music. I considered going to an art university or vocational school. After carefully considering which would be better for studying, I decided on a vocational school. Even if I went to an art university, I'd have to study English, Japanese, and other subjects, right? I didn't want to waste that time, so I chose a vocational school to focus on music. My parents were very dedicated to their jobs, always coming home late looking tired. That's why I didn't want to be a salaryman. I really wanted to turn my passion into a career.” |
Member of Production Studio 4. Born on November 19th 1974. After graduating from a music college in Osaka in 1995, he joined CAPCOM. He composed several songs for “BIO HAZARD” & became the sound director for “BIOHAZARD 2.” His hobbies include customizing American motorcycles & making websites.
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He wasn't afraid of the hardships of making people laugh. As a child, he was a show-off. Until middle school, he continued to expose his personality publicly, but it seems it was all a performance to attract girls. Ueda, who'd make a strong impression with his excessive vocalizations and other attention-seeking behavior, joined the middle school brass band because “there were a lot of girls.” His instrument of choice, of course, was the trumpet, the most attention-grabbing instrument. Through his relentless efforts such as volunteering to play solos, he was showered with praise and popularity all the way through high school. His private life however wasn't entirely dominated by music and girls. From elementary school onward, he made sure to carve out time for creative self-expression, such as making things and playing. Fortunately, his parents didn't buy him toys, so he spent his time in art class and club activities (science club and model kit club) making radios and kamaboko cooking craftwork (the model kit club's activities changed due to complaints from some parents). Even when making model kits, he added “dirty” details to show his dedication to bringing his imagination to life. However, he often failed to process bullet holes properly and ended up burning his models...
COMPOSING VIDEO GAME MUSIC
Aspiring to work as a composer, Ueda was unaware game sound design involved a division of labor between composing music and making sound effects, in the end being hired as a composer. For the first year after joining the company, he had to undergo a lengthy training period as new equipment wasn't available. During this time he had no specific instructions like “do this” or “do that.” Instead, Ueda and his peers listened to the songs they'd made, played as many game software titles as possible, and even tried playing instruments they were unfamiliar with. The official training period was three months. After that, they were assigned to various teams, tasked with miscellaneous tasks or assisting others. However, sound work's typically handled by one or two people. The new hires were left to their own devices, as if to say, “If you're gonna be a hindrance, you might as well study properly.” When applying for a sound position, applicants must submit their work, just like other job applicants. Ueda said, “I don't know what they saw in me, but I thought something ordinary wouldn't cut it.” He deliberately avoided pop-style songs or songs that sounded too much like game music, submitting three songs he believed showcased his individuality. Ueda pondered the criteria for evaluation, wondering if making music that seemed suitable for games might be seen as too calculated. If the selection process was truly about discerning talent, applicants should be free to submit anything, even a demo tape of themselves playing and singing. Ueda, who made an impression with “chaotic, genre-defying songs,” never doubted his compositional talent (or rather, he'd accepted it was the only thing he could do). The professional confidence he lacked before working on “BIOHAZARD 2” has now become unwavering through his experience as a main composer. However, there are always challenges as a musician, so there's no shortage of things to ponder.
UEDA: I think there are songs that don't sound alike as songs are produced every day. Especially if you focus on chord progressions, there are many songs that sound alike. It's very difficult to bring out your own style among them...
GOTO: When you compose using classical music theory, if you aim to evoke a specific emotion, it narrows the range of chord progressions you can use, right?
UEDA: That's right. For example, when you want to create a sense of something approaching, the planners often say, “Make it like Jaws.” Once that happens, your mind becomes fixed and you can't help but follow that direction. It's hard whenever you're told, “Make it like this.”
GOTO: On the other hand, if you try to use unusual chord progressions, it doesn't sound like a song.
UEDA: Exactly. Saying this might make it sound like the person drawing the picture's inferior, but I think making a song's probably harder than drawing a picture. (A song) feels like creating something from nothing.
GOTO: With a picture, even if you copy something, the artist's individuality is still clearly evident.
UEDA: There's the artist's touch, right?
GOTO: In music, even if you play it well, it's hard to show your individuality as a song. Changing the subject a bit, how different's the feeling between making a song for a specific project and making a song for your own enjoyment?
UEDA: You mean when you're creating for your own enjoyment and when you're not? When you're making music for a game, if you just throw everything you have into it, it's hard to get approval. There's the director's vision, so you always have to consider how the players—the customers—will feel when they hear the music. It's about paying attention to things beyond just compositional skill.
GOTO: In a way, it's like being a director, isn't it?
UEDA: There's no spec sheet for making music. It's been like that since “BIO2.” On the flip side, if you don't take the initiative to start thinking and working on it, nothing moves forward. It's not just about making music—that's not the whole job of sound design.
GOTO: So, to make a song, you have to research the game first, right?
UEDA: Exactly. You analyze it and figure out what kind of song's needed here, or what may not work. If you get too caught up in thinking, “Let's make the players hear this kind of song here,” it can end up making the game feel too contrived, so you have to think carefully about that.
GOTO: By the way, in film music, you create themes based on the movie's motifs, specific sequences, or characters, right? So you end up with individual tracks tailored to each scene. And when you listen to those tracks, they evoke memories of the movie's iconic moments or create that sort of emotional resonance. Can you achieve that kind of emotional impact with game music as well?
UEDA: The music shouldn't be too prominent, but you have to draw a line and decide how much is acceptable, then focus on refining that within those boundaries. It's hard to express, but we try our best. The process of doing that's something planners or outsiders wouldn't understand. We strive to create something that, when someone from another company hears it, they'll think, “Wow!”
CONFLICTS WITH THE DIRECTOR
GOTO: At a certain major game development company, I heard that back in the day, sound people would sit right next to programmers and work together. Now they're in separate rooms but try to move around as much as possible. It seems like sound people aren't completely separated from each other either.
UEDA: In our case, since the sound department's on a different floor from the rest of development, it's pretty tough to communicate effectively.
It's similar to how programmers are the only ones who truly understand programming, musicians are the only ones who truly understand music. In reality, many games end up relying heavily on sound designers, who have the freedom to create but also feel lonely when their work goes unnoticed. Ueda however had the experience of working on BIOHAZARD 2 with Hideki Kamiya who's well-versed in film music, having to endure rigorous feedback on even the smallest details. From the perspective of a director overseeing the game, fine-tuning the details is a matter of life and death, so when it comes to making requests, they can only say something like, “Add another cymbal here.” From the sound person's perspective, they know adding another cymbal will sound off, so they end up playing the data and explaining, “It still sounds off, right?” This often leads to a situation where neither party's fully satisfied.
This could be a funny story, but when it involves strong-willed individuals engaged in serious discussions, it can escalate into an argument. The same was true for Kamiya and Ueda. As game production becomes more systematic with clearer division of labor, such conflicts will be unavoidable and likely increase in the future. Ueda also mentioned “the ability to explain things clearly to planners may be necessary.” It seems that, in addition to compositional talent, communication skills are now required of the new generation of composers.
COMPOSING VIDEO GAME MUSIC
Aspiring to work as a composer, Ueda was unaware game sound design involved a division of labor between composing music and making sound effects, in the end being hired as a composer. For the first year after joining the company, he had to undergo a lengthy training period as new equipment wasn't available. During this time he had no specific instructions like “do this” or “do that.” Instead, Ueda and his peers listened to the songs they'd made, played as many game software titles as possible, and even tried playing instruments they were unfamiliar with. The official training period was three months. After that, they were assigned to various teams, tasked with miscellaneous tasks or assisting others. However, sound work's typically handled by one or two people. The new hires were left to their own devices, as if to say, “If you're gonna be a hindrance, you might as well study properly.” When applying for a sound position, applicants must submit their work, just like other job applicants. Ueda said, “I don't know what they saw in me, but I thought something ordinary wouldn't cut it.” He deliberately avoided pop-style songs or songs that sounded too much like game music, submitting three songs he believed showcased his individuality. Ueda pondered the criteria for evaluation, wondering if making music that seemed suitable for games might be seen as too calculated. If the selection process was truly about discerning talent, applicants should be free to submit anything, even a demo tape of themselves playing and singing. Ueda, who made an impression with “chaotic, genre-defying songs,” never doubted his compositional talent (or rather, he'd accepted it was the only thing he could do). The professional confidence he lacked before working on “BIOHAZARD 2” has now become unwavering through his experience as a main composer. However, there are always challenges as a musician, so there's no shortage of things to ponder.
