Shogakukan eBooks

The Will to Keep Winning

Daigo Umehara

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

The Road to the World Championship

An Isolated Childhood

My Sister's Influence Rubs Off

The New Class Boss

Lessons from My Father

Memorizing the Preamble

Letting It All Go

The Arcade

Left Out Again

Climbing onto the World Stage

Crowned the World's Best

How I Did It

Chapter 2

Taking Some Time Away From the Game

Withdrawing from Games

Choosing Mahjong

Training at Mahjong

Mastering Mahjong

Earning Respect

What I Learned

Beyond Conventional Strength

Regrets

Working in Nursing Care

Life without Competition

Reuniting with Games

Showdown in Shinjuku

Umehara Is Back!

Chapter 3

Why I Love Fighting Games

Going Pro

Rematch at EVO

Signing Up

Everyone Has Doubts

My Appreciation for Games

Chapter 4

Sustainable Goals and Personal Growth

Childhood Dreams and Aspirations

You Don't Need a Dream

The Joy of Having Something You Love

Spreading Yourself Too Thin

Going for Four

Never Work Until It Hurts

Quality over Quantity

Distinguish between Goals and Objectives

Continued Growth Is the Goal

Can You Keep It Up for Ten Years?

The Future of the Band

Wait for Your Moment

Creating a Sustainable Routine

My Routine

Stick to Your Routine, in Moderation

Five Steps at a Time

Better than Winning a World Championship

Lessons from the Dumpling Lady

Life with No Days Off

Chapter 5

Keep Evolving to Keep Winning

Why Losers Can't Win

Maintain Balance

The Power of Exploring

Take Notes

Never Stop Thinking

Growth Implies Change

Work on Your Weaknesses

Don't Overthink, Change

There Is No Winning Strategy

Don't Take the Easy Path

There Are No Shortcuts

Target Uncharted Territory

You Don't Own Your Strategies

Don't Play Dirty

Overreliance on Reads Hinders Growth

Focus on Your Opponent

Challenge the Conventional Wisdom

Failure As an Indicator of Progress

Outside Opinions Don't Matter

Concentration

Choose the Most Competitive Game

Skill without Imitation

The Moment of Happiness

Chapter 6

Staying On Top

Staying In My Prime

Stay Young at Heart

Play the Day After Winning

Number One Can Never Run

Feeling Alive

Keep Climbing

Luck

Like a Chinese War General

Thoughts on the 2016 English Edition

Author's Profile

Shogakukan Inc.

2-3-1 Hitotsubashi, Chiyoda-ku, Tokyo 101-8001 Japan

Copyright 2016 Daigo Umehara

ISBN 978-4-09-388486-0

www.shogakukan.co.jp/en/company

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact Shogakukan Inc.

Publisher: Mamoru Ito (Shogakukan Inc.)

First Edition, July 6, 2016

Printed in Japan

Translator: Doug Durgee

Designer: Yuichi Watabe (Tio)

Editorial Consultants: Benjamin Boas, Christopher Sedgwick

Coordinators: Shino Imao, Anna Sakagawa, Kay Matsuoka

Proofreader: George Bourdaniotis

Editors: Tony Gonzalez, T. Christopher Kusuda (Shogakukan Inc.)

“You must understand that there is more than

one path to the top of the mountain.”

─Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings

August 1, 2004─Pomona, California. I'm at California Polytechnic State University for the 2004 Evolution Championship Series, EVO for short. Held once a year, EVO is the world's premier fighting game tournament, bringing together the world's most talented gamers and watched by fighting game fans worldwide.

The halls are teeming with rabid American game fans. The venue is shrouded in an uncanny fervor, echoing with a non-stop din of applause amidst the curtained darkness. Cheers and screams resound at the completion of each round.

I am vying for the title of World Champion in Street Fighter III: 3rd Strike, one of nine games in that year's tournament. Having advanced to the semifinals, my next opponent is America's best: Justin Wong. We are about to engage in what will prove to be the de facto championship battle, since immortalized as“EVO Moment #37,”or“The Daigo Parry.”

The Moment comes in the third round of the first game. Justin and I have both taken one round apiece. I'm playing Ken, and Justin's Chun-Li has me trapped in a corner. He has beaten my life gauge down to a single remaining block; if he lands any attack, even if he forces me to block a special move, it will mean a KO.

The American champion picks his shot and goes in for the kill, unleashing Chun-Li's Houyoku Sen Super Art in the hopes of chipping away at my health as I guard. A solitary voice yelling,“Let's go, Justin!”carries over the crowd, reflecting everyone's assurance of a Chun-Li victory. Still, even with my back against the wall, I remain unfazed.

I use parries─a special way of blocking opponent attacks and special moves without taking any chip damage─to individually deflect all sixteen of Chun-Li's kicks, even pulling off a jumping parry for the final high kick in her combo. I link the last parry into a jumping kick, followed by a sweep, then a Shoryuken. By the time I finish with Ken's own Super Art, Shippu Jinraikyaku, culminating in a Chun-Li KO, the whole hall is on its feet, applauding and cheering at this inconceivable turn of events.

A stunned announcer sums it up well:“Unbelievable!”

I remember feeling the pressure as I watched my life gauge dwindle, thinking this might be the end. But when he had me in that corner, I entered into a Zen-like focus, prepared to do whatever it took. I couldn't even hear the surrounding cheers, building to a crescendo as I successfully parried each hit in the combo. Only the sounds of the game rung clear.

I could sense that Justin was eager to end the match. I figured that he'd expect a win by pulling out his big move, the Houyoku Sen. But I knew that if─just if─I could pull off a full parry I could catch him off guard. So I lay in wait, and sure enough he took the bait. My hands moved as if possessed, and when I came back to myself Chun-Li was down. It wasn't until then that the screams from the crowd finally reached my ears.

The match made a big wave online as well, reaching more than twenty million views worldwide. And so, the name Daigo Umehara became known across the globe.

* * *

You may be wondering how I got there. Unlike many world-class competitors in other competitive ventures, I never set out to be the world's best. I became World Champion while still only seventeen years old out of a personal sense of urgency. Games provided a self-confidence I lacked and helped me control my emotions.

Still, there are a few underlying reasons for how I made it this far. In this book, I'll share with you how I became the world's best, how to put in the effort needed to win competitions, and what I've learned by making it to the top─and staying there.

While eSports might seem to be a niche form of competition, they share many common themes with other activities. Interacting and competing with others, clear win‐loss results, the planning and effort needed to excel─these all translate well to issues we confront every day. Competitive gaming won't teach you all the life skills you'll need, but what I have learned in my ongoing pursuit of success has helped me immensely.

Above all else, the main point I want to make is that I don't just want to win, I want to keep winning, to stay on top of my game. While seemingly similar, I want to show you that these are highly different goals, to the point where they can be at odds with one another. Some may consider winning as the end goal, but producing a result and continuing to produce results are fundamentally different in nature.

In the end, I want to show you that if you're fixated on winning, you'll be incapable of doing so consistently. Of course, if it were as simple as that there'd be no point in writing an entire book about it.

In reality, continued success is exceedingly rare. You might be confident in your ability to win at something if you applied yourself, but how long could you keep it up? I've remained one of the top fighting gamers for quite a while now. We're not just talking about getting on a roll and winning a hundred or even two hundred times, but rather long-term, sustained success.

Not that I've never lost or made mistakes. I've experienced utter defeat and periods where I couldn't produce results at all. I've never deluded myself into thinking that I had mastered games, or that I'm some kind of prodigy. But am I confident in my ability to keep winning? Hell yes.

An Isolated Childhood

Since the second grade, when we moved from Aomori down to Tokyo, I was always sensitive about being excluded.

My new classmates were a bit standoffish. When they did talk to me, for some reason I never felt like they were truly opening up, so I was left wondering what everyone really thought about me. It was like there was this invisible wall surrounding me, a barrier that kept me alone in the crowd.

We would goof around together, but I don't think I had any true friends at school; my sense of isolation kept me from ever bonding with anyone. I felt like there was something different about me. When I woke up in the morning, during school, after returning home… I always felt detached. I was always irritated with something, and my childhood was dismal.

My sister is seven years older than me and was born in Tokyo. When she was four we moved to Aomori, where I was born three years later. The move brought us closer to my mother's family, but that wasn't why we left. Until recently, I was under the impression that our relocation had something to do with my parents' work, but that wasn't the case either. It was because of an impromptu phone call from my unpredictable father while he was on vacation.

“We're moving here,”he said. And so we did, simple as that.

He had taken a trip up to Aomori and was enchanted by the place. He adored my mother's hometown and decided that we should live there, just to see what it would be like. Both my parents had jobs in Tokyo, which they just up and quit. My father was in hospital administration and my mother was a nurse, so I guess they were confident about finding a job wherever they went. Still, it was a bold─if not reckless─decision.

Ten years later Dad decided it was time to move back to Tokyo, apparently because he'd seen enough of Aomori. For me it was just a shock.

I can laugh about it now, but at the time I was upset. I didn't understand why I had to be uprooted and carted off to some place I didn't know. I'm sure that my sister, in junior high school at the time, must have felt the same. My parents told us that my father's mother was living alone and getting on in years, that we needed to move back to look after her, but that's not a huge motivator when you're a kid. I was more concerned about having to leave all my friends.

So we lived in Aomori because my father wanted to, and we returned to Tokyo for the same reason. At least now I realize where I got my impulsive tendencies.

Common wisdom regarding how one is supposed to live life never held much sway in the Umehara household. My parents never once sat me down to teach me important life lessons, and they never forced me down any particular path in life. They did tell me not to cause trouble for others, and they mentioned a few things I shouldn't do, but otherwise they pretty much let me live as I saw fit.

So I don't have what you'd call a good sense of what's normal and what's not. What I do know, however, is that if I'd been raised by“normal”parents in a“normal”household, I wouldn't have chosen the path I have.

I wouldn't be known today as the best fighting game player in the world.

My Sister's Influence Rubs Off

I originally got into video games because of my big sister. Being so much older than me, she was my idol and I mimicked everything she did. When she started playing games on a Nintendo Entertainment System─the original 8-bit system, usually called a“Nintendo”─my eyes lit up with a new desire.

The story of my introduction to video games is an all too familiar one. I started when I was five, with Super Mario Bros. From the moment I first hit that start button, it was a match made in heaven. When I was playing video games I would lose all track of time, and I never wanted to stop; I was lost in another reality.

Of course, my parents didn't let me play as much as I wanted, which naturally made me want to play even more. Luckily they both worked, so they couldn't be as hawkish as some other parents. When playing games with friends, their stay-at-home mothers would often yell at us to go do something else. I'm sure my mom would've been stricter about my game time if she were home more.

The few hours between getting home from school and my parents coming home was my time. They would get back from work at six or seven o'clock at the earliest, so every day I rushed home from school, turned on the Nintendo, and immersed myself in that dazzling 8-bit world.

Whenever I heard my mom come home, I would hurry to turn off the power and run to greet her as if I hadn't been playing at all. She saw right through me, of course. Every day, she would feel the plug to find it red hot and call me out for playing too much. I in turn would try to convince her that the system gets that hot in just a few minutes.

Still, she never told me to stop playing games altogether─it was always just to not play so much. It might sound like a small distinction, but it made a world of difference.

The New Class Boss

When we first moved back to Tokyo, one of the reasons I felt so isolated was my Aomori dialect. I sometimes had trouble communicating or just said things differently, and the other kids would tease me about it.

Luckily, it never developed into full-blown bullying. I was bigger and stronger than other kids my age, so no one ever tried to physically intimidate me. It was more like everyone giving me the cold shoulder; I could sense kids watching me, whispering and snickering to themselves. I hated it. I wished they would go ahead and pick a fight so I could settle things, but I was never quite sure who was against me. The relentless pressure was intense. I took the hint and kept mostly to myself.

While I don't remember it, my parents say that at one point I told them I wanted to stop going to school, supposedly because it was“boring.”They were understandably concerned─I was always highly competitive and not the type to complain─but since I wasn't coming home with bruises or broken school stuff, they didn't do anything.

Everything changed the day the class bully tried to pick a fight. I had him running away in tears by the end. The reaction of the other boys was predictable; my strength earned their respect. What's more, I could run faster than any of them and never once lost at arm wrestling. Things like that are a big deal when you're a kid. The teasing stopped, and I even started gathering a following. Before I knew it, I was the new class boss.

With my parents off at work, my newfound followers always wanted to come to my house to play after school. Most of the time it would be five or six kids, sometimes up to ten. Everyone wanted to go outside to play, but they stuck around when I insisted we stay inside and play video games. Every now and then someone would complain about having to play video games again, but I never had to tell them more than once that it was my house, and I was calling the shots. To be fair, we'd eventually go outside since I knew that's what they all really wanted. It went on like that until we entered junior high.

Lessons from my Father

Early on in life, probably around second grade or so, I felt like something was missing, that I needed to do something more with my life. I needed a goal to pursue so that I could achieve something great. Not that I had any idea what that goal should be. I could run fast, but had no interest in sports. I was never particularly interested in any one subject in school. I didn't like singing, and I wasn't interested in drawing. In spite of my years, such fretting felt like a crisis. In my mind, if I didn't find something soon, I'd just get older and older, and my options would dwindle to nothingness.

I was in such a big hurry to find my niche because of my father. He would always tell me that if there was anything I truly wanted to do he'd support me, and he urged me to find something and pour my all into it. The only problem was, he never told me what that something should be.

I was at a loss. After all, I was just a kid with no understanding of how the world worked, so I couldn't decide for myself. I had no idea what my future self would wind up doing. I knew I wanted to do something, and I was confident that I could fully devote myself to it without complaint, if only I could find what that something was. The only thing that I was passionate about was video games, but…games? Surely that wouldn't live up to my father's expectations. So I remained frustrated, and time just passed on by.

To understand my dad's policy of tolerance for anything his son liked, we first need to take a step back to my grandfather's generation, a time in which a parent's opinion set the rules. My grandfather was apparently quite the shogi player and an impressive dancer, but of course wasn't permitted to pursue either as a career. My great-grandfather would chide him to stop wasting his time and work harder, and in the end Grandpa gave up on his dreams.

So when my father wanted to devote time to karate, judo, and kendo as a student and showed a passion for philosophy, my grandfather told him to quit such nonsense and find a real job. History repeated itself when Dad gave it all up and did as my grandfather said. But by following my grandfather's advice he ended up in a career with no connection to his own interests, a choice he sincerely regretted, so he vowed to never complain about what his own son wanted to do.

It seems like the more the times change, the less the chances of parents understanding their kids' interests. If I were a parent, no doubt my kid would be into something I didn't approve of.

At least, that's how things went in my family, until my dad broke the cycle. Despite having no clue how something like video games could be so appealing, my father never once told me to stop playing them. To him, forcing me to quit video games would be tantamount to inflicting the same pain that he and his father had experienced. He'd never stopped wondering how things might've turned out if he had stuck with what he liked, and didn't want to burden his own son with the same baggage.

Even so, he was visibly irritated at times. He never outright told me to quit playing games or to spend more time studying or anything, but he would take a more soft-spoken approach, suggesting that I get out and get some exercise every now and then. I'm sure he was conflicted; from his perspective, it must have seemed a waste that I showed such athletic promise, yet only played video games. The way my father tells it, my sister was always so obedient and easy to raise, so it wasn't until me that they really felt the challenge in raising kids.

