After meeting with Tetsuo Hara, Zaboru returned to his desk with a renewed sense of drive. While much of his time was dedicated to game development and refining creative concepts, today his focus shifted toward a broader vision: building a lasting legacy for the gaming industry. Something beyond a single console or genre. It was time to initiate the second official ZAGE event of the year—an event that he hoped would evolve into an annual celebration, a cherished tradition for gamers worldwide. This would be the birth of ZAGE's Game of the Year Award.
He leaned back in his chair, thoughts racing. "Let's plan it for December 29th, 1992—right before the year ends, during the festive season," he murmured to himself. The timing was intentional. The holiday spirit was still strong, families were together, and gamers young and old had more time than ever to engage with their favorite pastime. It would serve not only as a recognition of excellence but also as a culmination of a groundbreaking year in video gaming.
Zaboru grinned. "It's perfect. We'll host it in Japan for this year " He glanced over at the calendar and then made a quick scribble in his notebook. He knew that the American gaming scene was still emerging, especially when it came to independent developers. Third-party output in Japan had a clear edge. "Next year though," he whispered with anticipation, "this could become a global event. Once Emerald Wings finalizes their U.S. manufacturing branch, from it ZAGE will be able to release directly in the American market. When that day comes, ZGA can expand beyond borders."
He had already spent months quietly planning the ceremony, though only a handful of close staff knew the full extent. The newly acquired ZAGE Entertainment Building—ZEB—would serve as the venue. It was a spacious, modern facility designed with flexibility in mind: a multipurpose stage, customizable seating arrangements, media-ready backdrops, and breakout rooms for press or interviews. This would be the second official ZAGE event held there.
Zaboru smiled and wrote down the name in his notes: ZGA – ZAGE Game Awards. It had the weight of tradition already, the kind of acronym fans could chant in excitement. To him, it wasn't just another company party—it was a platform. One that would give recognition to game creators in the same way movies honored directors, authors, and actors.
He planned to divide the awards into two key sections: one dedicated to games developed by ZAGE, and another recognizing third-party developers. The decision wasn't made to divide but to ensure fairness. ZAGE had released a massive volume of critically acclaimed games, while many smaller studios were just beginning to find their voice. Grouping all titles together might overshadow great work from smaller teams. "Two sections is more equitable," he reasoned.
Even Sonaya's games, despite their powerhouse status and ZAGE Rivals, would be included in the third-party category. Zaboru had too much respect for them to exclude Sonaya.
Each section would feature the same six award categories:
Game of the Year 1992Best GameplayBest SoundtrackBest Co-op GameBest StoryBest Character
"These cover all the major aspects of what makes a game memorable," he said, underlining each title twice in his planner. "It's not just about the biggest name or the most copies sold—it's about creativity, impact, and what players actually enjoyed."
Zaboru envisioned a venue packed with passionate developers, musicians, artists, and fans. No tuxedos. No forced red carpets. Just developers in casual wear, side by side with the gamers who supported them. He wanted it stripped of the unnecessary glamor that corporate award shows often had. This was supposed to feel real.
"There will be no celebrities. No film stars presenting awards. No industry fluff," he said firmly. "Only devs, artists, fans, and the games themselves."
He imagined developers walking onstage nervously, holding back tears of joy as the crowd roared for them. He could see the highlight reels already: pixelated heroes, unforgettable soundtracks, and frame-perfect boss battles. Moments that defined 1992.
Zaboru also imagined a future where 3D graphics and interactive technology had reached astonishing new heights. He pictured immersive open worlds, characters rendered in near-photorealism, and online communities connecting players across continents in real time. In his mind, he saw himself cosplaying as one of ZAGE's own iconic characters, anonymously blending into a massive crowd at a global gaming convention. He smiled at the thought—walking among passionate fans, sharing their excitement firsthand. He could hardly wait for the day when ZAGE would release groundbreaking titles like Elden Ring, GTA, League of Legends, and many more yet to be imagined. The horizon of gaming was limitless, and Zaboru was determined that ZAGE would be the studio to lead the way into that future.
As for the vote To ensure fairness in the voting process, Zaboru designed a hybrid system. For ZAGE's internal titles, players would submit votes via the popular ZAGE Power magazine, which had over 300,000 monthly readers. For the player that subscribe ZAGE Power the votes would also be collected through flyers distributed at arcades, game shops, and rental stores. Each vote would be counted and verified.
For third-party titles, the process was more nuanced. Zaboru planned to assemble a diverse panel of ZAGE employees—gamers, developers, artists, and testers—who would extensively play all qualifying third-party titles. Their insights, combined with fan feedback, would determine the winners. Fan votes would carry influence, but the internal review still hold more voices.
"The voting system must be robust," he told himself, making a mental note to loop in the data team to help track submissions and analyze patterns. "We're laying the foundation for something that could last decades. It must feel fair and meaningful from day one. And since truly established game critics or experts are still limited at this stage, we'll handle the initial reviews internally through ZAGE's team. In the future, as the industry matures and recognized experts emerge, we can transition those responsibilities to an independent panel to review and rate the games for the awards."
As for the event place He had already contacted an event logistics company to begin staging preparations. The ZEB building would need to be transformed: banners, lighting rigs, an elevated platform for announcements, space for demo booths, and an exhibit room showcasing concept art and game development timelines. He wanted attendees to not just celebrate the games, but understand the craftsmanship behind them.
Let's create a section where players can meet the devs, he added in his notes. Small panels, short Q&As. Make it interactive. Make it human.
As the plans took shape, Zaboru stood by the office window, looking out at the ZAGE offices window. It was late afternoon, the sun casting a warm orange hue over the city. He felt a surge of pride—not just in ZAGE's accomplishments, but in what lay ahead.
"I'll create unforgettable events for both gamers and game developers. And this GOTY award—it won't be a one-time thing. Starting from 1992, there will always be a Game of the Year," Zaboru said with a confident grin.
This event would be lit And though it started in Japan, Zaboru was certain it would one day become the biggest event on earth.
To be continued
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