UEDA: I think there are songs that don't sound alike as songs are produced every day. Especially if you focus on chord progressions, there are many songs that sound alike. It's very difficult to bring out your own style among them...
GOTO: When you compose using classical music theory, if you aim to evoke a specific emotion, it narrows the range of chord progressions you can use, right?
UEDA: That's right. For example, when you want to create a sense of something approaching, the planners often say, “Make it like Jaws.” Once that happens, your mind becomes fixed and you can't help but follow that direction. It's hard whenever you're told, “Make it like this.”
GOTO: On the other hand, if you try to use unusual chord progressions, it doesn't sound like a song.
UEDA: Exactly. Saying this might make it sound like the person drawing the picture's inferior, but I think making a song's probably harder than drawing a picture. (A song) feels like creating something from nothing.
GOTO: With a picture, even if you copy something, the artist's individuality is still clearly evident.
UEDA: There's the artist's touch, right?
GOTO: In music, even if you play it well, it's hard to show your individuality as a song. Changing the subject a bit, how different's the feeling between making a song for a specific project and making a song for your own enjoyment?
UEDA: You mean when you're creating for your own enjoyment and when you're not? When you're making music for a game, if you just throw everything you have into it, it's hard to get approval. There's the director's vision, so you always have to consider how the players—the customers—will feel when they hear the music. It's about paying attention to things beyond just compositional skill.
GOTO: In a way, it's like being a director, isn't it?
UEDA: There's no spec sheet for making music. It's been like that since “BIO2.” On the flip side, if you don't take the initiative to start thinking and working on it, nothing moves forward. It's not just about making music—that's not the whole job of sound design.
GOTO: So, to make a song, you have to research the game first, right?
UEDA: Exactly. You analyze it and figure out what kind of song's needed here, or what may not work. If you get too caught up in thinking, “Let's make the players hear this kind of song here,” it can end up making the game feel too contrived, so you have to think carefully about that.
GOTO: By the way, in film music, you create themes based on the movie's motifs, specific sequences, or characters, right? So you end up with individual tracks tailored to each scene. And when you listen to those tracks, they evoke memories of the movie's iconic moments or create that sort of emotional resonance. Can you achieve that kind of emotional impact with game music as well?
UEDA: The music shouldn't be too prominent, but you have to draw a line and decide how much is acceptable, then focus on refining that within those boundaries. It's hard to express, but we try our best. The process of doing that's something planners or outsiders wouldn't understand. We strive to create something that, when someone from another company hears it, they'll think, “Wow!”
CONFLICTS WITH THE DIRECTOR
GOTO: At a certain major game development company, I heard that back in the day, sound people would sit right next to programmers and work together. Now they're in separate rooms but try to move around as much as possible. It seems like sound people aren't completely separated from each other either.
UEDA: In our case, since the sound department's on a different floor from the rest of development, it's pretty tough to communicate effectively.
It's similar to how programmers are the only ones who truly understand programming, musicians are the only ones who truly understand music. In reality, many games end up relying heavily on sound designers, who have the freedom to create but also feel lonely when their work goes unnoticed. Ueda however had the experience of working on BIOHAZARD 2 with Hideki Kamiya who's well-versed in film music, having to endure rigorous feedback on even the smallest details. From the perspective of a director overseeing the game, fine-tuning the details is a matter of life and death, so when it comes to making requests, they can only say something like, “Add another cymbal here.” From the sound person's perspective, they know adding another cymbal will sound off, so they end up playing the data and explaining, “It still sounds off, right?” This often leads to a situation where neither party's fully satisfied.
This could be a funny story, but when it involves strong-willed individuals engaged in serious discussions, it can escalate into an argument. The same was true for Kamiya and Ueda. As game production becomes more systematic with clearer division of labor, such conflicts will be unavoidable and likely increase in the future. Ueda also mentioned “the ability to explain things clearly to planners may be necessary.” It seems that, in addition to compositional talent, communication skills are now required of the new generation of composers.
HIDEAKI UTSUMI, Sound Designer (p.70-75)
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AWAKENING OF SOUND
Sound production is, in essence, the composition of sound images using all kinds of sounds, from melodies that can be reduced to musical notations, to noises that cannot. Until the last century, most people who made music didn't consider the sound itself. At the very least, it's certain their awareness stopped at the resonance of the instruments themselves and the design of concert halls. In the 20th century however, composers started actively incorporating non-musical sounds into their works. As music came to be completed through mixing on a studio console rather than through notations, the consciousness of performers also began to change (Glenn Gould's writings may be a useful reference). As contemporary music became obsessed with electronic noise and digitalization that became prominent after techno pop led to sound effects and musical sounds being treated equally, musicians' awareness increasingly encroached on the domain of sound engineers, who, for their part, have been striving to keep pace with rapidly advancing recording technology—especially in the case of film, with the advent of Dolby Digital 5.1ch and other multi-channel recording systems. In the coming century, traditional musicians and singers will undoubtedly continue to enjoy popularity in the mainstream, but at the same time, there'll be a growing awareness among creators who deeply study the human ear and new technologies, striving to create sounds that better reach a person's ear. Video games are one of the stages where this'll be showcased. Music has always had game-like qualities (ranging from composers' playful use of left-right symmetry in musical scores to improvisation based on rules), and even games that aren't strictly “music games” often use the timing of sounds as clues to help players advance. In other words, sound's an important factor in game design, but we must also consider the fact development of game consoles has increased the importance of sound. With the latest game consoles such as the PlayStation 2, which supports DVD video, games that utilize three-dimensional sound will emerge, so the demand for high-quality sound will become even more stringent. From the perspective of both game design and sound design, the untapped potential of making sound for games must be very appealing. |
Member of the Production Studio 4. Born on May 18th 1973. Joined the company in 1995 and has worked on sound effects for titles such as “BIO HAZARD” & “BIOHAZARD 2.” Currently working on a new BIO title where he's reportedly “thinking big.” Active in a band & interested in the Internet.
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When I wrote “sound design,” the reason why Hideaki Utsumi's title is “sound designer” may be due to the changes in the concepts and technologies of sound mentioned earlier. In reality, the work Utsumi does on the BIO series isn't the kind of old-fashioned sound effect production that uses everyday objects to generate the sound of horse hooves or echo of waves. Instead, he creates abstract environmental music that blurs the line between music and background music, with sound effects (SE) that blend with the BGM to form a heavy atmosphere. This work, which resembles the sound design of a film composed of SE, dialogue, and music, plays a role in determining roughly half the game's overall impression, making the term “sound designer” appropriate.
PROGRAMMING
That said, the work of adding sound to video games in the past was ultimately also sound design. Within the constraints of having only three or eight total sounds, a single person would allocate musical and sound effects to all the sounds, so the work was somewhat different...
At CAPCOM today, there are three job categories related to sound: sound programming, sound effects production, and composing. New hires who join the company with a focus on sound are assigned to one of these three categories based on their aptitude.
"There isn't one now, but back then there was a training period to assess aptitude. We were asked to make music and sound effects with the assumption they'd be used in games. For example, 'This is an action game, so make a song for this stage,' so we had to complete tasks while learning how to use the tools. It was a different tool from the sequencer we'd been using, so we weren't familiar with it. The time given wasn't enough, but it wasn't short either... I don't know, but those of us doing it weren't that aware. We didn't think of it as being given tasks or taking tests. We just learned how to use the tools, tinkered around, then it was done. That's how it was. I kept wondering when we'd be assigned, but it turned out that was the test. One day, everyone was called in, and they said, 'You're sound effects,' or 'You're music.' At the time, I was hoping to be assigned to music or programming, so I was a bit surprised when it turned out to be sound effects. I think my boss must've decided I was suited for sound effects." Utsumi, who ended up doing sound effects work through what was essentially a surprise “test,” was originally a boy who loved games. He loved games even before the Famicom was released, playing board games, LCD games, Pocket Mate, and Game & Watch. He tried Famicom and PC games, visited game centers, and decided to pursue a career in game development. He bought a synthesizer in high school which solidified his resolve to make sound his career.
GOTO: Was there a moment when you became aware of sound? Like consciously listening to something or a piece of music that served as a catalyst? Maybe something that was popular at the time?