So here I was, this kid searching for something to do with myself but unable to find anything other than video games that held my interest. I didn't get any kind of encouragement from my family or friends, but games were all I had, and giving them up would feel like giving up on life.

It was painful. I questioned myself on a daily basis for only having games. The only time I found solace was when I beat someone playing fighting games. I gave my all to gaming, sacrificing my time and my health in pursuit of the win.

Memorizing the Preamble

I learned persistence from my sister, but not in the way you might expect. My sister takes to studying like a fish to water, so she always coasted through school. It's a rare gift. When I was in elementary school, I'd always hear about how good her grades in junior high were, and I always assumed that I would be just as good in school once I reached her age. Then came the day when her brilliance smacked me down and made me realize my own mediocrity─the day I tried memorizing the Preamble to the Japanese Constitution.

We always had homework over summer vacation, and that year one assignment was memorizing the Preamble. Now, while I hated studying, I wasn't too bad with memorization. In fact, I'd say I was probably above average. I could do this. But for whatever reason, my parents decided that the whole family would memorize it with me. For better or worse, my sister picked up her copy and started reading. None of us could've dreamed that such a charming family moment would determine my life from there on out.

For those not familiar with it, the Preamble to the Japanese Constitution is not exactly short. Coming in at just under three hundred words, it was quite the daunting task and probably a little much to ask of grade schoolers. Indeed, when we returned from vacation only one other student and I had actually memorized the whole thing.

My sister, on the other hand, accomplished this feat after reading it just a few times. I was at a loss for words─there was no way I could compete with that. She was on another level.

Dad would always tell me that the path to achieving great things was through hard work, that effort always trumped natural ability. I never once questioned his words. But my sister was different. I remember asking him how something like that was possible. He was visibly flustered, and brushed me off with an explanation of,“Well, she's just a quick learner.”

At any rate, even as a kid, after her performance that day I knew there was no way I could emulate her. I saw that normal levels of effort were no match for true talent. Still, I believed that my father was right─that effort could trump ability. From this experience, I learned to approach games, studying, everything, as if my life depended on it. No matter how hard it got, I would keep up the fight until my last breath. Even if it wasn't pretty, if I was persistent then I could take down people like my sister. Maybe the only way for me to win would be back-breaking levels of hard work, but with enough effort I could overwhelm even true talent. This was the essence of what I adapted from my father's teachings.

No matter the contest, I would keep playing until I won, even if just by outlasting everyone else. I refused to lose. On the school playground, if we were seeing who could hang from the monkey bars the longest, I refused to let go before anyone else. If we were in the pool and the contest was to see who could hold their breath the longest, I would be the last to come up for air. I might have had an advantage on the monkey bars with my grip, but there were probably four or five others with stronger lungs than me. It didn't matter though. Losing meant having to lower my head every time I came across talented people like my sister. To me, that was reprehensible. I'd rather die than give up.

I approached games with the same fervor. They might have come more naturally to some of those I've faced along the way, but only a select few could match my persistence.

Letting It All Go

My friend situation changed when I reached junior high. Up until that point, the other kids played with me more out of fear than because they actually liked me. Their faces betrayed their true feelings every now and then. I came to rely on this, further keeping me from making any close friends. The fact that I had problems empathizing with others didn't exactly make me popular, either.

As an example, all the kids who were into sports started out dreaming about becoming a pro baseball player. To be honest, I was somewhat envious of them for having found something to focus their efforts on. But in 1993 the J-League was born, bringing pro soccer to Japan. All the kids who had once run around with bats and gloves were now practicing their dribble and talking about becoming the next J-Leaguer.

I didn't get it. They had all played baseball for five or six years throughout elementary school, talking about how they wanted to shoot for the pros, but now they all have soccer fever? What happened to baseball?

I suppose that's the nature of fads, but that's never been my way. It's not that I hated soccer─I didn't, and I don't. But if I followed suit and abandoned my true love of fighting games just because something else was popular at the time, I might have had fun for a while but I knew I would regret it in the long run. It wasn't even an option.

Not that I was exactly brimming with confidence as a gamer. Far from thinking that I could play games my whole life, I thought maybe there was something wrong with me for liking games so much. I knew no other gamers, so I was lonely and miserable. I felt ashamed, like everyone was laughing at me. Today I have the confidence to wish anyone well if they want to follow their passion, be it baseball or soccer or whatever, but back then I wasn't confident enough to do the same for myself.

It was about that time that I started to feel that fake friendships just aren't worth it, a belief I maintain to this day. I'm happier that way now, but if I'm being honest, leading the life of a lone gamer growing up was a painful experience.

The Arcade

Feeling increasingly isolated, around the end of my first year in junior high I started taking the train alone to go to arcades. None of my schoolmates were willing to go out that far, and most were busy with sports teams and school clubs, so they started hanging out with different crowds and we gradually drifted apart.

In elementary school my size had protected me from bullying, but the kids who stuck with sports got bigger and stronger. By the final year of junior high, the tables were turned in terms of physical strength. From then on, games were basically my life.

While I didn't fit in at school, I felt completely at home with the arcade crowd. They didn't care what sports I liked, or what I watched on TV, or what music I listened to. We were there for the games. Our common bond kept everything real.

We came to the arcades to escape reality. I heard plenty of stories from people with issues of one kind or another─problems at home, or conflict with someone close to them. Some didn't get along with their fathers, or were bullied in school. Very few came from happy families like I did.

Unlike at school, where I couldn't trust anyone and friendships felt superficial, I made lifelong friends at the arcade. At the one I frequented the most, there was a guy about five years older than me that particularly stood out, even amongst the unusual types that were regulars. He had stained teeth and hair and a beard so overgrown and scruffy you could barely make out his face. Most people who didn't know him would take one look and edge away. One day, he came over and talked to me, and I realized that he was actually a pretty interesting guy. We quickly became friends and started hanging out more.

One day, playing at an arcade in Kanda, I missed the last train home for the night. The scruffy guy was there, too. He lived nearby and had come by bike, so he stuck around while I figured out what to do. Sheepishly, I called my dad to tell him that I had missed the train.

Dad was livid. Here I was still in junior high and out at an arcade until past midnight. I wanted to hang out at an all-night restaurant until the trains started running again, but he insisted I get home, right now. He hung up. I had no money for a taxi─how was I supposed to get back?

The scruffy guy rolled up beside me on his beat up old bicycle, pointed to its luggage rack on back, and asked,“Need a lift?”He knew my station was about thirty minutes by train, but wasn't fazed.

Never being very well mannered, I was unable to muster up even so much as a“thank you.”I just nodded, and hopped on behind him. During the whole ride, I kept wondering what would inspire him to do this for me. With my added weight, it must've taken more than three hours. It was summer, so he was a sweaty mess by the time we arrived at my house. When we finally got there, he just nodded goodbye and started back. As I watched him pedal away into the darkness, I was dumbfounded. It was a first for me. Is this what real friendship was?

After that, no matter what anyone said or how they looked at us, we were thick as thieves, as we have been for fifteen years now. He's not the only friend from that period that I'm still in contact with, either.

Arcades are my lifeblood. The friendships they've given me are priceless.

Left Out Again

By the final year of junior high, everyone knew I was so into games that I was taking the train to the big arcades. They never wanted to play games with me, because they knew I was too good for it to be any fun.

There were still a few kids left from school that I hung out with. Like me, they weren't into sports or studying, so we would just have fun goofing around. I guess you could say we were the outcasts.

Then came high school entrance exams, which are a very big deal in Japan. In the last year of junior high, many kids go as far as quitting sports and other school activities to go to cram schools, where they spend hours each day preparing.

The rest of my group of misfits was not immune to this pressure. As if someone had flicked a switch, everyone hit the books. Again, I was left confused. What were they doing? Why couldn't we just keep goofing off?

I knew I was being irrational, that this was an inevitability, but I didn't care. I couldn't hold back the flood of my adolescent emotions. Slowly but surely, the others in my group splintered off to form study groups. When the dust settled, I was once again left alone and frustrated.

I made a vow to myself: I wasn't going to waste even one minute of my time on anything but gaming. I had shunned sports and clubs to play games instead. I would devote the same energy and passion─no, more even─to games as the others did to sports or studying. Anything less, and I'd just be some scrub. My insecurities were snowballing with tremendous momentum.

Still, the experience left me with an uneasiness about pouring myself into games that I never quite shook completely. Teachers and other adults kept telling me that I needed to study, or that I should try sports, but I couldn't. If I were capable of changing just because someone told me to, I wouldn't have been in this situation in the first place.

So instead I put up a defiant front of strength in support of the only thing I valued: gaming. I was going to work so hard that anyone anywhere would have to recognize my efforts. If I didn't, who knows what kind of person I'd turn out to be. It gave me shivers just thinking about it.

I never had a very good self-image. There were plenty of times when I was alone that I'd worry about myself, why my passion had to be for gaming. I'd doubt myself─was I doing the right thing? I was of two minds, always arguing back and forth with myself. Stubbornly, I'd always conclude that all I could do was keep on gaming.

Looking back, I can admit that between sports, studying, and gaming, no one is better than the others. They're just different. But back in junior high, it was a big source of insecurity. Behind all the false bravado, I wasn't fully confident that the path I had chosen was the correct one.

Climbing onto the World Stage

Bullheadedly pushing forward, I became stronger and stronger as a gamer. I put an unbelievable amount of time grinding at the arcades to practice. If my competition played for ten hours, I'd play for thirty. If they put in a hundred hours, I'd do three hundred.

As my playing time increased, I honed my strategies and my ability to analyze the game and players. I even tried my hand at writing a strategy book, the clumsy draft of which lies sleeping in a drawer somewhere.

Even so, I was never once under any impression that I had a gift for gaming. I'm a pretty slow learner, and that's as much of a handicap in gaming as it is in school. Everything I've achieved is the result of old-fashioned hard work.

When I first started getting serious about being a gamer, around the age of ten, I couldn't beat anyone. It took a while for me to learn the ropes, but every day I got a little bit better. By the time I was twelve, I would win some and lose some. Eventually, I could best everyone but the strongest players at the arcade. By thirteen I would take a few beatings at the more crowded, high-level arcades, but I wouldn't drop a single game at the less popular ones. By fourteen, I felt I was unrivalled.

This coincided with a new release in a series that I had been playing, Darkstalkers 3. A new series release means more than just updated graphics or different character costumes; sequels can have new rules, or introduce entirely new systems, so everyone was starting more-or-less fresh. Experience and knowledge of previous games in the series help to some extent, but you're still learning the new rules from scratch. Being strong in the previous game means less than learning the new one, so without putting in the required work last year's champion can become this year's scrub. That is one of the roughest things about the gaming world, as well as one of the most exciting.

This was the first game in which I would become the Japanese champion. Having put in more hours than all the other players out there, being the best felt like the obvious outcome. So when I was handed the trophy, it didn't excite me whatsoever.

Crowned the World's Best

In 1998, I was invited to the Street Fighter Alpha 3 World Championships in San Francisco, where I faced the American champion, Alex Valle. Looking back, that tournament was a big turning point for me.

I was in high school at the time and had to take a few days off to fly to the U.S. for a Sunday match, on November 8. It was my first time out of the country, so I had to get a passport for the event. With the event organizer covering all my travel and hotel expenses I wasn't worried about the cost, but I do remember the four-day schedule being a real slog.

The venue was an arcade in a strip mall. It reminded me of the open-air shopping districts we have back in Japan, with a supermarket, restaurants, and clothing shops all on the same block. The arcade had everything arranged especially for the event.

To be perfectly honest, I wasn't all that excited about the match. I didn't know the level of competition in the U.S., but I assumed Japanese players were stronger. I had every confidence that Japan, and Tokyo in particular, was the strongest, most competitive fighting game arena in the world. Our arcades were always packed, and we played for more hours each day. I knew the U.S. was a big place, but American players better than Japanese players? No way.

The day's program started with a national tournament to decide the American champion for what was the most popular fighting game at the time. The tournament format dictated three rounds for each game. The first to win two games took the round. This differed from the standard Japanese format of two rounds to a match, which made for shorter matches. Once the U.S. champion was crowned, they would face the Japanese champion, namely me.

Watching the matches, I thought there was no way that I was going to lose. The only standout was Alex, who had a respectable technique and a good feel for the game that led to his taking the U.S. Championship. When we met in the World Championship, the match was closer than I ever could have expected.

I had underestimated my competition. In the first game, I took the first round with little effort, but then Alex fired back to take three successive rounds and an early one-game lead. Not only had I given up the lead, but I was getting trashed in lopsided, decisive losses in Alex's favor.

In the second game, Alex was emboldened by his lead and took the first two rounds. Just like that, I was a mere round away from going home a loser. I took a deep breath to regroup. I felt the pressure melt away and my senses heighten as I regained my focus. Things were getting interesting. I was now ready to let the game come to me instead of playing his game.

From that point, I roared back to take three straight rounds, bringing us even at a game apiece. I maintained my composure in the third and final game, winning the match with a game count of three to one. In the end, I still wasn't playing my top game; I dropped a bunch of combos and met many surprises.

Nonetheless, I avoided defeat. It was close, but the win saved me from embarrassment. Like me, the Japanese player base took it as a given that I would win. The Japanese champion losing to the American champion─in straight losses, no less─would have been a huge loss of face. More than that, however, given my confidence going into the tournament, it would've broken my spirit. I might never have gotten over losing to my own cockiness.

If I'd lost that match, I don't know where I'd be today. It certainly wouldn't have been pretty.

How I Did It

In August 2010, I was recognized by Guinness World Records as the“Most Successful Player in Major Tournaments of Street Fighter.”How was I able to immerse myself in gaming to the levels it took to be the best in the world? Where did my energy come from when I played?

By never giving up.

People constantly told me that that I was just wasting time because, after all, they were“just games.”There was no such thing as a“pro gamer”at the time, but I put as much effort into gaming as any pro baseball or soccer player did into their sports.

More than anything, persistence has fueled my confidence. As I've said, I was never sure I was doing the right thing by devoting my life to gaming, and being better than others at games was meaningless to me. I only found confidence in the way I approached things and the fruits of consistently aiming for the top.

I had my weaknesses, of course. I fumbled with words when meeting new people, and I hated studying. Compared to the athletes in my school, I was slower and weaker. Even so, I eventually overcame my feelings of intimidation and humiliation. Confronting and overcoming my weaknesses gave me confidence and made me a decent person. As someone who only shined in the virtual world of fighting games, the only thing that kept me connected to the real world and allowed me to engage with people on equal terms was my confidence in my own hard work and my approach to life.

My greatest strength is my willingness to take up a challenge when there's something that I want, work hard at it, and see it through to the end. I address my weaknesses head-on and boldly choose the path less taken. It is precisely this attitude that allows me to be happy with myself now. Standing up to challenges may mean little to those who have never really struggled in life, but for someone like me with so many demons from my childhood, the will to challenge adversity is invaluable.

My vow to myself is to always put in a level of effort that I can take pride in. This is what sets me apart from those that give up. It is what has allowed me to devote myself entirely to gaming and join the ranks of the elite.

Withdrawing from Games

After becoming World Champion, I went on to take other championship titles in numerous Japanese tournaments. People showered me with praise, calling me things like gamer of the decade, the most dominant fighting gamer in the world… a god of fighting games, even.

