Friday, 24 July 1995

It had only been a week since the official launch of the ZAGE Forums, and already the global gaming community was buzzing with excitement. Players who had never even considered joining an internet provider were now doing so just to be part of the experience. The forums became a lively, digital hangout—full of energy, curiosity, and connection. Zaboru had anticipated growth, but even he hadn't expected this level of engagement so soon.

To keep things organized, Zaboru hired a dedicated admin team to manage the site. However, he put a unique system in place: moderators couldn't immediately delete posts, no matter how many times they were reported. Instead, every flagged post would be reviewed by Zaboru himself. His personal account—nicknamed the "Zaboru Renkonan" are the "Ultimate Account"—had unrestricted access to every feature on the site. Zaboru took this responsibility seriously, scanning reports, reviewing discussions, and stepping in only when absolutely necessary. He believed in freedom of speech and community-driven growth.

Even employees within ZAGE were swept up in the excitement. Developers in the Tokyo office were chatting daily with their counterparts in ZAGE USA—something that had previously been limited to scheduled calls , meetings or long-winded emails. Now, casual conversation flowed freely through the forum's internal chat feature, sparking collaboration and friendships across borders. The forum had unintentionally become a powerful tool for internal team bonding.

Surprisingly, users from Europe, Korea, and even China joined in, many doing their best to communicate in English despite language barriers. Native English speakers stepped up to offer help, gently correcting grammar and encouraging newcomers to keep participating. What unfolded was something unexpected: an online space filled with genuine kindness, enthusiasm, and mutual respect.

Against Zaboru's expectations, the environment was overwhelmingly positive. He had worried the forums would quickly devolve into chaos or hostility, plagued by trolls or toxic behavior. But instead, he found something else entirely—people building each other up, sharing tips, giving thoughtful feedback, and supporting one another through even the silliest threads.

Helpful advice, clever walkthroughs, and creative strategies flooded the pages. It was vibrant, collaborative, and welcoming. It felt like a different kind of internet altogether—one that stood in stark contrast to the fragmented, cynical online spaces Zaboru had known in his previous life. It gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, the digital world in this world could grow into something better.

Zaboru, moved by the community's warmth and positive energy, decided to create a second, anonymous account so he could interact more casually and spontaneously with users—free from the weight of his official presence. He named the account "PlayStation"—a term completely unfamiliar to this world, making it the perfect disguise for lurking and joining in without raising suspicion.

Under this clever pseudonym, Zaboru wandered the forums like any regular user. He answered random questions, dropped subtle helps about the questions, and joined in on joke threads and debates with clever, insightful comments. He wasn't always serious—sometimes he threw in jokes or absurd theories just to see how the community would respond.

Before long in just a week, "PlayStation" had developed a reputation. Forum users began quoting the account, tagging it in posts, and praising the mysterious user's blend of humor and wisdom. Some even speculated that "PlayStation" might be a secret developer—or even Zaboru himself—but most brushed it off as just another passionate fan. Regardless, "PlayStation" quickly became a local legend, admired for their witty comebacks, spot-on gaming advice, and the uncanny ability to answer even the silliest of questions with surprising depth.

The forums were bursting with energy. Threads ranged from helpful to hilarious:

"How do I find Zabo-man in Super Mario Land?"

"HELP! How do you beat the Embodiment of Pain in Ninja Gaiden 3?"

"Did you know you can skip most of Super Mario Bros. using this trick?"

"Who's faster: Sonic or Ryu Hayabusa?"

"Can SpongeBob get thirsty?"

"Guilty Gear lore"

"Could Mewtwo beat the Battletoads?"

"Does Doomguy exist in Spawn's universe?"

"Who's the hottest ZAGE babe?" (This one, of course, sparked endless debate.)

There were also plenty of heartfelt requests. Players begged for sequels to cult classics like Kid Icarus and Kick Master, and demanded a new SpongeBob game. Surprisingly, a strong niche of users even asked for more 8-bit titles, saying they preferred the simplicity and charm over newer 16-bit visuals.

Another popular thread category? Zaboru conspiracies:

"Is Zaboru even human?"