UTSUMI: When I was in elementary school, I often listened to enka songs and Western pop music on the radio, but there wasn't anything that made me think, “I want to do that” or “I'm really drawn to this.”
GOTO: There was MTV for elementary school kids back then, right?
UTSUMI: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I watched MTV and Music Tomato Japan here and there. I think the band boom was in middle school. Then, when I started high school and the boom was starting to fade, I started my own band.
GOTO: Going back to middle school, you wanted to make games, right?
UTSUMI: Yeah, in middle school it was games. Not specifically the sound of games, but making games in general. I don't know if that's an old-fashioned way of thinking, but back then, it felt like you could do everything with programming. So I thought I'd try learning programming.
GOTO: What was the first computer you bought?
UTSUMI: It might not even qualify as a computer, but it was a Tommy Piu-ta Mark II. It could only do basic programming though. After that, when I entered vocational school, my teacher recommended a Mac (Macintosh).
GOTO: Hmm, Macs aren't really designed for programming, are they?
UTSUMI: No, they're not. My perspective changed in high school. The environment there wasn't focused on learning programming, and even though I bought a Super Famicom, I didn't find it interesting, so I drifted away from games. By the time I entered vocational school, I was into music, so my focus shifted toward making sounds, not just games. So, at vocational school, I bought a Mac for making sounds. Programming wasn't even on my radar at that point.
NEW IDEAS
Utsumi's family is from Kyoto. Thinking, “If I go to vocational school in Tokyo and end up a freeter with no job, I won't be able to face my parents,” Utsumi chose CAPCOM, the game development company he was most familiar with outside of Tokyo, as his place to work, and successfully passed the job interview. His general academic grades weren't impressive, but excelling in one area was sufficient. He brought in two or three tapes of instrumental music he'd made using an all-in-one synthesizer (desktop recording wasn't yet mainstream at the time) and was accepted. As mentioned earlier, Utsumi was assigned to sound effects and felt more confused than anxious. The times were changing however, with the rise of CD-ROMs, so there was a growing desire to freely create new things. The same applied to sound design. Instead of using generic gunshot sounds like “bang,” it was the beginning of the era of sound design, so Utsumi quickly found fulfillment in this work. After joining CAPCOM, Utsumi gained experience as a BIO expert and gradually matured.
UTSUMI: For BIO1 I was given detailed sound specifications. They said things like, “The floor material's this, so the sound should be like this,” and there were lots of other details. If I couldn't visualize it, I'd call a planner.
GOTO: When creating sounds, do you use sampled sound sources? For example, gunshots?
UTSUMI: Almost everything's sampled now. We store all the materials on hard drives. Using them as is doesn't blend well at all however, so we add various embellishments. At that time we were aiming for realism, not just realism itself. We layered various sounds and equalized them. Honestly, the gunshot sounds from sound libraries are unusable. They're poor quality and don't sound like gunshots at all. You know, something like the “sizzle” effect in commercials.
GOTO: It goes swish.
UTSUMI: Right. For example, in a Famicom commercial, if you put in the cartridge and it made the real “Funi” sound, no one would believe it. Even though it doesn't actually make that sound, we add a “click” sound. It's the same with guns. We make the sounds everyone imagines when they think of a gun firing in the BIO world.
One of BIO's distinctive features is realistic sounds in conjunction with detailed sound design. Footsteps sound different on carpet and wooden floors, and even on the same wooden floor the way the sound reverberates changes depending on the type of space. In BIO1 only one type of footstep sound was used, but in BIO2 the sounds are controlled by a program, so the pitch is randomly changed to produce two or more different sounds. In “Super Mario 64”, there was only one type of footstep sound, but in “The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time”, released after BIO2, the number of footstep sounds increased to two. When Utsumi confirmed this, he said, “Nintendo's doing it too,” and gained a lot of confidence from being imitated. While respecting predecessors is important, when it comes to creating something, flexible thinking tailored to each work's essential. Utsumi stated, “For the PlayStation 2, I'm considering expressions as impactful as those in BIOHAZARD 1. Sound's just one element though, so the ultimate goal's to create a good game.” If such innovations lead to something new and interesting, they'll be welcomed by everyone.
PROGRAMMING
That said, the work of adding sound to video games in the past was ultimately also sound design. Within the constraints of having only three or eight total sounds, a single person would allocate musical and sound effects to all the sounds, so the work was somewhat different...
At CAPCOM today, there are three job categories related to sound: sound programming, sound effects production, and composing. New hires who join the company with a focus on sound are assigned to one of these three categories based on their aptitude.
"There isn't one now, but back then there was a training period to assess aptitude. We were asked to make music and sound effects with the assumption they'd be used in games. For example, 'This is an action game, so make a song for this stage,' so we had to complete tasks while learning how to use the tools. It was a different tool from the sequencer we'd been using, so we weren't familiar with it. The time given wasn't enough, but it wasn't short either... I don't know, but those of us doing it weren't that aware. We didn't think of it as being given tasks or taking tests. We just learned how to use the tools, tinkered around, then it was done. That's how it was. I kept wondering when we'd be assigned, but it turned out that was the test. One day, everyone was called in, and they said, 'You're sound effects,' or 'You're music.' At the time, I was hoping to be assigned to music or programming, so I was a bit surprised when it turned out to be sound effects. I think my boss must've decided I was suited for sound effects." Utsumi, who ended up doing sound effects work through what was essentially a surprise “test,” was originally a boy who loved games. He loved games even before the Famicom was released, playing board games, LCD games, Pocket Mate, and Game & Watch. He tried Famicom and PC games, visited game centers, and decided to pursue a career in game development. He bought a synthesizer in high school which solidified his resolve to make sound his career.
GOTO: Was there a moment when you became aware of sound? Like consciously listening to something or a piece of music that served as a catalyst? Maybe something that was popular at the time?
UTSUMI: When I was in elementary school, I often listened to enka songs and Western pop music on the radio, but there wasn't anything that made me think, “I want to do that” or “I'm really drawn to this.”
GOTO: There was MTV for elementary school kids back then, right?
UTSUMI: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I watched MTV and Music Tomato Japan here and there. I think the band boom was in middle school. Then, when I started high school and the boom was starting to fade, I started my own band.
GOTO: Going back to middle school, you wanted to make games, right?
UTSUMI: Yeah, in middle school it was games. Not specifically the sound of games, but making games in general. I don't know if that's an old-fashioned way of thinking, but back then, it felt like you could do everything with programming. So I thought I'd try learning programming.
GOTO: What was the first computer you bought?
UTSUMI: It might not even qualify as a computer, but it was a Tommy Piu-ta Mark II. It could only do basic programming though. After that, when I entered vocational school, my teacher recommended a Mac (Macintosh).
GOTO: Hmm, Macs aren't really designed for programming, are they?
UTSUMI: No, they're not. My perspective changed in high school. The environment there wasn't focused on learning programming, and even though I bought a Super Famicom, I didn't find it interesting, so I drifted away from games. By the time I entered vocational school, I was into music, so my focus shifted toward making sounds, not just games. So, at vocational school, I bought a Mac for making sounds. Programming wasn't even on my radar at that point.
NEW IDEAS
Utsumi's family is from Kyoto. Thinking, “If I go to vocational school in Tokyo and end up a freeter with no job, I won't be able to face my parents,” Utsumi chose CAPCOM, the game development company he was most familiar with outside of Tokyo, as his place to work, and successfully passed the job interview. His general academic grades weren't impressive, but excelling in one area was sufficient. He brought in two or three tapes of instrumental music he'd made using an all-in-one synthesizer (desktop recording wasn't yet mainstream at the time) and was accepted. As mentioned earlier, Utsumi was assigned to sound effects and felt more confused than anxious. The times were changing however, with the rise of CD-ROMs, so there was a growing desire to freely create new things. The same applied to sound design. Instead of using generic gunshot sounds like “bang,” it was the beginning of the era of sound design, so Utsumi quickly found fulfillment in this work. After joining CAPCOM, Utsumi gained experience as a BIO expert and gradually matured.
UTSUMI: For BIO1 I was given detailed sound specifications. They said things like, “The floor material's this, so the sound should be like this,” and there were lots of other details. If I couldn't visualize it, I'd call a planner.
GOTO: When creating sounds, do you use sampled sound sources? For example, gunshots?