None of that motivated me, however. The real reason I kept working so hard to develop my gaming and myself was a belief that I could change people's perception of games, and in turn of me. Part of me expected my efforts to be appreciated. Fighting games are essentially about two individuals competing, and I expected some great discovery as a result of mastering the required skills.

Realistically, I knew that I couldn't accomplish anything through gaming alone, just as everyone around me had always said. At the time, pro gaming wasn't yet considered a profession, and no matter how many tournaments I won, I wasn't making any real contribution to society. Even so, I remained focused on defeating the opponents I faced each day with no greater purpose in mind.

Still, it seemed that working this hard in a competitive field might spark something. Maybe more people would notice my skill with games, even if it was farfetched to think that society would fully acknowledge my effort or worth based solely on that. Part of me thought that if I just kept winning, someone, somewhere would praise me and it'd change my life. After all, understanding people is an essential gaming skill, and no one could do what I had done with a one-dimensional strategy alone.

I also wanted to change the way others viewed games. I hoped that they'd see someone like me putting in the work, approaching gaming as a serious venture, and think maybe gaming was worthy of respect. Of course I had no aspirations of gaming ever being held in the same regard as baseball or soccer, but there was no reason it couldn't have more of a major presence.

So I felt the need to keep growing, in anticipation of the day when games finally got the respect they deserved. I had to play to impress. I simulated interviews in my head all the time. Someday, someone would ask me,“Daigo, what are you thinking when you play games?”I had to be prepared to respond, telling the interviewer the resolve with which I approached games and my unrivaled passion.

But nothing changed, and as the years went by I found it increasingly difficult to approach games with the same fervor as I once had. I didn't see any room for further growth. Besides, no one would listen to me, given my current lowered levels of effort (though I'm sure that if anyone had listened, they'd have been impressed that a gamer thinks the way I do).

I wasn't growing. I didn't want anyone see me like that, and, more importantly, I couldn't let myself go on like that. I had given up on ever being able to teach anyone anything through gaming. That was the point when I decided to hang it up.

To me, games weren't something you play for fun. If I couldn't work any harder at competitive gaming, I felt like I'd lose the will to live. It was that important to me. Walking away from games was the only choice.

Choosing Mahjong

In the fall of 2004, when I left games behind, I was twenty-three. I worried what I would do next, not because I didn't know how I'd pay the bills, but because I felt like I had to find something to fill the void that games had left behind.

Sports were out. School was, too. I wanted something else competitive, preferably something where I got to play against an opponent. That competition was what had made games so interesting and profound to me.

I narrowed it down to two choices: mahjong or billiards. I was going to approach one or the other as seriously and with as much passion as I had with fighting games. I had learned the rules of mahjong when I was eighteen and enjoyed it when I occasionally played with other gamers from the arcades.

Billiards, on the other hand, was a total unknown. It had been popular for a while and pro billiards was kind of a thing in Japan, but some digging around suggested that the scene was pretty small. So, mahjong it was.

With mahjong, I could work on improving my game while working at a mahjong parlor. I needed to make a living, so I figured getting paid to learn would be the most efficient way. Going off an ad in Kindai Mahjong, a popular mahjong manga mag, I chose a place in Ikebukuro that the pros played at. At the time, I had the confidence to throw myself into anything if I had the inclination.

Part-timers at the parlor had one of two jobs: reception or playing as a stand-in. Reception workers served drinks, cooked simple dishes, and cleaned. Stand-ins played at tables that didn't have enough players, or filled in to play someone's tiles if they had to go to the bathroom. At the parlor I worked at, the part-timers more or less stuck with one job or the other, with those best at playing allowed to be stand-ins. Since my goal was improving my game, that's the position I requested.

I studied mahjong every day while working twelve-hour shifts at the mahjong parlor. I left home in the morning and played all day while working, maybe nine or ten hours. After returning home, I'd set up the tiles on my table and study mahjong alone for half an hour or so. I was always tired at the end of the day, so that was about all the energy I could muster.

Before I knew it, mahjong had replaced gaming as my addiction.

Training at Mahjong

Just as with video games, at first I couldn't win at mahjong. It was nothing like what I originally thought it would be. At first, I had figured that since mahjong and fighting games were both a form of player-versus-player competition, many of the skills I had developed would transfer directly. While there was some overlap, my instincts and observational skills from gaming were surprisingly ineffective, so I had a hard time at first.

In fighting games, snap decisions and quick action are the most vital skills. There's no time to think about what your opponent is going to do next; thought and action must be nearly simultaneous. If your read is off, you have to grasp the difference between your and your opponent's intuitions and instantly adjust. If the opponent does something unexpected, you can make assumptions on what they're thinking. The same mental and behavioral process also applies to everyday interactions with people.

In mahjong, however, you have significantly less control. It's a four-player game, and the tiles you're dealt limit your play. Often you can see what's going on, but can't do anything about it.

It took time for me to accept the competitive differences between video games and mahjong. It was humbling─staying on top in competitive gaming had made me confident that I could master it alone, but that wasn't the case. It took me a while to abandon my preconceptions, but after I did I finally started winning. After a year of serious play, I was slightly stronger than the average person.

Looking back on it now, my initial approach to the game was too optimistic. I played recklessly, pushing forward on nothing more than pure will. Naturally, I went through slumps and hit walls. I was winning at a decent rate, but there were certain players I couldn't beat, no matter what I tried. That's when I decided to change my approach.

There was a regular who was undeniably stronger than me at mahjong. Let's call him Tanaka. I decided to stick to him and absorb what I could. With his permission, I'd watch him any time I wasn't busy with other customers. This was partly to keep up appearances; I wanted him to know how seriously I took this and didn't want him to see me looking away.

Standing there just watching Tanaka play for up to ten hours straight was rough. My vision blurred, and my shoulders and legs got stiff. Most of my fellow part-timers would return to work after watching the good players for just ten minutes, muttering to themselves on how they didn't get it. I didn't either─clearly these guys were playing at a level beyond us─yet I figured my co-workers weren't really trying to watch, that they weren't serious enough about the game. Going back to work was easier.

I stuck with it because I wanted to earn Tanaka's respect for my effort and talent. I didn't care what the other players thought of me, but I did care what he thought. His approval would give me confidence and make me happy, so I worked for it. The approval of my parents and friends was important on a personal level, but there were only a handful of people whose opinions I cared about as a player. Tanaka was one of them.

After a few months of this, I reached the point where I could mimic Tanaka's playing style. I wasn't going to beat him with that alone, though. I continued copying his style for another half year. Still, no results. I could play like Tanaka, but I couldn't win like he did. Before I knew it, it had been two years since I had started playing.

I began to think that maybe I just wasn't cut out for mahjong. I was going to the parlor for twelve hours every day, living and breathing only mahjong, but I couldn't produce the results I was looking for. Two years may not sound like such a long time, but the concentrated effort I was making made it seem like a never-ending task with no end in sight.

I was starting to feel like this might be the end, but I decided I had one last push in me. I'd buckle down just a little more, and if that didn't do it, I'd quit.

Mastering Mahjong

Sensing it was my last chance, I reapplied myself, approaching things from a different perspective. Suddenly, I started beating players I couldn't beat before. I even got to the point where I could best Tanaka himself. I didn't let it show, but my first win against him was an emotional moment.

Everything started coming together. I'd come up with a few tweaks to my play that were wildly successful. Naturally, some of it was just the cumulative result of hard work, but my confidence grew as my own strategies started paying off. In some cases luck was on my side, but gradually I began to see how to court luck by playing the odds.

From that point on, I rarely lost. Not to brag, but I had the opportunity to play with a few pro mahjong players and never felt that they were insurmountably better than me. By no means have I played all the pros or figured out everything there is to know about the game, but I'd say I had probably climbed to at least within sight of the top echelon.

In the three years since starting mahjong, I had tilled and sown my field, watched the crop bear fruit, and had finally reached the harvesting stage. I felt like I would be on the winning side of things from there on out.

In every parlor I played at, people would be surprised that someone my age was so good. A parlor owner in Okubo commented that in all his decades of watching mahjong, I was for sure among the top five players he'd seen, despite his having played against many pros. I didn't take that at face value, but at least it signaled that I was pretty good.

I learned to trust my own theories and play with confidence. When I first started out, I'd second-guess myself out of making risky plays, but I had since learned to reason through with certainty which plays were right and why. When I took risks, it was because the risky move was the right one; I now had the confidence to make those plays, knowing that risk is an integral part of the game. Feeling more comfortable with my play style, I became more assertive and my concentration levels increased.

In mahjong, the aggressor usually wins. Luck is part of the game, but the truly strong players are those who can be overbearing and even a bit reckless in following their instincts. Most importantly, such players know exactly when to hold off and when to strike. Only those who feel comfortable toying with defeat figure out how to pull off wins.

I still get comments on how strong I am when I go to mahjong parlors. I discard my tiles decisively and faster than anyone, and that alone appears to have an impact. Not that I do it on purpose, it's just how I've always played. It must come naturally from my gamer instincts.

Earning Respect

It felt better to have my skill at mahjong acknowledged by Tanaka than it did to reach the top levels of the game.

Tanaka was a true master, far stronger than the average pro. Still, while I never understood why, he was often reluctant to play. As a result, his play never got any better or worse. The way he tells it, this lack of progression had killed his ambition to further improve. He encouraged me to play, though, sensing that I really liked the game. He often told me things like that and never tried to show off his strength.

Even so, his play was the real deal. When I was trying to copy his style, there were times when I nearly gave up because he simply would not lose. In all forms of competition─fighting games included─he is the first and the last to make me feel like that.

One day we went out drinking and he casually praised my play, saying that he'd been watching my progress.“You weren't much in the beginning,”he said,“but you really showed what a gaming world champion is made of.”I was ecstatic, filled with this indescribable sense of accomplishment. I finally felt like I had made it in mahjong.

Thanks to mahjong, my confidence ballooned. My fighting game skills may not have translated well, but my approach of no-holds-barred effort, the way I had been doing things since I was young, was validated. Knowing that was a huge leap forward for me.

What I Learned

I reached top-level mahjong play in three years by shadowing a top player. Watching Tanaka game after game was like a series of practice tests─I was checking my answers against his to see where our thoughts agreed and evaluating my choices with each round. This gave me the time to seriously weigh strategies. Sometimes Tanaka would play as I'd expect, and other times he'd show me options I hadn't considered. I asked questions when I couldn't read his intentions, giving my best guess to confirm if I was following along.

Over the course of shadowing better players, you fashion their technique into your own. It isn't until you finally approach their level that you can start adding your own flavor. Keeping up with Tanaka took everything I had─there was no room for my own touch. It wasn't until half a year later when I could start adapting my own play style and start winning more.

Once you reach a certain level, you won't mature further through shadowing alone; the player you're shadowing will see right through all your thoughts and moves.

If you want to master something, start by carefully studying the basics for at least two or three years. Learn the theory behind the game and how to reason your way through moves, rather than winging it. Build your base before seeking out different ways to play, and then explore options for developing your own style. Premature attempts at creating a unique approach or just practicing while you're still not that good will end up with you bumping into a low ceiling.

Mastering the basic theory of a game will only take you to the limits of conventional strength. To give a racing example, you need to be bold, driving with just enough speed that your tires graze the grass at the edge of the course, not play it safe and stay within the lines. Follow your instincts.

If you've plateaued at“just good,”it's probably a confidence issue. You're afraid to trust your own judgment and are relying on theory to decide your moves. As a result, you can't produce the strength to overwhelm your opponents. It takes courage to break out of your shell. Once you're able to build upon the foundations, your wins will increase. Once your labor starts to bear fruit, a power all your own will emerge.

Beyond Conventional Strength

I first sensed that you have to think outside the box to attain greatness in competitive gaming, and my experiences with mahjong confirmed my suspicions.

I think a lot about why I play games. If I'd stuck to conventional gameplay, it wouldn't have to have been me playing; anyone could have done it if taught how.

I prefer to follow my own judgment when I play. If you too can face things with that kind of resolve, you'll see that the possibilities outweigh the benefits of staying within the lines. Have faith in your instincts and act upon them.

Sticking to conventions doesn't require any special individual effort. It's just being pragmatic, almost like you're giving up on chasing your dreams and working a job instead. Say you get a feeling during a match about the character your opponent just picked. That feeling is yours─you're feeling it precisely because you've put in the work, and your experience is telling you something. It'd be a waste for you not to integrate that instinct into your play.

Sure, you can fail by acting on your instincts, but you'll feel alive. So I push the envelope a bit to project my thoughts into the action on screen. In mahjong, it's like flaunting logic by making a play that just feels right. Or, in business, like having faith in a new product─you don't know that it'll sell, but your intuition tells you to put it out there anyway. You're putting your neck out and bearing the risk for what you believe in.

In my younger years, there was a time when I was hung up on winning every game. If you dwell too much on wins, your scope narrows and you stop having good ideas. It gives you tunnel vision; you'll convince yourself that what you're doing is the only way forward, restricting your options. Being overly fixated on winning leads to nothing but sticking to conventional ways. At this point, I don't worry about outcomes.

Sticking with what works is a natural thing, but become overly fixated on conventional theory and you'll lose sight of your ultimate purpose. You'll start to doubt yourself, and that will show in your play. Focus only on the outcome and you'll think only conventional thoughts, always searching for a more efficient, safer strategy. You'll wind up justifying your own logic.

We play it safe because of desires─desires to avoid failure, to make a name for ourselves, or to receive praise. These desires will consume your being.

In my teenage years, I played on instinct alone. I got owned plenty as a result, but that's life. With age, however, I became interested in the theory behind games and compromised my ideals, settling on a more cunning style of play backed by theory and executed with precision. At this point, I was reading a ton of books on topics like thinking and strategy. But the more I read and thought about it, the more I felt that studying more will only make your strategy and reasoning the same as everyone else's. Reading gradually felt less and less useful, so I turned to more important things.

I now try to play like I did when I was younger, trusting my intuition. As long as it's nothing exceptionally disastrous, I immediately apply what I've learned to my play. I've stopped worrying about outcomes and instead find joy in my own daily advances, and doing so makes me feel like I did back in the day. I look for tricks that only I can pull off, and I try to act in what I think is the right way.

Reverting my game to the purer form of my youth has made me win even more. Quantitatively speaking, my winning percentage is probably up about 10 percent, which is huge in competitive gaming. All that time I spent on theory and reasoning still has its meaning, in that the knowledge I gained is available when I need it. The important thing, however, is how I use it and the frame of mind I'm in when doing so.

Attaining knowledge, honing skills, and accruing experience will all make you a more complete player. However, if you let a shortsighted focus on outcomes distort your mindset and dictate the game, you won't dazzle the public. What I'm after now is what really moves people: the pure game, fueled by instinct.

Regrets

Despite every intention of dedicating my life to mahjong at the time, I quit after three years.

I had poured all the energy left over from when I had reluctantly quit games into mahjong. I didn't even mind how it had cut into my private time; I had committed my hopes, my dreams, my time… my everything.

But mahjong failed to live up to my expectations. I was overjoyed by my achievements, and proud to have earned a spot at the table with the elite. But even so, a premonition hit me─everything that had turned me from gaming would be true of mahjong as well. If I kept playing mahjong like this, I'd repeat my experience with games. I worried that the longer I kept at it, the more hopeless I'd be when I had to quit.

