Farewell, Sadahiko Hirose

 ■Farewell, Sadahiko Hirose

Sadahiko Hirose has passed away. He was 76 years old.

He made PC’s as a senior executive manager at IBM; he made games as senior managing director at ASCII; he made the Dreamcast as vice president of Sega; he made an online business as the president of @NetHome (now J:COM); and he got Columbia Records back on its feet. He was an incredible person.

In September 1997, the government’s administrative reform council presented an interim report on the dissolution of the Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications. As the one in charge of the ministry, I led an opposition movement, and as a result I was able to slip into the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications. It all worked out but I had to write my letter of resignation. I had intended to climb my way up to the position of undersecretary. What was I going to do?

As I was worrying about the future, I was contacted by ASCII’s president, Kazuhiko Nishi, and senior managing director, Sadahiko Hirose, asking for a meeting. We met in the lobby of Hotel Okura. Despite it being our first time meeting in person, Mr. Hirose suddenly said “You should go into the private sector. You should be the head of the ASCII’s game department.” At the time, that department was big business, with sales of tens of billions of yen from games like Derby Stallion, moon, and RPG Maker. While the prospect didn’t click with me right away, it was truly comforting to know there were people in the private sector who would take me on.

Across the lobby we saw Yoko Ono. “I’ve never seen her in person before,” I said. To which Mr. Hirose responded, “Yoko Ono was my tutor.” I thought this was some sort of complex joke that you had to laugh at in the private sector, and I struggled to put on a smile. I learned later that when Mr. Hirose was in elementary school, she really had taught him English. Mr. Hirose, you mustn’t leave this world before your teacher.

1998 began and when I resolved to leave public service, Misters Nishi and Hirose brought me a different offer. “Talk to Chairman Isao Okawa of Sega/CSK,” they said. I did as I was told and went for a drink with Mr. Okawa in Nishiazabu. I guzzled down (probably) very expensive wine by the glassful.

Mr. Okawa said, “I’m donating 3.5 billion yen of my personal funds to MIT to make a research center for media and children. Would you be the visiting professor in charge?” “That’s my job. It sounds real. I’ll do it,” I answered. When I reported to Mr. Hirose, saying, “I think Mr. Okawa took a shine to me,” he guffawed and responded, “Not many people have the guts to guzzle wine in front of Mr. Okawa.”

After entering the private sector, I learned a lot about business, the US, and many other things. I hadn’t learned much at university, and I had been forced to learn a lot in the public service, but I learned even more after going private and moving to the US. Mr. Hirose was my mentor.

At the same time as I went to the US, Mr. Hirose became the vice president of Sega and was pushing ahead with the Dreamcast. I was made an advisor to Sega and joined the team, getting a firsthand view of the development and sales process. I was amazed by Mr. Hirose’s business practice. You can’t supervise unless you’re well versed in chips, OS, signals (the Dreamcast was the world’s first game system with communications functionality), game software, image, sound, design, production line, sales channels, and everything else. In order to finish on a tight schedule, you need to make instantaneous decisions every day. I was barely able to keep up.

But he always seemed lighthearted. While chatting in the vice president’s office at Haneda, Tetsuya Mizuguchi came in and began a meandering explanation of a game in the planning stage accompanied by large gestures of his lanky frame. “You shoot the gun like this and the aliens squeak like this.” Mr. Hirose smiled as he fired off one question after another about characters, reaction speed, and development cost. Mr. Mizuguchi answered rapidly. “Hmm, I guess that’s how games are made,” I thought to myself as I listened intently. That was the moment of Space Channel 5’s inception.

At the time, Sega America was located on a quiet lakeshore in Silicon Valley. Mr. Hirose was making fun of the leaders in American game production in English. They were economizing their workplaces from the perspective of production management. Conversely, Derby Stallion was about to go on sale, and Mr. Hirose anticipated that more weight would be placed on software, so he planned to move the company. “Creators can’t stay in Silicon Valley. They can’t be in the countryside. They need food and clubs. They need culture. They need to be in an urban setting.” So saying, he moved Sega America to San Francisco’s warehouse district. The engineers may have been dissatisfied, but the creators were over the moon.

At the time he was a rare person who had a strong grasp on both technology and content, digital and analog.

After returning from MIT, which was establishing a research center for children and media, and launching CANVAS, a Japanese NPO for children’s creativity and expression, Mr. Hirose was kind enough to host the inaugural workshop in Okayama City. The activity was to create a picture for yourself using any materials you liked, such as fallen leaves or tape. Mr. Hirose himself acted as the facilitator. Thereafter, CANVAS grew to become the host of one of the largest children’s creative events in the world, “Workshop Collection”, and contributed to making programming part of the core curriculum. Mr. Hirose sat on the board of directors throughout.

My contract at Stanford ended in 2006. “What should I do now?” I wondered. “Mr. Hirose, what should I do?” “Go into the media and take every job that comes your way. Once you have too many jobs, then think about it,” he opined bluntly at a Roppongi drinking establishment.

I signed a contract with Horipro as a cultural personality and appeared on quiz shows and shows targeted at housewives. At the same time I was picked up by Keio University and took every opportunity that came my way, until even I was confused about who on earth I was. Whether the mask I had been wearing fell off, or the gilding I had worn had started to strip away, I think I became true to my nature at that time. In other words, Mr. Hirose had been saying, “Stop pretending and move!”

That’s how I became the person I am today.

Government office; MIT, Stanford, Keio; and soon I will be opening the venture university iU, which will bring me into the third chapter of my life. This time I wish for careful guidance focused on the startup. From the beginning of iU’s conception, I had asked Mr. Hirose to be a visiting professor. Before I could thoroughly ask him about it, he continued on his journey. He was 76—too young. He will be missed.

At my age, Mr. Hirose was driving a used Porsche in Tokyo, dancing in New York clubs until morning, and eating eggs Benedict for breakfast in San Francisco. I will remember those images of him as I move on to my next job.