UTSUMI: Almost everything's sampled now. We store all the materials on hard drives. Using them as is doesn't blend well at all however, so we add various embellishments. At that time we were aiming for realism, not just realism itself. We layered various sounds and equalized them. Honestly, the gunshot sounds from sound libraries are unusable. They're poor quality and don't sound like gunshots at all. You know, something like the “sizzle” effect in commercials.
GOTO: It goes swish.
UTSUMI: Right. For example, in a Famicom commercial, if you put in the cartridge and it made the real “Funi” sound, no one would believe it. Even though it doesn't actually make that sound, we add a “click” sound. It's the same with guns. We make the sounds everyone imagines when they think of a gun firing in the BIO world.
One of BIO's distinctive features is realistic sounds in conjunction with detailed sound design. Footsteps sound different on carpet and wooden floors, and even on the same wooden floor the way the sound reverberates changes depending on the type of space. In BIO1 only one type of footstep sound was used, but in BIO2 the sounds are controlled by a program, so the pitch is randomly changed to produce two or more different sounds. In “Super Mario 64”, there was only one type of footstep sound, but in “The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time”, released after BIO2, the number of footstep sounds increased to two. When Utsumi confirmed this, he said, “Nintendo's doing it too,” and gained a lot of confidence from being imitated. While respecting predecessors is important, when it comes to creating something, flexible thinking tailored to each work's essential. Utsumi stated, “For the PlayStation 2, I'm considering expressions as impactful as those in BIOHAZARD 1. Sound's just one element though, so the ultimate goal's to create a good game.” If such innovations lead to something new and interesting, they'll be welcomed by everyone.
NOBORU SUGIMURA, FLAGSHIP (p.088-093)
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What kind of storytelling is needed for games?
I'm sure many of you have seen the name of scenario writer Noboru Sugimura in the staff credits of films and TV shows. Sugimura's a veteran scriptwriter who has written screenplays for numerous popular dramas, anime and films, including “Roar at the Sun!”, “Lupin III” and the Sentai series. Presently, Sugimura's the central figure in the “game scenario production group” FLAGSHIP he formed, uniting about 20 scenario writers, and involved in the planning and production of dozens of video games including the BIO series. FLAGSHIP was founded in 1997. Sugimura, who was known in the world of television and film as a writer who “got hooked on games and didn't meet deadlines”, one day met Yoshiki Okamoto, the head of development at CAPCOM. When Okamoto said, “I want to invite a TV or movie scriptwriter. But how do I find someone who can write a script who also plays games?” Sugimura confessed he loved “Nobunaga's Ambition”. He hit it off with Okamoto, who was also a big fan of Nobunaga's Ambition, and they got so carried away talking about games they didn't even notice the late Shotaro Ishinomori was also there. Not long after that, Okamoto asked him to work on “BIOHAZARD 2”. He wanted him to take a look at the script for “2”, which was having production difficulties. When he asked how things were progressing, Okamoto replied it was “60-70%”, so Sugimura didn't hesitate to advise "it'd be better to go back to zero and turn it around”. However, a game software completion rate of 70% usually means there's no turning back. When Sugimura realized this later, he turned pale and thought, “I mightn't get any more job offers,” but CAPCOM made the bold decision to remake “2”. Sugimura immediately gathered several writers and held a series of meetings at CAPCOM's Tokyo branch. This gathering became the company FLAGSHIP. Since then, Sugimura's been a frequent visitor to CAPCOM's development headquarters, taking part in game production. He's certainly one of the few people who can talk about CAPCOM from an outside perspective. |
Managing Director of the game scenario production company "FLAGSHIP". Born on June 28th 1948. He's written many scenarios for period dramas, detective dramas & other movies & TV shows. He loves alcohol, women & video games & says the entertainment value video games offer is something movies lack. In the future, he hopes to make movies using game staff. He seems to be planning to use Hideki Kamiya as a director.
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Sugimura's passion for games is extraordinary. As a professional storyteller, Sugimura talks about games as follows
“I think people in the game industry don't have a foundational concept of what a story or scenario is in a game. I always talk about the fusion of scenarios and games, but for example, in CODE:Veronica, the player advances while shooting zombies and creatures with a gun. Of course you also have to solve puzzles, but if that's all you do, it just becomes a gun shooter. In order to get into it and want to move forward, you need to be able to empathize with a character in a movie, thinking "That bastard can't get away with it", which games should be able to express even better as you're playing the game yourself. That's where the scenario's importance lies. Another example's in BIO2 where you get a medal for a unicorn and take it somewhere to get a spade key. This isn't right. There's no explanation for the question, why's there a unicorn medal in a police station? There's dissonance between the game-like qualities and the dramatic world. Simulation games manage to make this work. To use my favorite game, "Nobunaga", as an analogy, why do you have to grow rice and increase your rice yield? It's because you need to collect taxes to get money. With that money, you can hire soldiers and make weapons. In order to obtain larger amounts of rice, you need to take over other people's land, so you fight and conquer. Game-like qualities are merged with livelihood in the game, so it becomes a game drama. If the game-like qualities and the scenario match up, I think it'll become a completely established culture of play. If you just want to make a puzzle game though, you don't need that. Making a puzzle game with a story or drama is necessary, however. A certain victim owes a debt of tens of millions of yen to a debt collector. When you need to help them out, you go out into the field and defeat monsters to make some money, so you work hard to defeat them and give it to the victim. This is fine, but it needs to be something more interesting that nobody's thought of before, and it also needs to be convincing. If game creators can master that kind of direction and scenario writing, they'll probably say they don't need us anymore (laughs)."
What do you think? For the CAPCOM developers who often talk directly with Sugimura, these may be words they've already become accustomed to hearing, but for developers at other companies who don't have much contact with the outside world, or for students who aspire to become game creators, this is advice worth keeping in mind as a reference.
There was also a scene that made Sugimura gasp. In BIO HAZARD, when you return to the mansion from the dormitory, a “Hunter” movie suddenly appears. Users who've already cleared most of the Zombies in the mansion end up returning with their guard down, so the movie forcibly catches them off-guard at that moment. Once the movie finishes, a new enemy, the Hunter, is right in front of you. The contrivance makes flustered users fall into a momentary panic.
"There are lots of people who get unnecessarily panicky and get killed. If they just stayed calm, they could've easily killed them, they're holding a shotgun. Most people panic though. I think that's an important way of creating fear. When I saw that, I thought, "Movies have lost." That was also a big reason I decided to come to the game industry. Until then, in my mind, games were a completely different thing from movies and TV. However, the camera wasn't first-person, but fixed by room position. BIO was the first game to use a camera position like that. Everyone in the film and TV industry who saw it was shocked. I imagined film and TV would never be able to beat games. So I reckoned it'd be better to get into them from there (laughs)."
Sugimura says, "Once you've absorbed it and made it your own, you don't need to rely on anyone else. You can do it all on your own. I think that's the way it should be." It seems the next generation of creators will inevitably come from game creators.
“I think people in the game industry don't have a foundational concept of what a story or scenario is in a game. I always talk about the fusion of scenarios and games, but for example, in CODE:Veronica, the player advances while shooting zombies and creatures with a gun. Of course you also have to solve puzzles, but if that's all you do, it just becomes a gun shooter. In order to get into it and want to move forward, you need to be able to empathize with a character in a movie, thinking "That bastard can't get away with it", which games should be able to express even better as you're playing the game yourself. That's where the scenario's importance lies. Another example's in BIO2 where you get a medal for a unicorn and take it somewhere to get a spade key. This isn't right. There's no explanation for the question, why's there a unicorn medal in a police station? There's dissonance between the game-like qualities and the dramatic world. Simulation games manage to make this work. To use my favorite game, "Nobunaga", as an analogy, why do you have to grow rice and increase your rice yield? It's because you need to collect taxes to get money. With that money, you can hire soldiers and make weapons. In order to obtain larger amounts of rice, you need to take over other people's land, so you fight and conquer. Game-like qualities are merged with livelihood in the game, so it becomes a game drama. If the game-like qualities and the scenario match up, I think it'll become a completely established culture of play. If you just want to make a puzzle game though, you don't need that. Making a puzzle game with a story or drama is necessary, however. A certain victim owes a debt of tens of millions of yen to a debt collector. When you need to help them out, you go out into the field and defeat monsters to make some money, so you work hard to defeat them and give it to the victim. This is fine, but it needs to be something more interesting that nobody's thought of before, and it also needs to be convincing. If game creators can master that kind of direction and scenario writing, they'll probably say they don't need us anymore (laughs)."