It wasn't supposed to end up like this, especially three years into my efforts. Why hadn't I realized it earlier? If I became as disillusioned with mahjong as I had with games, I'd never recover. So, I gave up without even trying to qualify for the pro league.

Everyone was shocked. I'd seemed so passionate about it all, what had happened? I didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore.

First games, now mahjong... and twenty-six years of living with nothing to show for it. For the first time in my life, I sincerely regretted not taking school seriously when I had the chance.

Deplorably, part of me even blamed my father for telling me I didn't have to study and encouraging me to find something I really liked. I laughed at myself for swallowing the line about doing what I wanted. Look where that had gotten me. Why couldn't he have been a little more critical?

If only Dad had given me more guidance, maybe I wouldn't have wound up in such a miserable state. If only he'd taught me about the ways of life. If only I had listened and picked a better life... My thoughts were a pathetic bundle of“what ifs”and“if onlys.”

I never held a real grudge against my father; I just wanted someone else to blame for never having studied and now having no prospects. I felt like I had let all my opportunities pass me by.

I had put everything into gaming since childhood. It was a fun life, and it had taught me many lessons I couldn't have learned any other way. But losing all hope for mahjong marked an all-time low in my self-confidence.

I was also apprehensive of the future. I had my health and a dry roof over my head, so I knew I'd survive. But what kind of life would it be? The future I had pictured and hoped for since childhood─a rewarding life chasing my passion─seemed to be slipping away.

This was the lowest point in my life. On many occasions, others had voiced their disdain for my way of life, but that had never bothered me. I'd remained satisfied with my life and how it was progressing. But now I felt like I had taken a wrong turn. At first, I regretted abandoning mahjong, but the more I thought about it, I couldn't imagine sticking with it.

Another problem with mahjong is that in Japan it has a reputation as a game for gamblers and gangsters. I hated that, because I feared it would cause social awkwardness for my parents.

My parents and family have always been an important part of my life. You might be surprised to hear that I never went through a rebellious phase as a teen. My parents will back me up on this. I guess going off to the arcades was a form of rebellion in a sense, but it's not like my parents opposed. They always let me do as I wished, so I never had any reason to talk back or real anger to take out on them. I still live with my parents and get along great with both them and my sister.

By quitting mahjong, I once again had plenty of opportunity to think about my parents. This helped me see where my next step would be.

Working in Nursing Care

I was despondent after quitting both games and mahjong, but I wasn't ready to give up on life just yet. I had to look for something new to start.

My thoughts turned to my parents' work at the hospital─Dad was still in administration, and Mom was still a nurse. I started to seriously consider elder care as an option. Floating the idea by my parents one day, Dad managed to maintain his composure.“Sure, that might work,”he said.

While they never actually said so, I'm sure my parents had always wanted more from their son. I never got into trouble, but surely they wished I would pick a more wholesome career and better contribute to society. So when I started talking about elder care, I'm sure they were elated. It was connected to their work, so they could even offer advice as needed.

They probably doubted I'd stick with it, but they were supportive and encouraged me to give it a shot. I was known for my impetuous decisions, and this was no exception. My parents always forgave me my impulsiveness.

Elder care is by no means an easy job, and more physically demanding than you might expect. No matter how you do it, repeatedly moving people between bed and wheelchair takes its toll on your back. Accordingly, most caregivers are solidly built. I had some concerns about the physical aspects, but decided to give it a go.

I wasn't exactly enthusiastic in my choice of elder care. I was at an all-time low in terms of willpower and didn't have the energy to really apply myself to anything. I chose the profession simply because I could ask my parents questions if needed, and it didn't require any experience to get started. I was taking the easy path.

I'm sure the younger me would've had a good laugh, but my spirit was broken. The kid that refused to let go of the monkey bars at the playground had finally dropped.

I gave up both games and mahjong. Maybe I'd just picked the wrong pursuits, but I certainly didn't have much to show for all my efforts.

Perhaps I was just running away from my issues, but I had convinced myself that helping people and working with others would inject some hope into my life. When I started out, I imagined a workplace full of friendly people. Just the thing for a weary soul.

Nursing isn't like the standard business position. There are no quotas to fill, nor deadlines to beat. People's lives are on the line, so it's not a forgiving job, but it's certainly not competitive and no one is chasing after profits.

I learned new things every day and was sore every night. I didn't have the time to ponder life's questions; each day zipped by too fast. The hard, honest work healed my soul, and with that came budding ambition.

I started looking for ways to advance, wondering what kind of qualifications I could get in elder care. I hated being forced to study in school, but I wasn't opposed to the idea of learning something I had picked for myself. Entry-level elder care didn't require any special qualifications, but there were a number of caregiver qualifications to pursue. I decided to try taking some courses to study up for tests.

Life without Competition

The nursing home I worked for divided up the patients by floor based on the severity of their condition. I worked on the third floor, with the patients in the most severe states. A full third of the patients there had lost the ability to communicate. The others were in various stages of dementia─some would forget conversations we'd had the previous day, and others couldn't even remember five minutes back. Maybe one in five were mobile, but the rest could only walk with assistive equipment or a hand from us.

I didn't find the job itself to be difficult. Tending to other people's needs and cleaning bedpans didn't bother me so much. Sure, I was physically tired, but it was a good kind of tired that stopped short of exhaustion. The work was rewarding and fun.

Working as a caregiver got me thinking about many things. Feeling appreciated by others was new to me, and I appreciated all the thank-yous. Working a job that kept me moving naturally lifted my spirits. I'd be tired at the end of the day, but when I got home and cracked open a beer, I felt a sense of accomplishment. With no games and a non-competitive job, all my pent up tension melted away.

Incidentally, I'm told that I would grind my teeth every night when I was playing mahjong. I must've tensed up and stressed hard when I was intensely competing. I felt as if I'd lose if I relaxed. Nursing isn't a stress-free job, but it was nothing like eSports or mahjong.

All I had ever known was competition, but here I had hung it all up and life still went on. I had thought I needed it to survive, but I now realized that wasn't the case. Little by little, I was changing.

Reuniting with Games

I continued working at the nursing home for a year and a half, never once considering a return to games. So this is normal life, I thought. With no chances to showcase my talent, I settled into my position at work and listened to those around me.

In competitive gaming, ability was everything─it was all about standing apart and proving your strength. With no such opportunities in elder care, my everyday life was uneventful, but I didn't feel the need to play games.

Then one day, after nearly three years away, I went to an arcade. Street Fighter IV had just come out, and a friend insisted I come check it out. He knew that I had given up competitive gaming, and that I never played games just for fun, but this was the new Street Fighter we were talking about! How could I turn that down? At first I wasn't interested, but who could refuse when you put it like that?

Several coincidences brought me back into the gaming fold, but the biggest was Street Fighter IV─the first numbered release in the series in almost nine years. The time I had distanced myself from games was a lull period for fighting games. Many fans were worried that the genre was dead. The release of Street Fighter IV triggered its revival.

As rusty as I was, I played surprisingly well. It was exciting and satisfying. I felt what it was that was missing from my life without competition. Elder care wasn't giving me that outlet, and I never felt truly needed at work. I didn't hate the job, but I felt my self-confidence slipping.

I started looking for spare time to spend in the arcade. It was just like old times. All the elite players came out at night, so that's when I started haunting the arcades. Luckily, caregiver schedules are flexible.

Before I quit gaming, I thought I'd never play just as a hobby; it was all or nothing. But after taking a break for a while, I started to think that as long as I was having fun, treating it as a hobby was just fine.

Showdown in Shinjuku

One day a group of the strongest players came to my regular arcade in Shinjuku. They were a motley collection of the old guard who had been playing since forever along with some up-and-comers.

As the crowd slowly built around me, I defeated my challengers one after the other. I didn't consider it a big deal at the time, but by the end I had managed to beat at least ten elite players.

That victory had a significant effect on how I felt about things. After the fact, I heard that word was out that I was back in the arcades, and that they had assembled just to face me. For someone who had taken almost three years off, to win against all of them was something special indeed.

My display caused an uproar. Some even thought I was lying about having quit games. I realized that the effort that I had put into all this since I was a kid was something exceptional; I had a gift for winning. I also remembered my characteristic persistence, never letting go of the bars first. Tasting that feeling again after so long was intoxicating.

I was fully reborn as a fighting game player. I was ready to take on the scene once again. Maybe I'd even enter another tournament.

Umehara Is Back!

Having rediscovered myself, I set out for a fresh start with games. I played between shifts at the nursing home, shocking people at the arcades and even appearing in a tournament or two. I felt like that was enough for me to enjoy life.

I'm sure that if the timing had been just a little earlier, I wouldn't have felt the same. It wouldn't have narrowed the rift between games and me; games would have remained inextricably linked with all those bitter memories.

But now I was back on the competitive stage. In 2009, the year after the Japanese release of Street Fighter IV, Capcom held a Japanese national tournament, and I entered for the first time in a while.

Everyone was excited to hear that Umehara was back. The gaming magazine Arcadia ran a feature on me, even making a bonus DVD compiling the story of my comeback. I was honored that they'd go through such a production for me.

Not many keyed into how I had changed, but those I had been close with since before noticed. I'm sure my attitude, speech, and demeanor had all softened.

I didn't exactly make a big splash in my comeback at the Japanese SFIV National Tournament, but I made enough of a wave to score an invite to a special exhibition match at the GameStop Street Fighter IV U.S. National Tournament Finals in San Francisco in April 2009. I had won several American tournaments in the past, and had been involved in a few well-known matches, so they must've heard word of my comeback and wanted to capitalize.

In the U.S. too, I got plenty of questions about why I had left gaming. Some thought I must've gotten married or something, and some even said they'd thought I must've died. Americans have such active imaginations. Apparently, the real answer─that I had just quit─seemed impossible.

In any case, the exhibition match is what led to my becoming a professional fighting game player.

Going Pro

About a year and a half since returning to gaming, while still working as a caregiver, I was approached by Mad Catz, a U.S. manufacturer of gaming accessories, and signed with them for professional sponsorship in April 2010. Winning EVO 2009 had a huge impact on their unexpected offer to make me Japan's first pro gamer. Landing a sponsorship was by no means easy, and certainly not an inevitability. Was it mere chance, or were my efforts finally being rewarded?

Originally, I wasn't even supposed to be in the World Championships at EVO 2009. While I had decided to continue playing games for life, I was still working and didn't consider a return to the world stage to be realistic.

The first tournament I entered upon my return was Capcom's official 2009 Japanese National Street Fighter IV Tournament. I only made it to the top sixteen─not exactly a brilliant showing─but I still caught the attention of many of the players. Just by entering a major tournament, the Japanese fighting game community was abuzz with news of“Umehara's return.”

I next was invited as a guest player in a round-robin international exhibition that followed the GameStop Street Fighter IV U.S. National Tournament Finals. The match would pit me against the Korean, Japanese, and American champions.

While unsure why they'd selected me, I was grateful for the invitation and the praise I was receiving as a gamer. I was overjoyed that my strengths were finally being recognized. I went to San Francisco with no expectations, figuring I might as well attend since they went to the trouble of inviting me.

April 2009─It's the day of the International Exhibition. In a frenzied space amidst screaming voices, a four-way battle of champions is getting underway. Despite it being my first international match since my comeback, I'm surprisingly calm. My controller feels comfortably loose in my hands.

My first opponent is the Korean Champion, Poongko. He's a charismatic player, who will later earn the nickname“Angry Poongko,”but he gets relatively little attention due to poor showings outside Korea. Beneath my cool exterior, such a well-matched opponent psyches me up.

I select Ryu as my character, and Poongko follows suit. Same-character matches make for a clear match of player abilities─being an adept Ryu player, I couldn't ask for a better development. I oust the Korean Champion in four straight rounds, safely sealing my first victory.

My next opponent is Japanese Champion Iyo. Unlike the previous match, I struggle to get a feel for the pace. Five rounds into the best-of-seven match, Iyo is in control, up three rounds to my two. The match is slipping away from me, and I'm not seeing a way to hold on. Then, something inside me changes. I go on the offensive to steal a round, evening the count at three apiece as we enter the seventh and final round.

I finally hit my groove. Neither of us have any room for error, so I'm in position to show what I'm made of. Knowing the risk, I take the battle right to my opponent, jumping in and keeping the combat close. In the final sequence, I poke at Iyo with a series of crouching jabs to get him to guard, then go in for the KO with a throw. The MC announces me victor and the ovation of the surrounding audience hits my ears. I finally sigh with relief─two challengers down.

Next up is Justin Wong, my final opponent and the newly crowned American Champion from the U.S. National Championship earlier in the day. I keep my emotions under control throughout the match, not getting worked up after rounds won or wavering in my decisions. My hands move on their own, guiding Ryu with optimal precision. My concentration remains intact despite the raucous crowd, which is shouting in true American fashion with each landed combo. I completely shut down Justin's Rufus, dispatching him in four straight rounds.

I even manage to crack a smile as the MC takes my hand to announce me the winner.

With this win, I had stamped my ticket to the year's main event: EVO 2009. I had also confirmed the Umehara comeback narrative by beating the Korean, Japanese, and American Champions in short succession. The news spread across the world.

Rematch at EVO

No one event led to me being approached for the pro contract. My match against Justin Wong at EVO 2004 going viral played a part, and winning several U.S. tournaments certainly didn't hurt. Mad Catz no doubt had their eye on me for several years prior to 2009.

Nonetheless, it's quite natural to think that their offer was the result of me winning EVO 2009 just back from a four-and-a-half-year blank. After all, EVO is the world's premier fighting game event.

July 2009─It's the EVO 2009 Street Fighter IV Grand Finals. The man standing between me and the World Championship is a familiar face: Justin Wong. This is the most recent in a long series of run-ins; we had even faced each other earlier in the tournament. I won that matchup, but Justin had climbed the brackets all the way to the finals.

The EVO Grand Final format is for two-out-of-three rounds to take a game, and three-out-of-five games to win a set. The tournament is double elimination, so in the Grand Final the player from the loser's bracket has to take two sets to win, whereas the player from the winner's bracket only needs one set to be declared Champion. Character changes are permitted after each game.

Before the match, Justin stands to face the crowd with a fist raised high. The crowd stands in response, cheering. Fan service and crowd appeal are a staple of international tournaments, with players and fans alike exhibiting feverish levels of energy. Many Japanese players without international experience are overwhelmed by this unfamiliar atmosphere, throwing them off their normal game and clouding their judgment.

While Justin pumps the crowd to psych up, I remain seated, my mind calm and collected. I've been in many tournaments, enough to avoid getting caught up in the hype for better or worse. It makes no difference that this is the World Championship Final, or that EVO is being watched by fighting game enthusiasts worldwide. I play my normal game, no matter the place, time, or opponent.

The cheers finally subside as Justin returns to his seat. The battle to decide the world's best SFIV player is underway, with the more than 3,000 fans watching on.

Justin chooses Abel, an unorthodox character that many Japanese players aren't used to playing against. While not a favorable matchup for me, I'm sure I can hold my own. I start smoothly, comfortably winning two straight rounds to take the first game.

In the second game, Justin selects Balrog. I stick with Ryu, my character throughout the entire tournament.

Justin's character change gives him two games in quick succession. I hold on to win the fourth game, but he comes back to take the final round and force a second set. Justin is exceptionally adept with Balrog, and his spacing is impeccable. With his handicap gone, Justin is taking the momentum.

