On my business card, I am a corporate president. In my mind, I am

Host: The rain tapped softly on the glass of a Tokyo café tucked beneath the neon sprawl. Screens glowed in the windows, streaming images of pixels, heroes, and monsters from another world. Steam curled from cups of coffee, catching the light like ghosts of dreams. Jack sat by the window, his jacket damp, his hands folded around a mug he hadn’t touched. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her hair a black curtain, her eyes reflecting the blue of the city lights.

Host: Between them lay a laptop, its screen frozen on a quote — “On my business card, I am a corporate president. In my mind, I am a computer programmer. But in my heart, I am a gamer.”

Jack: (quietly) Iwata said that… Satoru Iwata. The man who built Nintendo into what it is. Funny, isn’t it? A president who saw himself as a gamer first.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) It’s not funny, Jack. It’s beautiful. It means he never forgot where he came from — or why he started.

Jack: Or maybe it means he never fully grew up. (leans back, smirking) Games, code, imagination — nice words. But when you’re running a corporation, you deal with numbers, budgets, shareholders. You don’t lead a company with your heart, Jeeny.

Host: A pause hung between them, thick as steam. Outside, a bus rolled by, its headlights cutting through the mist.

Jeeny: But you lead people with your heart, Jack. That’s what he did. Iwata was a programmer, yes — but more than that, he was a player. He understood the joy that games bring, and he protected it, even when it wasn’t profitable.

Jack: (dryly) And yet, he was still a president — still had to fire people, make business decisions, report to investors. Don’t paint him as a saint.

Jeeny: I’m not. I’m saying he was human.

Host: The rain began to fall harder, streaking the glass like tears. The hum of Tokyo seemed to fade, leaving only the soft rhythm of their voices.

Jack: Look — I get the sentiment. But this idea that you can live by passion in a corporate world — it’s naïve. You either play the game or you lose it. You can’t run a business on nostalgia.

Jeeny: That’s not what he did. He merged them — the heart of a gamer, the mind of a programmer, the duty of a president. That’s not naïve, Jack. That’s genius.

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) So you think emotion belongs in business?

Jeeny: Absolutely. Without it, what are you even building? Iwata once cut his own salary in half so he wouldn’t have to fire anyone. Tell me that’s not leadership.

Jack: That’s sentimentality.

Jeeny: It’s empathy.

Host: The word hung in the air, trembling. Empathy — that fragile, dangerous thing that never fits neatly into a spreadsheet.

Jack: (leaning forward, voice low) You think empathy keeps a company alive? Vision, maybe. Discipline. But empathy? It’s a luxury for people who can afford it.

Jeeny: (fiercely) No — it’s what makes a company worth keeping alive. You can have all the profits in the world, but if you forget the player, the people, the soul — then you’re just another machine.

Jack: (bitter laugh) You sound like you want CEOs to be poets.

Jeeny: Maybe I do.

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, and for a moment, their faces glowed — his sharp, hers soft, both mirrored in the window like two reflections of the same truth.

Jack: Let’s be real, Jeeny. The world doesn’t reward that kind of idealism. Look at what happened to him — Iwata worked himself to death, literally. He gave everything. That’s not noble. That’s tragic.

Jeeny: (quietly, eyes lowering) Maybe it was both. Tragic — and beautiful. He didn’t just make games, Jack. He made joy. That’s something few people can say about their work.

Jack: (sighing) You really think joy pays the bills?

Jeeny: It pays the soul. And sometimes, that’s the only currency that matters.

Host: The café hummed around them — the clinking of cups, the low murmur of voices, the smell of roasted beans and electric rain.

Jack: (after a pause) You know, when I was a kid, I used to stay up all night playing Super Smash Bros. Iwata coded parts of that himself. I didn’t know that back then. I just thought… it was magic.

Jeeny: (smiles softly) It was. That’s the point. He made millions of people feel something — connection, laughter, escape. And he never lost that sense of play, even when he wore a suit.

Jack: (rubbing his temples) So you’re saying — what? That we should all just follow our hearts, ignore the rules?

Jeeny: No. I’m saying we should remember why we started — whatever we’re building. Iwata didn’t separate the player from the president. He bridged them. That’s what made him rare.

Host: Thunder rolled far away — soft, like an old memory stirring. Jack stared into his coffee, watching the ripples fade.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe I’m just tired, Jeeny. Work, deadlines, metrics — it’s all I see now. Sometimes I forget… why I ever loved what I do.

Jeeny: (reaching across the table) Then maybe that’s what he meant. “In my mind, I’m a programmer. In my heart, I’m a gamer.” He was saying — don’t let the title define you. Let your passion do it.

Jack: (looking up at her) Passion fades.

Jeeny: Not if you feed it.

Host: The rain had softened now, a gentle rhythm against the glass. The neon outside bled into colorful reflections, painting their faces in shifting light.

Jack: You know, maybe there’s something to that. Maybe… you can be all three. The leader, the thinker, and the dreamer.

Jeeny: That’s what makes a creator, Jack. Not just logic, not just emotion — but the courage to hold both.

Host: For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The city hummed below, a thousand screens glowing like tiny hearts in the rain.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “But in my heart, I am a gamer.” Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. Not the game — but the heart.

Jeeny: Then maybe it’s time to press start again.

Host: A smile broke across his face, small but real. The rain had stopped, and the reflection of the city in the window was clear again. In that moment, it wasn’t just Tokyo outside — it was a world waiting to be played.

Host: The lights of the café dimmed, the screen on the laptop went dark, but their faces remained lit by something brighter — the quiet fire of understanding.

Host: And in that silence, one could almost hear it — the heartbeat of a gamer, still playing, still creating, still believing.