What do you think? For the CAPCOM developers who often talk directly with Sugimura, these may be words they've already become accustomed to hearing, but for developers at other companies who don't have much contact with the outside world, or for students who aspire to become game creators, this is advice worth keeping in mind as a reference.
There was also a scene that made Sugimura gasp. In BIO HAZARD, when you return to the mansion from the dormitory, a “Hunter” movie suddenly appears. Users who've already cleared most of the Zombies in the mansion end up returning with their guard down, so the movie forcibly catches them off-guard at that moment. Once the movie finishes, a new enemy, the Hunter, is right in front of you. The contrivance makes flustered users fall into a momentary panic.
"There are lots of people who get unnecessarily panicky and get killed. If they just stayed calm, they could've easily killed them, they're holding a shotgun. Most people panic though. I think that's an important way of creating fear. When I saw that, I thought, "Movies have lost." That was also a big reason I decided to come to the game industry. Until then, in my mind, games were a completely different thing from movies and TV. However, the camera wasn't first-person, but fixed by room position. BIO was the first game to use a camera position like that. Everyone in the film and TV industry who saw it was shocked. I imagined film and TV would never be able to beat games. So I reckoned it'd be better to get into them from there (laughs)."
Sugimura says, "Once you've absorbed it and made it your own, you don't need to rely on anyone else. You can do it all on your own. I think that's the way it should be." It seems the next generation of creators will inevitably come from game creators.
SHINJI MIKAMI, Production Studio 4 General Manager (p.106-117)
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Shinji Mikami, who gained recognition as a game creator through the huge success of BIO HAZARD, went through a busy planning phase, a director phase where he lacked confidence, and a sharp producer phase where he openly declared, “I don't want to make BIO anymore.” Now he's matured in his thinking. His artistic nature can't be hidden however. We engaged in a candid conversation about Mikami's fundamental philosophy, his current work, his outlook for the future, and the challenges he faces. We'll deliver it in a condensed form.
THE OPPOSITE OF OKAMOTO'S APPROACH GOTO: At CAPCOM, there's an unwritten rule that you eliminate the negative points to achieve an 80% passing grade, right? How does Mikami approach game development in line with that? MIKAMI: I don't do that at all. It's the opposite of Okamoto's approach. The way Okamoto has made arcade games in the past is based on the concept of “satisfaction.” When he finds something that makes him want to say, “Ugh!” he cuts out the strengths to eliminate the weaknesses, removing all elements harboring dissatisfaction. But I see games as something with very strong personal preferences, like food. You can't eat something that tastes bad, right? It makes you break out in hives or gives you an upset stomach. Since it's something with strong personal preferences, it's natural to have likes and dislikes. That's why I think we need to create sharp, distinctive products that make people say, “That's the one!” Moreover, in today's information-overloaded era, with over 1,000 game titles released annually, there's no way many people will buy 100 or 200 games. It's probably around four or five, right? Even the biggest buyers might get ten a year at most. Why choose one game out of 1,000? One reason's because there's something about it that really appeals to you. The other reason's because your friends say it's good. |
Born on August 11th 1965. Joined the company in 1990 & was responsible for planning his first game, “Haten? no Daibouken” for the Game Boy. Subsequently worked on “Aladdin” & “Goofy and Max's Pirate Island Adventure,” then in 1996 released “BIO HAZARD” to the world. He's produced the “BIO” series & “Dino Crisis,” among others. His hobbies include watching movies & collecting watches.
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GOTO: I bet a lot of people buy “Final Fantasy” just to check it out. It's always a hot topic, so you have to know what it's like to keep up with the conversation.
MIKAMI: Yeah, I think there's some truth to that. For example, the PlayStation market's 15 million units. But there are people who replace them like Walkmans... I'm one of them, because they break. So if you subtract that and assume 12 million users, that's one in ten buying a game. If you think about it, making a game one in ten people will like is surprisingly easy. Having said that, some of the unique games Sony has succeeded with aren't particularly fun to play. I think their contents are basic too. ...That's what I've been thinking about. It's just a quirk of mine. (Referring to the previous Sony games) You're just turning your favorite things into work, so why do you deserve a high salary? I keep telling myself that, mumbling to myself. (laughs) But lately, I've been trying not to think about it too much.
GOTO: So where do you draw the line between what's a hobby and what's not?
MIKAMI: You can't. If you leave it entirely up to the individual though, their marketing's confined to their own mind, so when they leave, the company loses its ability to market the product.
GOTO: Hmm... It's already become legendary, but you got scolded by Okamoto-san during development of “BIOHAZARD 1,” right? Had you talked to him before that? Not just with “BIO1.”
MIKAMI: Not at all. I heard him say, ‘In games, one flaw stands out more than ten good points, so eliminate that flaw completely,’ when I was in my second year at the company. That said, if the creators aren't satisfied with what they're making, they won't be able to keep working on it. In an office job, you might have to do it just to make a living, but creating something comes from the negative energy of your libido. If you just cut corners, even if you think you're giving it your all, you're probably not giving it your all. As you go back and forth between the creator, the user, and the company, things start to stagnate, and eventually the fun slips away.
GOTO: For example, the concept or idea behind a game might be amazing, but the controls or interface are incredibly user-unfriendly. In that case, users might complain but still enjoy playing it, “Well, guess it can't be helped”.
MIKAMI: It depends on the extent. The controls in BIO were something we intended to fix eventually. Before we could though, it became widely popular, so changing them now would lead to complaints like, “We're used to this—what're you doing?” That's something we can't do either.
GOTO: The reason behind its widespread popularity... well, the controls are bad. But because the controls are bad, it...
MIKAMI: It's gaining praise.
GOTO: Right. There are constraints on the controls, and that sense of being constrained has become part of the game's appeal, hasn't it?
MIKAMI: Yeah. That's something we should reflect on, but it wasn't intentional. When people say the poor controls make you fumble around which adds to the horror, it's pretty tough to hear. That wasn't our intention. It's more embarrassing. When someone asks, “What do you think of a million copies sold?” I'd honestly just say, “Hmm, nothing special.” I'd feel annoyed by the increased interviews. I was actually in favor of me, as a creator, stepping into the public eye. Games are an intangible product. In an arcade, you can play for 100 yen at a time, and if you don't like it, you can stop right there. But with a console game, you have to spend fifty-eight 100 yen coins to buy it. You can't return a boring game. There are demo versions, but I still think the environment isn't great for users to find products that match their tastes. On the other hand, directors are in a position where they can explain things as a face of the company. If users recognize them and know they make games with a certain style, it makes it easier for them to choose. Another interesting thing's word of mouth. How many people do you think it takes for something to become a standard through word of mouth?
GOTO: Actually just two people, right? Besides yourself.
MIKAMI: Exactly. It's actually just two people. Two or three people say, “Everyone says so.” That becomes the “norm” now. So it's surprisingly effective. If you were to stop a few people, you could get two or three. Word of mouth's a pretty effective form of promotion, I think.
GOTO: With that in mind, interviews are both media coverage and word of mouth. So...
MIKAMI: There's value in creators appearing in interviews.
A PRODUCER'S WAY OF LIFE
GOTO: Then, I'll ask two simple questions. How would you define a game?
MIKAMI: I think it's something that's fun to watch and fun to play. If it has those elements, I think it can be simply called a game. If there's something unique to games other media lacks, it's interactivity. Half the work's completed by the user themselves. It's not a one-way medium. The other's unpredictability. With movies, once you see the ending, you just leave. But with games, even after you pass the ending, there's an element of not knowing what'll happen next. Of course, this exists in movies and other media too, but with games, there's the possibility of bold changes in the next development. As long as you focus on creating those elements, it can be called a game... I don't want to define games with a narrow definition. Let's stop being bound by old preconceived notions like role-playing, shooting, or action. That's where the definition lies. So if none of the elements I just mentioned are present, it's not a game.
GOTO: So even if it's programmed, if it's just a chore, it's not a game. Next question: Why does Shinji Mikami make games?