Upon winning that final game of the first set, Justin springs to his feet once again, high-fiving the crowd in celebration. The average player would be feeling the heat, starting to question the outcome, but I shrug it off and remain seated. Deep in concentration, I recall past matchups with Balrog to analyze my play and consider why I'm losing.

Pride in my unwavering hard work keeps me from cracking under pressure. I've easily played more than 200,000 matches in my lifetime. As part of my basic training, I've gotten to where 99 percent of the time, I can land moves with only a thirtieth of a second window to hit their mark. No one has played this game more than me. I won't lose. I can't lose. My body of work cancels out the negative vibes, replacing them with confidence.

Thus armed, I aggressively counter Justin in the second set, trading games back and forth. Now a full nine games into the match, we've exceeded twenty rounds of play. I take the first round of our tenth and final game.

The ability gap I had sensed in our exhibition match earlier in the year is gone; Justin is now much stronger, and above all relentless.

I remain calm as we enter the second round of the climactic game ten. Finally, I throw a Hadouken to lure Justin into jumping into me, allowing me to finish him off with a jump kick and seal the victory.

The reverberations of applause and cheers feel as if they'll never stop rocking the hall.

As I shook hands with Justin after the match, I recalled playing against him at EVO 2004. Nearly five years had passed since our famous battle. The entire time I had withdrawn from games, nearly ready to quit it all, Justin had stayed one of the top players in the U.S. Really, what were the chances of an EVO rematch, in the Grand Finals no less?

We didn't exchange words, but with fond memories of our encounters throughout the years, I was glad to see him still playing. I'm sure he felt the same; I could sense it in the conviction of his solid handshake.

Signing Up

It was a bit after EVO 2009 when I was approached about going pro. Honestly, after giving up the opportunity to become a mahjong pro, accepting wasn't a straightforward decision. The passionate advice of my to-be manager changed my mind.

My time as a caretaker had something to do with my decision to accept the offer. Caring for people near the end of their lives showed me how some things are only possible when you're young, and the importance of taking opportunities when they present themselves. Of course, I had been told as much before and understood the idea in theory, but it wasn't until I had worked in the nursing home that I truly grasped it. Actual experience provided the explanations that the inquisitive kid in me had always demanded.

Due to their age, the nursing home residents couldn't run, and some couldn't walk. Some couldn't even eat by themselves or remember what had happened five minutes ago. This taught me how blessed I was to have my talents, not to mention my health.

I was offered sponsorship at a time when I was highly sensitive of my mortality and didn't want to leave this world with regrets. As the first Japanese pro, I would be a pioneer. It takes courage to tread untrodden paths, and I had no idea what the future held, but I found strength in my manager's encouragement and offers of help. I trusted her and decided to give it a try. I was ready.

At first, being sponsored to do what I loved seemed too good to be true. I could now play games to my heart's content. I was truly happy. Before long, I regained the passion of my childhood, without the reservations I'd once had. Having a sponsor was validation of my love of gaming.

While I had played it off as if it didn't bother me, I'd always felt somewhat guilty for my gaming and wished I could stay out of the public eye. The non-gaming world felt too exposed. Now, for the first time, I felt like I'd been accepted and didn't have to hide anymore. So in April 2010, more than eighteen years since I first started playing games, I signed with a sponsor.

Everyone Has Doubts

I'm glad that I kept grinding in the arcades as a kid without yielding to social stigma against gaming. I probably never would've liked myself if I had given up games due to the criticism I faced or for not being socially accepted.

In retrospect, games weren't my only option. I wasn't completely alone and could've chosen to play sports or whatever, but I continued gaming because it's what I loved.

There is a joy that only games give me, but memories of torment linger on. Until quite recently, I had no confidence in whether devoting myself to games was good or bad. I'm proud of myself now for sticking with it through the anguish.

I probably would've worked just as hard if my passion lied in something besides gaming. I've never let others' opinions influence me, so I feel like I probably would've stuck it out no matter what anyone told me. Still, finding something I truly love is what allowed me to unwaveringly pursue my interests.

Since scheduling this book for publication, I got the opportunity to travel to Kuwait. There, I met a Japanese exchange student who told me he'd found himself skating through life. He had deserted his passion to enter university like everyone else, thinking that was the obvious next step toward a happy life, but was now regretting his decision. He had come to Kuwait in search of something more to his existence.

He had gone to the opposite end of the earth in the hopes that something would change. He had no guarantee of finding answers in Kuwait, but he knew that he'd never find them in Japan. Assuming I'd never had such doubts myself, he asked me how I'd stuck to my convictions.

It was like talking with my younger self. Knowing all too well how he felt, I told him that we all have the same concerns at some point, that even I hadn't been confident in the life I had led.

It was only recently that I had come to terms with my gaming and felt satisfaction in having stuck with it. You may lose your way and have concerns, but just keep pressing on and someday you'll find your own unique path.

My Appreciation for Games

The period after quitting games and mahjong was the lowest point of my life. When I finally returned to gaming it felt different─a sense of gratitude toward games welled up inside.

I had loved games with all my heart, despite being uncomfortable at openly expressing it. Games had isolated me in school, but they had also introduced me to my friends today. Games had taken me to the heights of the World Championship, yet at the same time, I felt I had to quit them.

So in the end, I'd had a complex relationship with games. Had they given me something, or taken something away? While I never quite answered that question, I finally felt like the gaming gods had found favor with me.

Despite neglecting gaming for several years, I could still win. Games made me happy. I felt like they had been awaiting my return and vowed never to leave them again. I didn't have any higher aspirations in mind for gaming. I was just happy to have them back in my life.

Thanks to my obsession with fighting games, I had learned to manipulate the character I was playing at will. Once the game started, the action on screen exactly followed my intent. I knew that wasn't easily replicable, but was just starting to realize how unique that skill was.

Throughout childhood, I had doubted myself, faltered, and worried about the right way to live my life. It wasn't until my comeback that I made my peace with things. All I had were the games, and that was okay. For this, I am genuinely grateful to games.

Without games, I'm nobody. No one would care about me at all. With games, I'm a minor celebrity. People ask for my autograph and picture when I visit the U.S., and to shake my hand. I get interviewed for magazines and TV, and I even got to write this book.

Life is strange. In my early twenties, I hated signing autographs and always slinked away when asked to take a picture. Now, I'm enthusiastic about getting so much attention. One afternoon, I was playing in an arcade I don't visit that often and had a teenager come up to me. He apologized for bothering me during what he assumed were my work hours and asked for an autograph. I normally don't like signing autographs, but his words put a smile on my face, so I gladly signed one for him. Little things like that give me validation.

The best validation came in 2010, when Guinness World Records informed me out of nowhere that I had set a record: Most Successful Player in Major Tournaments of Street Fighter. I was floored. What made me happiest wasn't the award though, it was the look on my father's face when he read about it in the newspaper. He had never been totally convinced of my achievements, no matter how many tournaments I won, but such high accolades from the non-gaming world got even his attention.

Childhood Dreams and Aspirations

I was the first Japanese to attract potential sponsors, making me the first professional fighting game player in Japan. During my time as a caretaker, I honestly didn't imagine for even a second that this day would come.

Upon becoming a pro gamer, I quit my job at the nursing home; it wasn't the kind of job you could properly do part-time. My last day of work was quite an emotional experience. I was grateful for my time there─hearing the residents' thank-yous was soothing, and it was a rich year and a half that taught me a lot about life and values. Most importantly, it allowed me the time to regain the mental balance I needed to focus on games again.

Looking back, my whole life has centered on games. They've consistently been my keenest interest, and likely always will be.

This devotion has caused me anguish, no doubt─throughout junior and senior high school graduation, I was filled with self-reproach for only having games. Yet even so, something felt amiss as I watched my classmates choose their colleges and jobs. It amazed me how they could decide their futures in such a limited period. I wondered how they could already know what they wanted to do for the rest of their lives.

Recently, I met someone about to graduate university and asked if he had a job lined up.“Yeah, it's exactly the job I wanted,”he said without pause. I couldn't imagine feeling that way with such certainty. What did he like about the job? How many people end up in a profession they truly like? My guess is that most people don't put that much serious thought into it.

Back in elementary school, when our teachers gave us a list of professions and asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, I was the kid that just didn't get it. I had no idea, and resented being asked to choose from such a short list of options, none of which felt appealing. At our age, teachers expected us to pick things like baseball player, researcher, or astronaut. I'd been told I could be anything I wanted, so I wondered why“explorer”wasn't on the list.

Not only did I want more options, I wanted to know how I was supposed to get these jobs. Unable to answer within the time given, I wound up just turning in a blank sheet. When asked the same thing in high school, I was the only one unable to choose.

Some of my other classmates seemed to feel the same, but in the end they all picked a career from the short list. Maybe they were railroaded into their decisions, or they were just picking at random. Maybe none of them even considered alternatives like explorer. In any case, I can't imagine them agonizing like I had; they seem to have resigned themselves to fate.

My teachers foisted these narrow-minded dreams upon us as if other goals were unworthy. It made me sick. Games were everything to me, but the feeling was that I would have to set them aside for more“mature”things. As a result, I don't have many good memories from my student years.

I still can't forget how helpless I felt at being pigeonholed into a future from such a short list. Did I really have to make this decision now, and commit to it? Was I being too picky, or apathetic, or just a failure? Regardless, I was disappointed that the world was such a dull place, and irritated that Japan only allowed children to choose adult-approved careers.

Clearly, I didn't get along with my teachers at school. They weren't going to treat me as an individual. My homeroom teacher was the worst of them all─his go-to phrase was always,“just study!”I couldn't tell if he was being serious or took us all for fools. If he genuinely thought that, he was going to have to tell me why studying was so important. Of course, none of my teachers ever went so far.

No doubt, this hostility was mutual. I never took adults at their word and always demanded more than what they offered. Considering the way Japanese classrooms are run, I'm sure that always insisting on knowing the reason for everything must've been even more trying for them than dealing with the real delinquents. I'm sure I frustrated my teachers, who thought it rather presumptuous of me to always be questioning them like that.

You Don't Need a Dream

As someone who grew up without any real aspirations in the normal sense, I think that regardless of your process in choosing your life goals, what's important is to put all your energy into what's right in front of you.

I used to think that games were all I had, but my thinking has since changed. Games triggered my personal growth, and for that I am grateful and intend to continue playing for as long as I can stay competitive. However, I'm no longer as fixated as I once was. When the day comes that I lose my edge and I don't notice myself growing any further, I'll give up gaming with no regrets. I love games more than anything, but I don't need them like I once did.

Conversely, you can grow to like a job you throw your all into, even if you don't like it at first. You can also find joy outside of work. Thus, I believe that even in the absence of specific dreams or aspirations, nothing bad can come from giving your best shot at whatever lies in front of you. Don't be like me as a kid and lament your limited options─find the value in what's around you and immerse yourself in it. Get creative and exert some effort, and I'm sure that eventually you'll have new ideas that help you feel more positively about things.

Say that after trying something for three years, you find you don't like it and realize that you never will. Perfect! That's a wonderful discovery. Don't just sit there and worry about what you want to do, waiting for your situation to change. Take action. If you act instead of slacking off, the way forward is bound to reveal itself, little by little.

The Joy of Having Something You Love

If you can fully direct your feelings toward something, count yourself lucky. Before any talk of talent or drive, if you love what you're doing more than anything, you are truly blessed. Not everyone finds that something, especially at a young age.

I used to be bewildered by people who play fighting games halfheartedly. Now I realize that people have different approaches to things, that those like me who put everything they've got into games are the exception, and most people just play to unwind and have fun. It wasn't until recently that I finally admitted that not everyone has to want it as badly as I do.

I'm different from other people, and that's okay. It's taken many years for me to see that the differences are what make life interesting. Since I've acknowledged it, I've been able to view myself much more objectively─how I've improved, and where I still need work. Similarly, I can now see others' strengths and accept their flaws.

My perspective has greatly broadened since going pro. I now see that without games, I would've been tremendously lazy. I might not have applied myself to anything.

When I was working at the nursing home, I felt like something was missing. I felt guilty for diverting my energy toward something I didn't truly enjoy. I tried my best, but I couldn't seem to pour myself into it with the passion I felt for games. When I returned to the arcade and rediscovered myself, the knot of feelings and concerns within me unraveled, and I was reunited with the games that I loved.

Upon returning to gaming after my hiatus, I realized that games are something I love, and not everyone has a calling like that. I will be eternally grateful for that joy. I am a different person when I play games, animated and glowing with life.

Spreading Yourself Too Thin

While I always envied the grand dreams of others, I never found my own. I thus have no intentions of telling you to dream big, or demanding that you dream at all.

True, becoming a pro gamer did free me of much suffering, but I never considered it a dream come true. It was more a relief from the pressure I felt, the criticism for doing what I loved. No one ever flat out told me to quit games, but I sensed a constant, unspoken sentiment that I was wasting my life. Even if they didn't approve, I at least wanted everyone to let me play my games in peace.

Some people are surprisingly unhappy when they achieve the life they envisioned for themselves, but not me. Focusing on games as a pro is pure bliss; I couldn't imagine a better life. As mentioned before, I get endless joy out of growing daily and make it a point to improve myself every day.

The life I'd thought I wanted turned out to just be one of turmoil. I'd thought I was supposed to find a goal that led to happiness, then buckle down and take painstaking steps to achieve it. I thought that was how successful people lived, but I eventually realized that such a life is just exhausting. It's not for me anymore.

What I was lacking was a clear direction. I was convinced I was the best in Japan at fourteen and became World Champion at seventeen, and then I turned around and quit. I switched over to mahjong and got within sight of the top, but remained unhappy.

Experiencing these highs and lows attuned me to the subtle, daily joys of life. I've finally found my pace─take things easy and don't spread myself too thin, but fully apply myself within my means. It may sound monotonous, but I get to experience constant change, truly enjoying my evolution and getting the utmost out of each day.

I never set arbitrary objectives or deadlines for myself. I just creep forward, with my eyes straight ahead. Being praised as a god of fighting games, winning the World Championship, getting my name in the Guinness Book of Records─all are insignificant to me.

Sure, certain awards may have more value in other fields. Nevertheless, no matter how great the award, it's easy to question whether winning equates to success if you can't repeat it the following year.

Forget all that. Live life at your own pace and grow every day, and the accolades will naturally follow. That is a much more reasonable and sustainable lifestyle.

Going for Four

As a youth, I didn't know the real meaning of effort and poorly directed my energy more than once.

Capcom periodically holds official tournaments, three of which I won in a row: at fifteen for Darkstalkers 3, at seventeen for Street Fighter Alpha 3, and at nineteen for Capcom vs. SNK. The official tournaments are always single-elimination. The format was designed to make repeated wins difficult, so naturally they expected someone new to win each time. Luck played a part, but everyone acknowledged my hat-trick as quite an achievement. That third win cast me as an elite among the elite; people were saying how I was on a whole other level.

As the next tournament approached, I fixated on a fourth victory. I put myself under incredible pressure. I hadn't felt much pressure to win before, but this time it was intense. I started getting stomach pains as the tournament approached. I couldn't eat a thing, and my weight plummeted; I must've been ten kilos lighter than I am now. It wasn't a state conducive to winning.

Misattributing my diminished performance to a lack of effort, I decided that I needed to push myself harder. Frankly, I pushed myself beyond my limits. I spent most of my waking hours playing, and my body suffered. I couldn't keep down anything but udon noodles. Not hungry, I figured I might as well just skip meals altogether and didn't eat at all some days. My mental state spiraled downward, to the point where normal conversation became impossible. I was nasty with everyone, even my best friends. As tightly wound as I was, I didn't have the capacity to deal with people.