"Zaboru is what happens when creativity becomes flesh."

"There's no way Zaboru is just one guy."

Zaboru secretly adored these posts. Some theories made him laugh out loud at his desk.

Technical questions also found their place on the forums, drawing in a whole new wave of participants—many of whom were aspiring game developers, artists, and coders. One particularly popular thread was titled, "How do you achieve graphics like F-Zero or StarFox on the ZEPS 2?" It quickly exploded with activity. Dozens of users jumped in to dissect the topic, discussing Mode 7 tricks, sprite layering, scaling effects, and the intricacies of hardware optimization.

Some users even posted diagrams, shared their own experimental code snippets, and uploaded annotated screenshots of games in action. It became a sort of grassroots classroom for digital artists and programmers alike.

Zaboru occasionally chimed in, both as himself and as "PlayStation," offering guidance, clarifying misconceptions, and sometimes simply encouraging users to keep digging. His comments weren't just informative—they were motivational. He nudged people in the right direction without spoon-feeding answers, helping them think like developers. As the thread grew, it became something of a forum staple—a reference hub for anyone curious about the secrets behind visual wizardry on limited hardware.

What amazed him most was how genuinely fun it all was. Dark humor popped up here and there, but no one was cruel. There weren't any trolls—at least, not yet. ZAGE Forums had quickly become something special: a wholesome, international clubhouse for gamers.

To become active on the forums, users first had to create an account—a simple step that unlocked full access to threads, posts, and the vibrant digital community. From there, they could browse freely, read conversations, and post their own questions or thoughts without restrictions.

However, reacting to posts was a different matter. In a move that puzzled some newcomers but made perfect sense to regulars, Zaboru had instituted a unique rule: to give a post a "Green Stuff" (similar to a like) or a "Red Stuff" (a downvote), a user first needed to have made 1,000 comments. It was a high threshold by design.

Zaboru believed this system would discourage knee-jerk reactions and encourage thoughtful engagement. Instead of just dropping a like or dislike and moving on, users were more inclined to participate in conversations, share insights, or challenge ideas constructively. It created a culture where words mattered more than clicks, and where voices—especially new ones—were genuinely heard and welcomed.

Beyond discussion threads, players began sharing custom mods for ZAGE games—especially Quake. There were new weapons, character skins, and wild experiments with game mechanics. It became clear that modding was going to be huge.

Seeing this, Zaboru smiled and jotted down a quick note in his notepad: the next site update would include a dedicated Mods section. It was more than a response to user demand—it was a proactive step toward shaping the future of the community. Modding was no longer a niche hobby; it was slowly becoming a core part of gaming culture, and Zaboru wanted to give it a proper home on the ZAGE site.

The timing couldn't have been better. Warcraft 2 was set to launch the very next day, and word had already spread that its engine would support user-created content straight out of the box. With a Mods section in place, players would have a central space to share, discuss, and celebrate their creations.

Zaboru knew this wasn't just a trend—it was a movement. He could feel it in the momentum of the forums, in the excitement of the players, and in the sheer creativity already pouring out from the community.

Back in his office, Zaboru checked in with the ZAGE USA development team over a speaker call. The energy in the room was palpable even across the distance. John Carmack was practically glowing with enthusiasm. "Boss, this is really something!" Carmack said, almost breathless. "The forums are amazing—there's so much to read, so many great ideas being tossed around. I still can't believe you built this entire site yourself from scratch. It's genius."

His words weren't just praise—they carried genuine admiration. Carmack itself are top tier engineer and he knows it, but this? This was different. Whole new level.

John Romero leaned back and nodded. "Seriously, it's insane. I'm proud to call you my boss. You're not like those corporate suits at other companies—you actually get it. You're a badass!"

Zaboru smirked. "Heh, are you buttering me up because you want a salary raise?"

Everyone laughed.

Even though the forums had only been live for a week, they were already shaping the future of the online gaming community. Even just in its starting phase the platform was rapidly evolving into something far more impactful—a central hub for creativity, connection, and shared passion for video games. And from here on out, it would only grow stronger because this was just the beginning.

To be continued...

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