MIKAMI: When I think about why I make games, one reason's that I want to feel my own existence. Another reason's that I think an environment of creating things is ideal for promoting human growth. And the third reason, which may actually be the most fundamental, is that I have complexes. I want to sublimate them in some way and show that even though I have complexes, I also have outstanding qualities. That's it, I guess. To take it even further, I also want games to be recognized by society. I don't want games to be blamed every time something happens. Of course, it's important to prioritize user satisfaction, but I also want that extra “personal touch.” However, I don't feel so much of that in current games, and when I do feel that “personal touch,” there's no user satisfaction. It's like they're only looking at themselves. Like watching a facial shower in an adult video.
GOTO: It's not enough to just serve or just satisfy yourself. At its core, it's about self-realization, personal growth, self-discipline, and creating something for yourself. Did a sense of mission emerge as you worked on it?
MIKAMI: I'm already a producer, so I'm fully immersed in it. Right now, that aspect's much more important to me. Sense of responsibility, sense of mission. I think the older folk at our company are like that. It looks tough (laughs). Sometimes I wonder what makes me happy. There's a guy named Kawano who's making a “Rockman”-style game, and from my perspective, he seems happy. It looks healthy. I think, “Man, I'm jealous of that guy.” My grandfather passed away, so I have to attend the funeral, but if someone next to me looks happy, it's frustrating, isn't it? (laughs) What's going on? Am I just too sensitive to what others say? When you're out of the field, your senses dull. When the candy shop lady measures out candy, she knows exactly how much it is, even if she doesn't know the exact weight. That kind of precision comes from years of practice. When you're away from the scene for a long time, it comes out the other way. Your senses dull. You can tell for yourself. If I can't return to the scene this year because my judgment's slow, I might need to give up. I think the path of a creator wasn't meant for me. The best thing would be for a creator who's way better than me to come along and show me the difference in ability right in front of me, so I can focus on helping everyone else grow. I don't hate my current job, though.
GOTO: Is there no next step for a producer?
MIKAMI: Well, I need to seriously consider that now. Soon. The next step for a producer's to become the company president, right? Maybe I'll have to consider that option. I don't know what I'll do, besides move forward—.
GOTO: To move to the next job, should you first properly nurture the young people currently under your care? Out of duty, or for the sake of succession?
MIKAMI: Yeah, that's true. But I don't intend to keep them tied down or anything.
GOTO: When you worked on BIO1 the planners Kamiya, Aoyama, and Kato went on to direct sequels. Do you feel like you were able to nurture them to a certain extent?
MIKAMI: Hmm... They're still in the growth phase. That's my responsibility, though. I feel very sorry for them since I couldn't provide them with a good environment. Game development's similar to writing a scenario, and creating four original games in two years is more effective for developing skills than spending two years on one big project. A series like BIO has a long development cycle, so it's not really ideal.
GOTO: Mikami-san was reportedly trained in a Spartan-like environment when he first joined the company, where he was told to submit a proposal in a week or complete a game in a month. That's the kind of situation you're recreating, right? In that sense, those three have that kind of grit.
MIKAMI: Grit... well, maybe a little. They had a short apprenticeship period. They were able to focus relatively on work suited to their abilities, and if there was a task they didn't like, there was always someone else in the team who could do it better, so they took it off their shoulders. As a result, they tend to lack the awareness needed to balance the game as a whole or lead the team.
GOTO: I was really struck when Kato-san said to you, “It's not making the game itself that's hard. What's hard is dealing with people,” then later said he understood that after actually making it.
MIKAMI: It was a good experience, I think. When you're in a large group you can avoid the unpleasant people, but in a small team, you've no choice but to face them one-on-one.
GOTO: You have no choice but to confront them directly.
MIKAMI: Exactly. It's like being crammed into a small space. You can't escape it. It's like when you live under the same roof with someone you've been getting along with, and a trivial thing triggers a huge argument. It's a similar phenomenon—there's a build-up of friction, but you can't escape it. We've been discussing this too. Earlier, someone came to me and said, “It was tough,” and broke down crying. At first, I tried to stay calm and not let them cry, but I thought it might be better to let them cry and clear their emotions. When I said, “It was tough, wasn't it? You're really trying hard,” they just broke down and cried. Small teams are really tough when it comes to human relationships. You can't delegate your work to others, and as a director, you have to handle everything from management to schedule planning. There was also an incident during BIO3's production. We brought in a newbie to help out, but they could only do simple tasks, which made the director, Aoyama, unhappy. By the end of production however, we no longer needed someone who could only do simple tasks, so I told them, “We're letting you go.” They replied, “That's a problem.” What's going on here? Isn't this just because you don't like them? Getting back to the story, they come to me saying they want to talk because they don't want to go through that again. But you have to overcome that. The tough experiences you've gone through are just part of the job. Enduring the hardships and achieving results builds confidence, which will definitely lead to the next step.
GOTO: Before joining CAPCOM, you probably had some part-time jobs, but experiencing the rough and tumble of the industry is rare these days.
MIKAMI: We're like fish raised in a plastic greenhouse. So we have to gradually acclimate them to natural water, exposing them to rough waves little by little. That might take five or ten years. Honestly, I sometimes think about just quitting, but then I think, “Maybe I should wait a little longer.” The times are changing quickly though, so we have to keep up. It's not about keeping up with the times, but about how to lead people. I want to create a workplace where people feel a sense of fulfillment, where they can say, “This is a job I'm happy to do.” I don't want to be a group of creators who produce the world's best-selling products, but a group that feels the most fulfillment in what they do. It's about not being too greedy, right?
DON'T UNDERESTIMATE THE USERS
GOTO: The phrase “Users aren't so stupid; don't underestimate them” keeps coming up in your comments, doesn't it?
MIKAMI: At its core, it all comes down to how you view human beings. People, things, money—it's a cliché, but how do you cut through the causal relationships between those three and connect them to marketing? Marketing isn't about data or the collective will of the masses. At its core, it's about a single individual, so we should return to that starting point. Through communication, it becomes multiple, and through application, it spreads further and further. It's not something you can read from data. I think it's more like a sense, like a drug-sniffing dog, something you feel with your skin. Marketing that excludes subjectivity doesn't work, I think. It's like objective subjectivity. You have to have that then use your sense of smell to distinguish between things.
GOTO: That's right. During the Sakakibara case, a former FBI profiler wrote an article in a Japanese magazine saying, “The perpetrator's an adult.” That was way off. The environment and demographic makeup are completely different between Japan and the US, so it's no surprise the methods didn't apply. They didn't go back to the individual in the Sakakibara case and think about it. It's obvious when you think about it.
MIKAMI: I guess that's what you call sensitivity. I think it's probably a matter of aptitude. Whether you're very interested in the things around you or not. In terms of numbers for example, women buy more watches than men. But they don't spend a lot of money on them. It's just part of their fashion. They might spend four or five thousand yen at most. If they really splurge, maybe ten thousand. Women in their 30s who have some financial leeway might buy a Rolex when they think about dressing appropriately for their age. But young girls don't really go for Rolexes. They care about that kind of thing. Why do you think loose socks are popular?
GOTO: I think it's about wanting to hold onto their childlike nature. Reinforcing the symbol of being a high school girl. Even at 19 or 20, they can still get away with being a fake “coyal.” It's like wanting to cling to childishness. Hiding their ankles like Sally and turning reality into a fantastical manga—there's a somewhat escapist desire there that overlaps with visual kei guys.
MIKAMI: That's where the lead singer gets hooked, I think. And I'm pretty fixated on that perspective. How to assert individuality within constraints. Not everyone thinks being trendy's good. Pretending to like loose socks is partly because they're trendy now, and you don't want to be left out. Where do you differentiate yourself? It's in the way the fabric sags. That's where you differentiate yourself and assert your individuality. You can see the feeling of not being able to boldly assert your individuality there.
GOTO: Well, I don't make definitive statements. I just say, “Maybe that's the case.”
MIKAMI: Yeah. When I ask people for their opinions, they often say, “You already know the answer!” I reply, “Sorry, I've already decided this is the right answer. I'm just asking if it's wrong.” When you ask people on-site, their opinions can vary widely, but in such cases, there's usually someone whose opinions are very average, like the greatest common denominator, and I ask them. Later, when I check with about ten people, their opinions usually align with that person's. That's actually the basics of marketing, isn't it? It's an example of how, when you go back to the individual level, you arrive at the correct answer because it's hard to gather data at the macro level. Doing that in our company is risky, though. Why? Because we're a very limited group. We're biased. That's the problem. So even if someone isn't good at making games, we want to bring in people with a very general sense of things. But when we do, they get overwhelmed and leave quickly. The fact it's like a smoking room is undeniable, so maybe we have to bring in someone who says, “I hate cigarette smoke, but I can tolerate it,” and expand from there. It's tough, but that's where we are right now.