Of course, I lost. I placed in the top eight before the pressure got the best of me─that I even made it that far is a testament to my tenacity─and when the tournament ended, I was shocked and despondent. I thought I was losing it. Had I really lost, or was I dreaming? All that effort, and nothing to show for it. At the award ceremony, I sat in a stupor, clutching my quarter-finalist award as I watched the finalists on the podium.

Feeling hollow when it was all over, I reflected on what had transpired. I'd shown myself that it was possible to overdo it, and that some things can't be overcome by working harder. With my win streak at an end, I distanced myself from games for about half a year and even contemplated totally quitting. Considering my previous dedication, not touching games for six months was a pretty big deal.

In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't win that tournament. If I had, I'd have convinced myself that such misguided efforts were the way to win. Eventually I'd have paid for it, in a way that might have ended my career. Working yourself to the point where you lose your appetite and can't sleep is simply foolish.

After a half-year hiatus, I had finally recovered and saw this colossal blunder for what it was. Thinking back, I recalled people asking me for advice and replying that they just weren't trying hard enough. In my frame of mind at the time, that seemed the obvious answer. I had mistakenly equated productive effort with reckless devotion, getting ahead with meaningless exertion.

It's a shame I had to learn my lesson in a national tournament, but it's a valuable one nonetheless─that trying your hardest doesn't guarantee victory, and that there are positive and negative ways to apply effort.

Never Work Until It Hurts

Losing at my fourth championship attempt taught me that true effort does not mean working until it hurts. For whatever illogical reasoning, I had mistaken self-inflicted pain as being key to growth. The tournament showed me, however, that recklessly mismanaging your time and taking on too much at once just wears you down.

The wrong kind of effort also leads to obsession. It warps your mind, making you think that hard work alone is deserving of success.

Say you're running an obstacle course and there's a sturdy wall between you and your goal. Instead of bloodying your knuckles by punching at it, approach the problem from a different angle and you're bound to find a way past. If you look around, maybe there's a ladder nearby, or a knob somewhere that opens a door. Sometimes it seems like you can just keep punching your way through the maze on pure willpower alone, but there are some walls that your fists won't dent.

Your own ability is one such wall. When you come up against it, don't despair; use your head. If you can't knock it down, look for alternative solutions. You might not even have to go through it─maybe there's a way around. It takes astounding effort and drastic changes in thinking to overcome the wall of your own ability.

Simply building experience without thinking about what you're doing is not effort. Actually, since thinking is the hard part, in a sense you're taking the easy way out. Cutting out the thinking is just aimless flailing.

If working so hard that you sacrifice your health leads to winning, well, at least you got that. Wind up like I did and have nothing to show for it, however, and the damage will be immeasurable. It might leave you with no way forward. There's nothing good about that kind of effort.

When I was taking those six months off, my friends invited me out to the arcades numerous times before I finally acquiesced. When I first re-entered that Shinjuku arcade, I was amazed at how easy it was to win. I was definitely stronger than I was before the tournament.

I didn't understand it at the time, but it was just a matter of regaining the right frame of mind. I could easily read my opponent's movements, a skill I had lost leading up to the tournament. I wasn't in my right mind before, but clearly I had healed.

Shortly thereafter, I resolved never to push myself that hard again. The pain may feel like progress, but all you're really doing is hurting yourself.

Quality over Quantity

Back when I used to play like crazy, I thought I'd never improve or achieve anything if I didn't spend as much play time as possible. Now, I realize that the quality of the time spent is more important than the quantity.

Spending fifteen hours a day on something won't ensure growth. Conversely, that much time on something can damage your health. You won't have time for a full night's rest or three square meals. That's sure to catch up with you eventually and bring you to a full halt. Whether we're talking games, traditional sports, business, art, hobbies─anything─you can't do good work unless you're healthy. Devoting more time than you can handle is inefficient and unsustainable. You won't be able to keep working at a consistently productive level.

It should be enough to make little discoveries that indicate growth or progress, even if they come over a short time. Say you're out shopping, and you find a place selling something for ninety-eight cents that you normally buy for a dollar. Sure, it's small, but that's progress. If anyone asks how you've improved yourself today, you can proudly state that you learned how to save two cents. If you consider your two-cent discovery as personal growth that improves your life, that'll give you the energy to look for something tomorrow as well.

Conversely, working a fifteen-hour day and having nothing to show for it sucks. You'll just get down on yourself and won't stay motivated.

What escaped me before is how hard it is to make daily discoveries. I had set my expectations too high and was chasing after too many things. My all-or-nothing attitude made me think I'd rather quit gaming than just make it a hobby, but ultimately forced my decision.

Nowadays, I feel that three hours a day is plenty of practice. Making small discoveries in three hours is far more meaningful than finding nothing in fifteen. It's also a much easier practice to maintain.

Distinguish between Goals and Objectives

To keep your effort at sustainable levels, don't confuse short-term objectives with your long-term goals.

In competitive gaming, participating in a tournament is a good objective, but a tournament victory is a poor goal. In my case, at least, I've never done well in tournaments I entered just to win.

A friend invited me to a tournament when I was contemplating quitting games in the wake of the Capcom tournament debacle. My heart wasn't really in it, but it had a big-money prize and all the games were ones that I played, so I decided to enter. I was only in it for the win.

It was another disaster. I was only after the prize, so I was playing not to lose. I was furthermore mentally drained, inhibiting instinctual play─when opponents came at me with everything, I wasn't confident enough to react appropriately.

Pride in your efforts rewards you with confidence to match. As I found out, however, focusing on the prize lowers your drive for the game. Lesson learned: don't misjudge your goals.

Tournaments are a playground for people who practice for growth. It's where they show off their achievements. Once I made that realization, I finally started making continued growth my goal, rather than winning. Games enrich my life by allowing me to grow as an individual, and that's what motivates me to keep on going.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with winning a tournament or achieving a certain result as an objective. Objectives can be a good short-term motivation that draws out your potential. Get overly obsessed with that objective and let it become your goal, however, and you'll stop producing and lose the will to continue.

Continued Growth Is the Goal

Since I started considering tournaments as simply objectives and made personal growth my goal, I stopped caring about tournament outcomes so much. Win or lose, I maintain a steady drive to keep going. No tournament result is going to change my everyday work routine.

Even if I win a World Championship, I shift emotional gears right away. I allow myself a day of celebration, but even then, you'll never see me pumping my fist after a victory. Some people will bask in a win for a month or two, or even up to a year. Victory gives me less joy than it does some others, but that's okay.

I never shoot for a happiness level of one hundred through winning tournaments; I'd rather score sixty in my daily practice. Sixty is just right─much lower doesn't foster motivation, and one hundred indicates too much reliance.

Of course, everyone's goals are different. If you just want to be a star and hog the spotlight, save yourself the time and effort it takes to be truly strong and just chase wins. With the effort I've devoted to games though, I never expect to lose. I have to continuously feed my will to stay on top.

Of course winning is better than losing, but letting your emotional barometer swing too wildly with the wins and losses will hinder steady growth.

If you focus on tournament results, you're deriving your motivation from the praise of others in the form of the crowd's cheers. Your strength is the same whether you enter a tournament or not.

But what if the sponsor stops holding a big tournament? What if no one cheers when you win? What if you hit an unlucky streak and lose? Luck affects tournament results, so putting too much stock in them makes it hard to stay mentally balanced, let alone continue to grow.

It may seem contradictory, but, in my experience, letting go of winning encourages victory. When I enter a tournament now, I just want everyone to see me play. As a result, I'm winning more.

Fighting games are as much a mental battle as anything, and players who are too hung up on winning are easy to read and tend to shy away at the last minute. They tend to be more cautious and overly rely on theory. Theory is a good foundation, but not enough to win. Playing that way makes you look like you're riding with training wheels.

If you're experiencing a happiness of sixty with the discoveries in your daily practice, you know that losing a tournament won't deprive you of that joy. It puts you at ease, letting you play your game in matches and make daring moves in risky situations.

Can You Keep It Up for Ten Years?

If you want to continue growing, consider whether you've convinced yourself of that goal. As discussed above, I believe everyone has a limited daily working capacity.

One of the criteria limiting your capacity is whether your goal is sustainable. For example, if you decide that you're going to play games for six hours a day, how many years do you think you could keep that up? I've heard people going through the pandemonium that is the Japanese university entrance exams brag about studying for more than fifteen hours a day. That's great, but how many years do you think you could sustain that level of effort? I'd give you a year at best.

If you cram for fifteen hours a day, you might temporarily remember enough of what you studied to score well on your tests, but little of that knowledge will stick permanently. Similarly, the power we gain from working past our limits is fleeting. Studying fifteen-plus hours a day is fine as long as you pass the test, but failing despite your efforts can be quite a shock.

When setting the right amount for myself, I aim for a level of effort I can sustain for ten years. Ten years is just right─not too soft, not too hard. Think of it that way, and your capacity for effort should naturally come into focus.

The Future of the Band

What are you living for? Say you're in a band with dreams of landing a contract with a major record label. No matter how hard you work at it, only a handful of bands ever score a big-time deal. Countless bands struggle to make ends meet, only to eventually admit they've hit their ceiling and give up on their dream. Few of those who set lofty goals actually attain them.

No band is certain to land a record deal. In fact, no one is guaranteed rewards based on efforts applied. If the band goes on making music without worrying about whether they'll ever get a deal, we know that they're in it for love. They can set aside the record deal idea and just focus on the music. If a band's ultimate goal is getting that record deal, and as a result they neglect the music, they may not recover if their dream never materializes. I know that frustration all too well from experience.

My advice for our theoretical band would be that if they really love music, they should focus on creating the best music they can. No bad can come of that. If all they want is fame, my candid advice is that they should quit now and save themselves the anguish. Even if they somehow land a major label deal out of sheer luck, they're bound for hard times later. In the best case, they might fizzle out as a one-hit wonder and be left wondering where to go from there.

Ask yourself why you want your goal. Constantly reaffirm your resolve. Whether it be musician, actor, pro ball player, or anything, sit down and ask yourself─is that what you really want? Is your desire enduring?

The first thing I probe for when anyone wants advice on how to become a pro gamer is their commitment. Would you still want the same thing if you were born thirty years earlier? There's actually a system in place for pro gaming now, but what if there wasn't? If you couldn't go pro and would never be famous, would you still be able to pour yourself into games? The ones that are resolute in spite of that have the disposition to be happy with their choice and won't be swayed by bad results. For the first half of my life, that's exactly the life path I was searching for.

Wait for Your Moment

Say you're a stand-up comic still struggling with your material. You have one go-to gag that always got a big response from the audience, but it's getting old now that the novelty has worn off. You did not intend to build a career on this gimmick, but a talent scout happens to love your gag and offers you a regular spot at a major comedy club in Vegas to perform it.

Of course, even achieving short-lived fame on the big stage is a fine accomplishment. Even so, establishing fame in that manner makes changing direction harder than it would've been before you rose to popularity. In many people's eyes, you'll forever be identified by that one gag.

Nothing I can say will stop you if you consider fleeting success worth sacrificing the rest of your career for, but, in my opinion, you should postpone your debut if you're not ready for primetime. Not that those who don't put in the work don't deserve to succeed─rather, if you're not ready, you're setting yourself up for future difficulties.

The same can be said for gaming. Maybe you want people to think that you're strong and so enter a tournament, despite not yet being capable of play at that level. Even if you somehow win a match or two, you won't be able to reproduce those wins consistently.

Being thrust into the spotlight before your skills are ready will only lead to misfortune; you're better off waiting until you're truly prepared. Resentment about postponing your debut can even serve as good motivation for you to sharpen your skills.

If anything, postpone your debut a little more than you think is necessary. If people talk about how your talents are overlooked, then when you finally find yourself on the main stage, you'll have the confidence to put up a good fight.

Worst of all is a premature debut that initially appears successful─you risk becoming too pleased with yourself and getting big-headed. In contrast, if you wait longer to make your break, you'll explode onto the scene and, having faced adversity, you'll stay grounded. With the right ability─frame of mind included─you'll never fail to be grateful for your place, or the work it took to get there. Be patient, believing that your day will come.

Creating a Sustainable Routine

While I certainly don't get the same thrill out of it as I did in my youth, I do my best to hit the arcade every day. On evenings when I don't have an interview or meeting, or have to play someone online, I head out to my favorite arcade in Shinjuku. Some days it feels like a chore, but I do enjoy myself once I get there.

I've made arcade visits compulsory. Even as a pro, it's not like I have any regularly-scheduled matches or anything, so I have to make it compulsory or else I would just skip anytime I feel like it. I'm confident that I could skip going to the arcade for a year or so and still be competitive, but that's no excuse to slack off.

In my mind, creating a sustainable routine is at least as important as changing your perspective on things. Focusing on an objective may trick you into thinking you don't have to work hard every single day. If there are still two months until a tournament, say, you might tell yourself that you can afford to take it easy for just this one day, and then the next. Additionally, you may forget the importance of applying yourself immediately following a tournament. Such inconsistencies will throw off your daily routine.

I've seen plenty of players that can't maintain consistent effort levels. Many let their efforts wane after tournaments, and others even lose confidence in themselves and quit gaming. If your goals are daily improvement and personal growth, being lax and skipping practice is a dangerous pitfall.

Even so, maintaining a happiness level of sixty requires being confident enough to rest when you're not working. Part of keeping your effort sustainable is recharging for the next day. Too many people feel like working hard is just about putting in the hours, but working past your own limits is not going to produce any results. Whether it be six hours a day or three, it's better to determine the maximum sustainable amount of time that you can stay focused. Outside of that, have faith in your plan and rest.

What's important isn't the amount of time spent; it's keeping up the effort and realizing changes and improvements in that period. Small changes are fine─just be sure to notice them and recognize them as growth.

My Routine

I generally follow a set routine. Recently, I've found that about six hours is my optimal amount of playing time. My time spent with games is actually a little bit longer if you include experimentation and analysis, but six hours is perfect for actual time playing others.

I used to devote more time to playing. I'd criticize myself as lazy if I found myself with free time. At some point, I realized that longer is not always better─downtime is important, too.

Fighting games are a battle of the minds, and you can't win if your mind and body are out of balance. Give your mind a rest, and better ideas will come. Besides time spent with games, eat well and get some exercise, and it'll help your gaming as well.

My schedule is rarely empty. I consciously make plans because I hate sitting around with nothing to do. My daily routine goes like this:

10:00 am: Wake up

I keep myself busy until the evening. Some days I'll work out at the gym, other days I'll write articles or attend meetings. It's rare that I have a truly free day with nothing scheduled.

5:00 pm: Head out to the arcade

I bicycle to my regular arcade in Shinjuku, which takes about an hour. There, I'll play against the regulars, and sometimes get asked to sign autographs or take pictures.

12:00 midnight: Return home

I pedal back from Shinjuku. Riding the bicycle helps keep me active, and light exercise like that helps me think. I have good ideas all the time on the ride home.

3:00 am: Go to bed

After getting home, I take a bath and do some light research before sleeping.

Not wanting to disrupt my balance, I follow this routine without change, even when tournaments are coming up. This allows me to set a rhythm. It makes it easy to distinguish between when I'm doing well and when I'm in a slump. It allows me to maintain a consistent happiness level of sixty.

Stick to Your Routine, in Moderation

Having a daily routine is important, but you don't have to be adamant about it. If you make your schedule an absolute, it'll instead increase your mental pressure, disturbing your rhythm.

Getting too caught up in your routine is missing the point. If a close friend invites you out, it doesn't make sense to turn them down just to maintain your routine. Don't worry about it too much if you end up staying out late; you can sleep a little later than usual, or otherwise adjust.

Sticking to a work schedule to the point of sacrificing opportunities to socialize makes for a boring life. You'll just turn people off that way. If the choice is between having to work a little to get back into your routine or sowing discord between you and your friends, choose your friends every time.

Socializing is essential to me, both as a person and as a gamer. The media likes to depict hardcore gamers as antisocial loners, but that's not me. I learn a lot from socializing with non-gamers. I find value in hearing advice from anyone, even those who have no knowledge of gaming whatsoever. Besides, good company makes the beer taste better.

As long as you have the desire to do so, you can learn from anyone or any book, no matter what the topic. Lessons are all around us, waiting to be learned.

Five Steps at a Time

All the time, people ask me how to get better at gaming. The answer is simple: practice, every day. That's the only way. That advice isn't always useful though, so the first thing I normally recommend is to stay focused on what's directly in front of you.

If the journey is a staircase, focus on climbing the first five steps. Even if it's pitch black, you should still be able to feel your way up five steps. Being told to climb a 500-step staircase would give most people pause. You're likely to give up on the climb altogether before even starting.

Picturing a looming 500-step staircase is enough to drain anyone's initial enthusiasm, so don't look too far ahead─just focus on climbing those first five steps. Once you've done that, climb the next five. A few steps a day, and you'll have reached the top before you know it.

Maybe I'm just not the planning type, but I rarely set big objectives for myself. I just keep grinding away, focusing on what's in front of me, and eventually I reach incredible heights.

Better than Winning a World Championship

Over the course of making small, daily improvements, sometimes I'll hit on a big discovery and feel like I've found a unique solution to a problem. Those moments make me happy─they bring me from my normal sixty up to eighty.

Beating someone in a match doesn't really do much for me, but I revel in my own discoveries. They're internal realizations that perhaps no one else can understand, but they are satisfying nonetheless and give me motivation to keep going.

The flip side of that is not getting too attached to wins and losses. I don't get much pleasure from winning, nor do I get too down from losing. It's nothing more than a result, and I'm focused on bigger things, so I soon forget them either way. It's a kind of mental armor. If you beat me in a match, good job! My greatest opponent isn't my challenger─it's myself.

Most players put everything into their match because they are fixated on the outcome. In a match, your opponent is constantly pressuring you to give up. That never works on me, though; I withstand such strategies through persistence.

I think differently than my opponents. I'm just throwing myself into what I love every day, not concerned with the outcome of individual matches. Of course, you have to be aware of the outcomes in a tournament, but it still doesn't bother me if I win or lose.

The whole purpose of matches is self-improvement. If you learned something from a match, it's a good outcome. I'm thankful when a player beats me; defeats highlight my outstanding issues, and working to correct them is a chance to grow.

Big discoveries in my daily efforts make me far happier than winning World Championships. I avoid happiness of a hundred under normal circumstances, so eighty is the most I'll allow myself. It's extraordinarily rewarding.

Lessons from the Dumpling Lady

One day, at a period when I was getting bored with the monotony of my daily life, a woman I saw on TV said something that moved me. She owned a family-run dumpling shop in western Japan that had been around for at least twenty generations. She must've been pushing ninety herself.

In a regrettably short ten-second interview, she stated in her deliberate cadence that by far the hardest thing was producing exactly the same product, every day. Considering how her words applied to my situation gave me goose bumps. This dumpling lady wasn't trying to impart her wisdom on anyone in particular. She wasn't showing off or griping about kids these days; she was just quietly telling it like it is.

She was amazing. She is steadfastly preserving a recipe passed down for centuries. Her diligence, day in and day out, is precisely what keeps her dumplings tasting great. I'm sure she must've had her doubts. Maybe at one point she resented having to take over the family business, thus dedicating her life to making dumplings. But her words depicted emotions that carried her above her hardships.

Her words really stuck with me. She made me realize the importance of continuity, that certain things must remain constant. I aspired to reach the same mental state. Maybe we differ in our approach, in that I seek constant change, but I too longed for some constancy of my own to treasure. For me, that meant keeping myself satisfied with small, daily changes. If you aim for big changes and improvements and somehow miss your mark, your motivation will nosedive.

I don't strive for any kind of dramatic growth, and I don't look to develop tricks or special moves. I'm fine not making any sudden jumps in my ability; climbing the stairs one at a time is enough.

Life with No Days Off

I of course take breaks over the course of a day, but I generally don't take days off. There are times when I'm genuinely tired and need to rest, but working for the weekend isn't my idea of ultimate happiness.

I'm often asked how frequently I practice, and my answer is always the same: 363 days a year. I always spend New Year's Eve and New Year's Day together with my family, and I've never once broken that tradition. I practice games every day of the year, except for those two.

Back when I was chasing tournament wins, I too wanted a few days off. After putting in the work to attain some result, I'd be relieved that it was all over and wanted to unwind for a while before starting up again. When my long-awaited rest finally came, however, it wasn't as enjoyable as I'd expected. Over the course of living that routine, the work had gradually become a real chore.

This underlines the importance of enjoying each day and keeping your efforts at a moderate level, not looking for ways to partition your life into work and rest segments. Moderating my efforts for today, tomorrow, and the day after has kept things pleasant, improved my performance in gaming, and allowed me to ascertain my improvements. Work hard only for a limited period in pursuit of some objective, and that objective becomes the end-all. If you fail to achieve that objective, recovery is much harder.

Daily effort and acknowledging your improvements makes life a pleasure. For me, this is far more satisfying than working for some nebulous future happiness. Even without any days off, daily life can be a joy beyond words.

Why Losers Can't Win

I've been thinking since I was a kid about why I keep on winning while others eventually lose their edge, and I have formed a basic, if imperfect, understanding of what factors impact one's ability to win. The main thing is to walk the hard road of self-development through constant change, but there are plenty of elements that go into this, and many pitfalls and sidetracks along the way. Without adding up these factors and putting in the work, you won't be able to win consistently.

Before considering what it takes to win, however, let's look at a few of the reasons why people lose.

In any high-level competition, a delicate balance of factors determines the winner, and in competitive gaming the ability gap is razor thin. Innate player capabilities such as intelligence, comprehension, coordination, and reflexes also factor in, but the winner is largely determined by the amount of effort put in by each player, along with their respective mental states and motivation levels.

Staying motivated to maintain effort levels and consistently win in a field like eSports is tough. Doing so means giving the game your full attention and always producing results. Considering what's involved, it's no wonder that most people can't stay at the top of their game for long.

The first major hurdle to overcome is any tendency to slack off and rely on natural talent for a particular game. Even if a game clicks with you, continued success isn't guaranteed without work. Until you realize that staying strong at a game takes a combination of many elements, you'll continue leaving things up to chance.

This applies equally to those who rely on past successes. Don't live in the past, stuck on that one game that you're strong with. If you rely on talent or stick to one particular winning strategy, you're sure to falter. It won't happen overnight, but gradually you'll lose momentum.

Most people will settle on a style of sorts as their skills improve. Many will stick with certain moves they're good at using. Some prefer to go on the offensive and always try for a KO, whereas those good at defending might try winning by blocking until the time runs out. Both types restrict themselves and will eventually hit a wall. Even more dangerous is relying only on input from others to determine your own style without analyzing yourself. If you mistake opinions for your own distinct style, you won't produce results and your success will not last.

Personally, I don't limit myself by trying to win in any one particular fashion. In fact, I actively avoid always winning the same way. When people mention something they consider a strength of mine, I deny it and avoid using whatever it is they've pointed out. When it comes to what it takes to win, personal preferences and styles are beside the point. It's far more important to find the best course of action.

Another hurdle to overcome in fighting games is age. Those outside Japan seem particularly sensitive about how the reflexes decline with time and are amazed at how I'm still playing at my age. Along the way to becoming world champion again at twenty-eight, I spoke briefly with one of the players I defeated when we shook hands. He told me that he had been ready to hang it up, but that I had inspired him to continue by remaining one of the world's best for ten years running. He didn't seem that old to me, but opinion abroad seems to be that reflexes peak at twenty-two or twenty-three. To me, this sounds suspiciously like using age as an excuse when the real issue is a lack of effort─their effort levels, not their reflexes, have fallen off with time. If you focus on learning and applying new tactics and strategy instead of relying on speed and fast reflexes, age isn't scary in the slightest.

You need to figure out how to win in all situations. See how much you can win without relying on your strengths. Don't fall into the trap of thinking that because a certain move exists, you don't have to learn all the intricacies of the game.

Maintain Balance

To win consistently, you need to maintain an even emotional keel and always give the game your full attention. Keep yourself mentally sharp by not showboating when you win or getting salty when you lose.

People have their own ways to maintain this balance. Personally, I always remind myself that both my opponent and I are human; nothing is special about either of us. My victories are due to a conventional combination of knowledge, technical accuracy, experience, and practice, not because I overwhelmed my opponent with my greatness. Win or lose, one of us did what needed to be done, and as a result beat the other. Never forget that in any contest, one side continued to do a perfectly normal thing, and as a result was able to win this one time.

This balance breaks down if you win or lose for too long; you will tend to mistake your success for innate talent, or despair at your failure. But neither is true. No matter how much we win or lose, in the end we're all just human. Moreover, a win or loss is just a singular event, and each outcome is merely the result of some cause. Single results are only that, and no result should ever convince you that you don't need to put in the effort needed to win.

How we react when we fail to attain a desired result greatly impacts the direction we take from that point forward. Some will make excuses─attributing a loss to bad luck, blaming the game itself, declaring that an opponent is just too strong, obsessing over getting older… Don't get caught up in your emotions, just consider the facts and analyze them.

The Power of Exploring

Those who don't put in the time and effort, instead winning by intuition or by luck, will fold the moment they face a real challenge. I've played against countless opponents who were smart, quick learners, or had momentum on their side, but I never once went into a match thinking I might lose. The difference between us was always our time spent exploring the game.

When I was younger, I often experienced lopsided defeats. Yes, I too started off as a noob. Today, however, I've attained an unwavering confidence and never back down from an opponent. What sets my attitude and resolve apart from those who have just gone with the flow and piled up win upon win is this: for each of my countless mistakes and failures, I've sat down and thought intently about why I lost.

I know when I'm playing against opponents who simply rely on luck or their feel for the game; their play just looks sloppy. I immediately notice that they haven't analyzed what they're doing and get thrown off easily. Those who rely on momentum without analysis will falter when they reach the big stage. When they face an opponent who is truly prepared for battle, they will lack the confidence to press forward.

You also see this in those who compete too early without enough practice. I know this because I've been guilty of it myself. I used to play several games instead of focusing my efforts on just one, concentrating on different games for some time before each tournament, but this diluted my passion for each game. As you might expect, the outcomes were as mediocre as my efforts. It's nearly impossible to win a tournament for a game you're only practicing, because you'll never defeat those who are passionate about that game.

I've learned the value of honest, patient training through the shame of loss. No matter how hard you try, those who train only for a short-term goal without passion cannot hope to consistently take down those who love what they're doing and have painstakingly explored every facet of the game.

Take Notes

Regardless of our field, we all have odd concerns that pop up throughout the day. It's easy for us to just to brush off such moments without pursuing them further, but if we ignore them, we just wind up forgetting. You might sense a slight difference of opinion with a co-worker, say, or be unable to figure out how you arrived at a right answer despite using the wrong method for a math problem in a practice test. I run across little things that bug me in gaming all the time, whether I'm playing someone at the arcade or practicing alone.

You can't ignore these discoveries, because If you do they'll come back to bite you in the end. And when they do you'll regret it, reminded of how they bothered you before but you failed to act.

When something bothers me, I always make a note of it, usually on my phone. I never have the time to do anything about it at the time, so I resolve to sort it out later. I create itemized lists to make review easier. If I ever find myself thinking it's not worth the effort, I remind myself never to second-guess my intuition and pull out my phone. If you don't capture it when it hits you, it can be hard to recall what exactly the problem was. Noting the problem immediately allows you to deal with the issue even after time has passed.

Given that competitive gaming is a battle between two players, many of the little concerns that come up for me are about people. I feel like I should never ignore anything, regardless of the opponent. Over the course of a long day playing countless games, sometimes I'll think to myself that maybe I'm wasting my time playing boring matches against obviously weaker players, or that I don't have to analyze the outcome. Yet anytime I give in to these lazy impulses, it always backfires.

Interestingly enough, many of the players that have caught me by surprise in tournaments have been ones that I played in the past and discounted as not being worth the effort. On several occasions I beat all the stronger players that I was on the lookout for, only to fall to someone I had underestimated because he wasn't highly ranked.

So no matter how minor they may seem to be, you should always note your concerns so that you can address them and avoid upset. In my case, being careful not to overlook these little misgivings has helped me to defend my position.

Never Stop Thinking

I was an inquisitive child and always liked thinking. I'd latch onto a problem, and stick to it until I'd thought it through. If I ever got stuck, I'd always ask my parents for help. They don't know anything about games, but looking for clues in conversations with them was surprisingly helpful toward arriving at answers.

I also used to read a lot. The words of competitors in other fields were sometimes a good reference, for example sports autobiographies or stories of matches between master shogi players. I would notice how we faltered in similar situations, or how they solved a particular problem.

I've always found thinking about things to be a joy. When a thought is kicking around in your head, there's no one to criticize or disparage you. No one can tell you that you're overthinking, or that they're just games and not worth it.

I found solace in the feeling that I was searching for solutions. It assured me that no one was making fun of the approach I was taking. Thinking allowed me to feel that the more accepted pursuits of my classmates were in no way superior to or more serious than my own.

In devoting my life to games, it may have appeared to others as if I was just playing. But seriously thinking about things assured me that I too had value, just like everyone else. Being an unseasoned child, always thinking so deeply certainly wasn't easy, but it was fulfilling. For me, in-depth contemplation has produced answers, allowed me to work harder, and given me confidence.

To stay on top, you need to think long and hard on each individual issue. You must discard preconceived notions and investigate the cause of issues from every perspective and angle. When you hit a wall, the way forward will come to you given enough time. Just push the issue to the back of your mind and let your subconscious work on it. Quite often, a hint will fall into your lap from a totally unrelated place. Perhaps a casual utterance when talking to a friend will wind up being the best piece of advice.

The American inventor Thomas Edison, responsible for upward of thirteen hundred inventions in his lifetime, said that those who fail to succeed are those who fail to think. I sincerely believe this to be so─keep thinking, and you will find a solution. You might even have an epiphany or two. Make a habit of thinking deeply about issues, and eventually you'll find yourself able to probe questions more deeply than the average person can.

To take a simplistic example, say that you see a bird flying. The losing attitude would be just to leave it at that, not exploring the issue any further. In contrast, the above-average person may think a little deeper, noting that the bird has wings, and having wings allows them to fly. But if you want to win consistently, you need to probe even further than this. You might wonder why humans don't have wings, and whether wings are absolutely necessary to flight or if there are alternatives. Conversely, some might even contemplate why humans need to fly in the first place.