GOTO: So, finally, BIO. I hear the BIO series and similar games account for about half of CAPCOM's sales this quarter, so the consumer division's heavily reliant on BIO. This isn't unique to CAPCOM; it's been like this in the game industry for a long time. When a company has a big hit title, they turn it into a series and rely on it for several years to survive. Do you think that's the right way to survive?
MIKAMI: From a managerial perspective, I think you could give it a "△" rather than an "〇." That "△" is a "△" with a low probability of turning into an "X." As a manager, you have to keep everyone employed. On the other hand, is there a chance the next big hit to replace BIO will come along by sheer luck? Objectively speaking, the probability's very low. Out of 1,000 titles released, only two or three become big hits selling over 1 million copies. Even for a company releasing 20 to 30 titles a year, relying on probability's unrealistic. Can a single game sustain its lifespan for four to five years? Since this is also unlikely, the idea that we must convert a single hit into long-term stable profits is, in a way, a valid argument. What's important is to do that while acknowledging that eventually its lifespan will come to an end—we've learned that the hard way with Street Fighter II, so we should know better—but BIO's also like a winning lottery ticket, and to generate the next hit, we need to give new talent the opportunity to create original works. That's what I think's the right approach as a manager. We need to balance both those aspects. It's like a two-pronged approach.
GOTO: BIO doesn't have that long a lifespan, so you need to act quickly, but it's not so simple in reality, is it? There are various considerations like shareholder relations and board of directors' decisions.
MIKAMI: But we need to proceed with the plan over a five year span. It's a gamble, but we'll give it our best shot.
MIKAMI: Yeah, I think there's some truth to that. For example, the PlayStation market's 15 million units. But there are people who replace them like Walkmans... I'm one of them, because they break. So if you subtract that and assume 12 million users, that's one in ten buying a game. If you think about it, making a game one in ten people will like is surprisingly easy. Having said that, some of the unique games Sony has succeeded with aren't particularly fun to play. I think their contents are basic too. ...That's what I've been thinking about. It's just a quirk of mine. (Referring to the previous Sony games) You're just turning your favorite things into work, so why do you deserve a high salary? I keep telling myself that, mumbling to myself. (laughs) But lately, I've been trying not to think about it too much.
GOTO: So where do you draw the line between what's a hobby and what's not?
MIKAMI: You can't. If you leave it entirely up to the individual though, their marketing's confined to their own mind, so when they leave, the company loses its ability to market the product.
GOTO: Hmm... It's already become legendary, but you got scolded by Okamoto-san during development of “BIOHAZARD 1,” right? Had you talked to him before that? Not just with “BIO1.”
MIKAMI: Not at all. I heard him say, ‘In games, one flaw stands out more than ten good points, so eliminate that flaw completely,’ when I was in my second year at the company. That said, if the creators aren't satisfied with what they're making, they won't be able to keep working on it. In an office job, you might have to do it just to make a living, but creating something comes from the negative energy of your libido. If you just cut corners, even if you think you're giving it your all, you're probably not giving it your all. As you go back and forth between the creator, the user, and the company, things start to stagnate, and eventually the fun slips away.
GOTO: For example, the concept or idea behind a game might be amazing, but the controls or interface are incredibly user-unfriendly. In that case, users might complain but still enjoy playing it, “Well, guess it can't be helped”.
MIKAMI: It depends on the extent. The controls in BIO were something we intended to fix eventually. Before we could though, it became widely popular, so changing them now would lead to complaints like, “We're used to this—what're you doing?” That's something we can't do either.
GOTO: The reason behind its widespread popularity... well, the controls are bad. But because the controls are bad, it...
MIKAMI: It's gaining praise.
GOTO: Right. There are constraints on the controls, and that sense of being constrained has become part of the game's appeal, hasn't it?
MIKAMI: Yeah. That's something we should reflect on, but it wasn't intentional. When people say the poor controls make you fumble around which adds to the horror, it's pretty tough to hear. That wasn't our intention. It's more embarrassing. When someone asks, “What do you think of a million copies sold?” I'd honestly just say, “Hmm, nothing special.” I'd feel annoyed by the increased interviews. I was actually in favor of me, as a creator, stepping into the public eye. Games are an intangible product. In an arcade, you can play for 100 yen at a time, and if you don't like it, you can stop right there. But with a console game, you have to spend fifty-eight 100 yen coins to buy it. You can't return a boring game. There are demo versions, but I still think the environment isn't great for users to find products that match their tastes. On the other hand, directors are in a position where they can explain things as a face of the company. If users recognize them and know they make games with a certain style, it makes it easier for them to choose. Another interesting thing's word of mouth. How many people do you think it takes for something to become a standard through word of mouth?
GOTO: Actually just two people, right? Besides yourself.
MIKAMI: Exactly. It's actually just two people. Two or three people say, “Everyone says so.” That becomes the “norm” now. So it's surprisingly effective. If you were to stop a few people, you could get two or three. Word of mouth's a pretty effective form of promotion, I think.
GOTO: With that in mind, interviews are both media coverage and word of mouth. So...
MIKAMI: There's value in creators appearing in interviews.
A PRODUCER'S WAY OF LIFE
GOTO: Then, I'll ask two simple questions. How would you define a game?
MIKAMI: I think it's something that's fun to watch and fun to play. If it has those elements, I think it can be simply called a game. If there's something unique to games other media lacks, it's interactivity. Half the work's completed by the user themselves. It's not a one-way medium. The other's unpredictability. With movies, once you see the ending, you just leave. But with games, even after you pass the ending, there's an element of not knowing what'll happen next. Of course, this exists in movies and other media too, but with games, there's the possibility of bold changes in the next development. As long as you focus on creating those elements, it can be called a game... I don't want to define games with a narrow definition. Let's stop being bound by old preconceived notions like role-playing, shooting, or action. That's where the definition lies. So if none of the elements I just mentioned are present, it's not a game.
GOTO: So even if it's programmed, if it's just a chore, it's not a game. Next question: Why does Shinji Mikami make games?
MIKAMI: When I think about why I make games, one reason's that I want to feel my own existence. Another reason's that I think an environment of creating things is ideal for promoting human growth. And the third reason, which may actually be the most fundamental, is that I have complexes. I want to sublimate them in some way and show that even though I have complexes, I also have outstanding qualities. That's it, I guess. To take it even further, I also want games to be recognized by society. I don't want games to be blamed every time something happens. Of course, it's important to prioritize user satisfaction, but I also want that extra “personal touch.” However, I don't feel so much of that in current games, and when I do feel that “personal touch,” there's no user satisfaction. It's like they're only looking at themselves. Like watching a facial shower in an adult video.
GOTO: It's not enough to just serve or just satisfy yourself. At its core, it's about self-realization, personal growth, self-discipline, and creating something for yourself. Did a sense of mission emerge as you worked on it?
MIKAMI: I'm already a producer, so I'm fully immersed in it. Right now, that aspect's much more important to me. Sense of responsibility, sense of mission. I think the older folk at our company are like that. It looks tough (laughs). Sometimes I wonder what makes me happy. There's a guy named Kawano who's making a “Rockman”-style game, and from my perspective, he seems happy. It looks healthy. I think, “Man, I'm jealous of that guy.” My grandfather passed away, so I have to attend the funeral, but if someone next to me looks happy, it's frustrating, isn't it? (laughs) What's going on? Am I just too sensitive to what others say? When you're out of the field, your senses dull. When the candy shop lady measures out candy, she knows exactly how much it is, even if she doesn't know the exact weight. That kind of precision comes from years of practice. When you're away from the scene for a long time, it comes out the other way. Your senses dull. You can tell for yourself. If I can't return to the scene this year because my judgment's slow, I might need to give up. I think the path of a creator wasn't meant for me. The best thing would be for a creator who's way better than me to come along and show me the difference in ability right in front of me, so I can focus on helping everyone else grow. I don't hate my current job, though.
GOTO: Is there no next step for a producer?
MIKAMI: Well, I need to seriously consider that now. Soon. The next step for a producer's to become the company president, right? Maybe I'll have to consider that option. I don't know what I'll do, besides move forward—.
GOTO: To move to the next job, should you first properly nurture the young people currently under your care? Out of duty, or for the sake of succession?
MIKAMI: Yeah, that's true. But I don't intend to keep them tied down or anything.
GOTO: When you worked on BIO1 the planners Kamiya, Aoyama, and Kato went on to direct sequels. Do you feel like you were able to nurture them to a certain extent?
MIKAMI: Hmm... They're still in the growth phase. That's my responsibility, though. I feel very sorry for them since I couldn't provide them with a good environment. Game development's similar to writing a scenario, and creating four original games in two years is more effective for developing skills than spending two years on one big project. A series like BIO has a long development cycle, so it's not really ideal.
GOTO: Mikami-san was reportedly trained in a Spartan-like environment when he first joined the company, where he was told to submit a proposal in a week or complete a game in a month. That's the kind of situation you're recreating, right? In that sense, those three have that kind of grit.
MIKAMI: Grit... well, maybe a little. They had a short apprenticeship period. They were able to focus relatively on work suited to their abilities, and if there was a task they didn't like, there was always someone else in the team who could do it better, so they took it off their shoulders. As a result, they tend to lack the awareness needed to balance the game as a whole or lead the team.
GOTO: I was really struck when Kato-san said to you, “It's not making the game itself that's hard. What's hard is dealing with people,” then later said he understood that after actually making it.
MIKAMI: It was a good experience, I think. When you're in a large group you can avoid the unpleasant people, but in a small team, you've no choice but to face them one-on-one.
GOTO: You have no choice but to confront them directly.
MIKAMI: Exactly. It's like being crammed into a small space. You can't escape it. It's like when you live under the same roof with someone you've been getting along with, and a trivial thing triggers a huge argument. It's a similar phenomenon—there's a build-up of friction, but you can't escape it. We've been discussing this too. Earlier, someone came to me and said, “It was tough,” and broke down crying. At first, I tried to stay calm and not let them cry, but I thought it might be better to let them cry and clear their emotions. When I said, “It was tough, wasn't it? You're really trying hard,” they just broke down and cried. Small teams are really tough when it comes to human relationships. You can't delegate your work to others, and as a director, you have to handle everything from management to schedule planning. There was also an incident during BIO3's production. We brought in a newbie to help out, but they could only do simple tasks, which made the director, Aoyama, unhappy. By the end of production however, we no longer needed someone who could only do simple tasks, so I told them, “We're letting you go.” They replied, “That's a problem.” What's going on here? Isn't this just because you don't like them? Getting back to the story, they come to me saying they want to talk because they don't want to go through that again. But you have to overcome that. The tough experiences you've gone through are just part of the job. Enduring the hardships and achieving results builds confidence, which will definitely lead to the next step.
GOTO: Before joining CAPCOM, you probably had some part-time jobs, but experiencing the rough and tumble of the industry is rare these days.
MIKAMI: We're like fish raised in a plastic greenhouse. So we have to gradually acclimate them to natural water, exposing them to rough waves little by little. That might take five or ten years. Honestly, I sometimes think about just quitting, but then I think, “Maybe I should wait a little longer.” The times are changing quickly though, so we have to keep up. It's not about keeping up with the times, but about how to lead people. I want to create a workplace where people feel a sense of fulfillment, where they can say, “This is a job I'm happy to do.” I don't want to be a group of creators who produce the world's best-selling products, but a group that feels the most fulfillment in what they do. It's about not being too greedy, right?
DON'T UNDERESTIMATE THE USERS
GOTO: The phrase “Users aren't so stupid; don't underestimate them” keeps coming up in your comments, doesn't it?
MIKAMI: At its core, it all comes down to how you view human beings. People, things, money—it's a cliché, but how do you cut through the causal relationships between those three and connect them to marketing? Marketing isn't about data or the collective will of the masses. At its core, it's about a single individual, so we should return to that starting point. Through communication, it becomes multiple, and through application, it spreads further and further. It's not something you can read from data. I think it's more like a sense, like a drug-sniffing dog, something you feel with your skin. Marketing that excludes subjectivity doesn't work, I think. It's like objective subjectivity. You have to have that then use your sense of smell to distinguish between things.
GOTO: That's right. During the Sakakibara case, a former FBI profiler wrote an article in a Japanese magazine saying, “The perpetrator's an adult.” That was way off. The environment and demographic makeup are completely different between Japan and the US, so it's no surprise the methods didn't apply. They didn't go back to the individual in the Sakakibara case and think about it. It's obvious when you think about it.
MIKAMI: I guess that's what you call sensitivity. I think it's probably a matter of aptitude. Whether you're very interested in the things around you or not. In terms of numbers for example, women buy more watches than men. But they don't spend a lot of money on them. It's just part of their fashion. They might spend four or five thousand yen at most. If they really splurge, maybe ten thousand. Women in their 30s who have some financial leeway might buy a Rolex when they think about dressing appropriately for their age. But young girls don't really go for Rolexes. They care about that kind of thing. Why do you think loose socks are popular?
GOTO: I think it's about wanting to hold onto their childlike nature. Reinforcing the symbol of being a high school girl. Even at 19 or 20, they can still get away with being a fake “coyal.” It's like wanting to cling to childishness. Hiding their ankles like Sally and turning reality into a fantastical manga—there's a somewhat escapist desire there that overlaps with visual kei guys.
MIKAMI: That's where the lead singer gets hooked, I think. And I'm pretty fixated on that perspective. How to assert individuality within constraints. Not everyone thinks being trendy's good. Pretending to like loose socks is partly because they're trendy now, and you don't want to be left out. Where do you differentiate yourself? It's in the way the fabric sags. That's where you differentiate yourself and assert your individuality. You can see the feeling of not being able to boldly assert your individuality there.
GOTO: Well, I don't make definitive statements. I just say, “Maybe that's the case.”
MIKAMI: Yeah. When I ask people for their opinions, they often say, “You already know the answer!” I reply, “Sorry, I've already decided this is the right answer. I'm just asking if it's wrong.” When you ask people on-site, their opinions can vary widely, but in such cases, there's usually someone whose opinions are very average, like the greatest common denominator, and I ask them. Later, when I check with about ten people, their opinions usually align with that person's. That's actually the basics of marketing, isn't it? It's an example of how, when you go back to the individual level, you arrive at the correct answer because it's hard to gather data at the macro level. Doing that in our company is risky, though. Why? Because we're a very limited group. We're biased. That's the problem. So even if someone isn't good at making games, we want to bring in people with a very general sense of things. But when we do, they get overwhelmed and leave quickly. The fact it's like a smoking room is undeniable, so maybe we have to bring in someone who says, “I hate cigarette smoke, but I can tolerate it,” and expand from there. It's tough, but that's where we are right now.
GOTO: So, finally, BIO. I hear the BIO series and similar games account for about half of CAPCOM's sales this quarter, so the consumer division's heavily reliant on BIO. This isn't unique to CAPCOM; it's been like this in the game industry for a long time. When a company has a big hit title, they turn it into a series and rely on it for several years to survive. Do you think that's the right way to survive?
MIKAMI: From a managerial perspective, I think you could give it a "△" rather than an "〇." That "△" is a "△" with a low probability of turning into an "X." As a manager, you have to keep everyone employed. On the other hand, is there a chance the next big hit to replace BIO will come along by sheer luck? Objectively speaking, the probability's very low. Out of 1,000 titles released, only two or three become big hits selling over 1 million copies. Even for a company releasing 20 to 30 titles a year, relying on probability's unrealistic. Can a single game sustain its lifespan for four to five years? Since this is also unlikely, the idea that we must convert a single hit into long-term stable profits is, in a way, a valid argument. What's important is to do that while acknowledging that eventually its lifespan will come to an end—we've learned that the hard way with Street Fighter II, so we should know better—but BIO's also like a winning lottery ticket, and to generate the next hit, we need to give new talent the opportunity to create original works. That's what I think's the right approach as a manager. We need to balance both those aspects. It's like a two-pronged approach.
GOTO: BIO doesn't have that long a lifespan, so you need to act quickly, but it's not so simple in reality, is it? There are various considerations like shareholder relations and board of directors' decisions.
MIKAMI: But we need to proceed with the plan over a five year span. It's a gamble, but we'll give it our best shot.