Maybe you're wondering what the purpose is in thinking about the“how”and“why.”We always find something in such thought exercises and obtain answers from the most unlikely sources. Don't dwell on whether an answer is the right one; what's more important is that you sat down and came up with it yourself. Maybe you'll arrive at the conclusion that while you don't have wings, you have something that's even better. Maybe finding that answer will provide the confidence you need to persevere. It's an answer that you thought up yourself; no one gave it to you.

If you're the type to let the conversation stop at just accepting that the bird can fly, then you won't be able to overcome the barriers you encounter. Many give up on thinking and problem-solving altogether and simply resort to complaining that they can't fly.

Learn to view things from another angle, and you'll also tend to work better under pressure. In matches, I've found that such contemplation has frequently allowed me to find a solution more quickly than others. If I'm on the attack, I can quickly think of the right defense to combine that with in a particular situation.

Growth Implies Change

Many believe that change and progress are different things. But in the gaming world at least, there is no growth without change. Never being the same person as I was the day before is how I grow.

Change can be unsettling and doesn't always lead to victory, but if you keep changing, you will always inch forward in your own self-development. Always strive to change yourself. Break out of your shell and try new things. Think up a new plan of attack when your old one─no matter how hard you worked to develop it─ceases to work.

If one change doesn't work out, just make another. If you realize what went wrong and fix it, you will always wind up better off than before. The experience might even suggest a way to take two steps forward. Keep changing and eventually you'll find the right way. If you ever take a wrong step, you'll know that the right way is in a different direction.

To grow is to advance and avoid getting stuck. Keep developing and you can keep winning. It doesn't matter how old you are, or if a new game comes out, or if there are more skilled players.

Changes come in all shapes and sizes, with varying effects. Some are incremental, and others are dramatic ones that result in big leaps forward. Both types are important and should not be considered strictly in terms of size.

Talk of daily change specific to fighting games leads to discussions of specialized tactics, things like punches and kicks, blocking, attack patterns, combos, timing of moves, and character matchups. You have to break a game down into segments and change each, little by little. Watch how your opponent acts in situations where you'd normally attack. Try a variant on a combo you know to be effective. Try speeding up your timing on a move, or delaying it in certain cases. Choose another character.

Of course, with fighting games, nothing will congeal as a tactic until you try it out on actual opponents. No matter how natural something might feel to you, what's important is how your opponents react. Maybe you'll notice that they're weaker against a certain move, or discover another attack option, or that being blocked at specific times leaves you exposed. These little discoveries are what validate your attempted changes.

Daily change is helpful for anyone, not just gamers. Try taking a new route home, or ordering something you've never eaten, or getting off the train at a different station than usual. It doesn't matter how small, the important thing is to change. With this approach, anyone can induce change at any time. Gain some more experience, and before you know it you'll start to notice that your outlook on things is broader than before.

Small changes to fighting game tactics will take about a week to perfect, and bigger changes will take about three months. Tactical changes significant enough for others to notice will depend on the opponent, so they require further tweaking to adjust for opponent play while still perfecting the change. Such changes are more of a challenge and thus take at least two or three months to integrate effectively.

Starting out, the important thing is keep trying new strategies. Some will be more successful than others, and you will certainly question whether you're trying the right thing at least a few times. Then, after three months or so, you'll see the light at the end of the tunnel and settle on the form your big change will take. Of course, these tunnels of change come one after the other. Indeed, maintaining your strength as a gamer will mean passing through an unending series of tunnels.

It's the same as the software development cycle, where developers have to continually improve their products to keep selling them. The new product must be better than the old one and has to have some sort of added value without negatively affecting performance, quality, or safety.

To stay on top of your game, you have to be prepared for the fact that at the end of one cycle of change awaits an even harder cycle.

Work on Your Weaknesses

To continue changing and evolving, you need to challenge your weaknesses.

In competition for me, or maybe on the job in your case, associating with those you don't get along with can be a good experience. I avoided disagreeable people when I was younger, but today I do my best to stick closer to those I dislike. I feel like I've lost if I shy away from them.

I rarely learn to like someone I once hated, but familiarity helps dull the unpleasantness and enables me to acknowledge our personal differences or recognize the skill in their playing style so that I can learn to accept them. If you learn to get along with those you dislike, then you have grown.

In a strange way, gameplay and personality are often linked. Whether a player is aggressive, analytical, bold, resourceful, cunning, or timid, their personality will show in their playing style. I guess games bring out the qualities we develop from an early age. So in games─any kind of competition, really─observing the person is extremely important.

There were all types of people in the arcades when I was growing up, and most were social outcasts and older than me. I think growing up surrounded by those types honed my sense of conventional and eccentric personality types. It takes time to really analyze what kind of person someone is, but you can notice subtle idiosyncrasies in their speech and mannerisms in an instant.

Probably because I've been observing people in competition since I was a kid, I would say that I'm adept at looking at a person and telling whether we'd get along or not. Past experience has shown that if I don't get along with a person, I probably won't like their play style either. Conversely, if someone's play impresses me, I usually find that we get along well. Maybe compatibility on the personal level and the game level are interconnected.

For that exact reason, though, I say go out of your way to play against those you dislike and overcome your feelings. If you only surround yourself with those you like and agree with, it'll of course be comfortable for you, but you won't overcome your preconceptions and get any stronger. It is by actively working with those we dislike and confronting our weaknesses that we are first able to shed our skin and make real strides in growth.

Don't Overthink, Change

When changing yourself, the trick is not to consider whether that change is for the better or for the worse. If you make a change and realize it's for the worse, just change again. The more important thing is to keep changing.

No one can know whether a change will be good or bad. From experience, however, continuous change will eventually take you to higher levels. Of course, there will also be times where change shows you the advantages of what you were doing before. From there, you should take the best parts of each approach and continue adapting.

As a child, I was afraid of change. Changing game strategies and techniques was fine, but I'd be terrified of the consequences of making changes on a personal level or when addressing a weakness. I was shy and overly concerned with what others thought of me.

Many times, after talking to someone for the first time, I later felt like I hadn't properly expressed myself. I'd obsess over things like that, to the point of losing sleep. I hated that about myself.

At one point, I thought I'd never be able to change that part of myself. I could deal with the mental anguish for a day or two, but then I would consider being stuck in that state for five years, ten years…even forever. I was miserable, thinking I'd be afraid to lose and unable to like myself no matter how much time passed. But in reality, regardless of how awkward I felt or how much I thought I'd embarrassed myself, no one had even noticed.

Most people get caught up worrying about what others will think before trying something new. They weigh their own ability against their chances of success and fear failure.

I see many such people in competitive gaming. Some even let it affect how they interact with others. For example, they might avoid contact with those they consider their“superiors.”There's a perceived pecking order in competitive fields, so they must think that someone ranked higher wouldn't deign to talk to them. Or maybe they'll have a chance to play against the World Champion, but back down because they undersell their own ability.

That seems to me like a boring way to go through life. You can't grow that way. If you want to talk to someone or challenge the World Champion, do it. Maybe you'll be ignored, maybe you'll be embarrassed when you get slammed in your match, but that's not the end of the world. It'll hardly affect your life at all, in fact.

Much worse is to be paralyzed by fear of failure. Society tends to evaluate us based solely on visible results. At times, I even sense an air of intolerance toward failure. No one wants to be branded as a failure. We hear adults belittle kids, saying they have no talent and so should give up and face reality, or that they'll fail no matter what, so they might as well not even try. Who wouldn't second-guess themselves if told something like that?

I'm sure many people consider calculating risks and taking the safe route a shortcut to success. Maybe that works for those with social grace and a sense of efficiency, but it's never helped me.

It's exceedingly rare to move forward without failure. In most cases, advancement will require confronting issues you've been avoiding. You might manage to dodge those issues to a certain point, but your potential for progress is limited without facing your fears and overcoming barriers. Hammering through your failures is vastly more effective and will take you farther.

There Is No Winning Strategy

Fighting games are generally a one-on-one contest. There are no coaches like in traditional sports to provide guidance on how to improve your game. There are no great masters like in the fine arts. With the exception of rare 3v3 tournaments, you're on your own. You can learn from your opponents, but it's up to you to figure out what the lesson is.

There is no surefire way to improve. I was always at the forefront in eSports, so there was no one to teach me; I had to blaze my own trail. Everything I learned, I came up with myself─the extent of my own potential, how to maximize that potential, what practice would emphasize my strengths… Everything.

There are no coaches, so training is your responsibility. It's the ultimate gut check─you just have to trust yourself and follow your instincts.

I spare no effort in my actions. I believe that if I keep acting, eventually I'll stumble upon the right answer even if I'm lacking in ability. Inspiration comes to me only rarely, and despite my reputation, I am no prodigy when it comes to games. The only way I can succeed is through persistence and hard work.

In fact, I consider persistence to be my greatest strength─I get back up and fight, no matter how hard I'm knocked down. Since there are no obvious strategies, the only way I know how to practice is to try every possible option.

The only way to know if something will work or not is to try. If you try something and it doesn't work, you just go onto the next thing until you find one that's useful. This process provides you a solid foundation for developing your technique; thoroughly test every single option yourself, and you'll eventually find what works for you.

The average person picks a direction that looks promising and then searches in that direction. I'm more the type to just wander in all directions to experience it all on my own. Don't worry about which is the right way. If you search in every possible direction, you'll eventually find the answer somewhere. Think of it as a maze─if you stick to one wall and keep walking, you'll eventually arrive at the goal. You may try something and immediately determine that it won't work, but the fact that you reached your conclusions by trying it out yourself allows you to discard it without hesitation.

By now I have of course developed an intuition for which direction answers lie in, but even so I stick to my strategy of trying everything.

Don't Take the Easy Path

The best strategies are only discovered by taking the long path. The Internet has grown to the point where some knowledge is available to everyone. There are plenty of strong playing strategies circulating online that will usually beat those who aren't familiar with them. These strategies are easy enough to follow, but they aren't the strongest.

Such strategies are pointless for my purposes, and I don't feel at a disadvantage for not using them. I have given my all in devoting myself to something I love, and so I want to express my individuality. I can't stand it if I find someone that thinks we play the same way.

Note that this opinion is limited to the genre I love, fighting games. If I were playing with a large team, I'd probably want to give them an easy-to-follow strategy for winning. In such cases, a strategy that all can use is most efficient, so there's no need to look any further. Not if I'm alone though.

Shunning the easy path is not an easy choice. Some players have pooled their wisdom to create strategies that are easy to pick up and are reasonably strong. Of course I understand these strategies and have tried them out, but I can overpower them because I have studied them and developed my own counterstrategies.

Admittedly, there are times when I'm trying new things and lose repeatedly to people using these easier strategies. I'll hear people whisper about how I've let the game pass me by, or how I should be using the same strategies. These people are too focused on short-term outcomes.

Most don't recognize my efforts to improve until they see the finished product. Those who can't see beyond the surface of things don't realize they're watching a work in progress and only focus on the unfinished results. They confuse my process with being reckless.

While undeniably not the most efficient of strategies, you will certainly stop growing if you don't venture beyond the easy strategies. If ten is considered the best one can achieve with normal levels of effort, then the easy path won't take you beyond that. There's no more room for growth. Stopping at ten is pointless to me; I want to beat those at ten, aiming for eleven, or even twelve or thirteen. I don't care how long it takes or how much ridicule I face along the way.

At the end of the day, all of the efficient approaches and winning strategies have their limits. For example, say there's this great move in some fighting game that only a certain character can use. Everyone knows that using it makes you stronger, so everyone starts using it. Pretty soon, everyone's playing the same way. The move is so influential that everyone depends on it. I would never use that move in such a situation.

It wouldn't be easy, of course, but it is never impossible to win without using a certain move. There's always another way for those willing to search hard enough. Over the course of a year, the gap between me and those who continue relying on the convenient move would widen.

The problem with easy moves is that they only work in specific situations. By using them, you're just relying on a certain set of circumstances and not thinking for yourself, a trap that hinders personal growth. When that easy move stops working, or the move itself is nerfed or removed from the game totally, you have nothing else to resort to. Conversely, I wouldn't be bothered at all if that move is taken out, or I have to change characters. I have worked hard to understand the true essence of the game without relying on easy moves. This gives me a steadier, more dependable power level.

There Are No Shortcuts

Some people might tell you there's an easier way. While they might mean well, the truth is that there are no shortcuts. If you want to be physically stronger, you need to hit the gym. If you want to lose weight, you need to eat less and exercise more. If you want to be better than others, you need to practice more than they do. Even your mindset and confidence require training to improve. It's not easy, but it's the only way.

I envy those who have never had to choose the hard road. I understand that there are those who are perfectly fine with their current situation, as well as those unable to change their current lot even if they wanted. If you have strong friendships, a job that you like, and feel fulfilled with your daily life, maybe you've never been faced with that choice. I've never been so lucky. It took enormous effort to get any recognition for my life choices. Drastic measures were the only way for me to build up any confidence.

Getting over my childhood insecurities took a lot of work and continues to be a challenge. I learned from this that without experiencing hardship, I cannot overcome my shortcomings. Achievement requires overcoming adversity. It's not easy, but once you see that you can do it, it gets easier.

I realize that not everyone can do it. But if you want to achieve something, only the rarest of rare talents can do so without experiencing hardship. I can't force everyone to choose the hard path, nor do I want to. Then again, I tried hard to think of generic advice that would make things easy for anyone, and while I had a few ideas, they all felt like lies. I know firsthand that nothing great ever comes easy.

Target Uncharted Territory

Reaching ten isn't all that difficult. All you have to do is find someone else who's done so, and follow their lead. The Internet propagates information immediately and makes finding it easy. While not the best out there, such tactics are provisionally rather strong and require considerable effort to defeat.

The path to achieving levels beyond ten is harder to discern. It lies in uncharted territory where you can't even be sure if there's a way forward or not. There's no guarantee that it leads to eleven and beyond.

The path may be dark, but there is definitely a way before you. You can't press forward without the conviction to trust your instincts. While no one has traversed your path, if you stick to it, you should be able to go further than the others. If your goal is to be stronger than the rest, your only recourse is to believe in yourself and press on. Lose out to your insecurities, and you will go astray.

Which path you choose is entirely up to you: the level, well-lit path to ten, or the steep, dark path, which may or may not lead to eleven and beyond.

While it's not for everyone, I choose the second path without hesitation. Even if I can't see the right answer, I want to go as far as I can and get there on my own.

It's my opinion that whether to pick the steep path depends on how devoted you are to the task at hand. In fighting games, those who are fine with just being better than average are likely to be satisfied with stopping at ten. If games are your everything, however, being merely as good as the rest isn't enough. I can't even see the meaning in that.

If I didn't care so much about fighting games, even I would probably pick the easy path. I'd be satisfied with being able to win more often than not with such little effort. No one takes the hard way on a whim or to show off. The shorter, safer path is easier and more efficient.

But fighting games are more important to me than anything else. I don't want to be anyone's inferior, either in a match or in terms of effort. I can't afford to cut corners. I'd rather not compete at all than win the easy way.

If you want to stand at the top in your field and stay there, you can't be satisfied with ten. By choosing the untrodden path and continuing to feel your way through the darkness, you too can steal wins with only a sliver left on your life gauge.

You Don't Own Your Strategies

Whether to protect the status they've achieved or just because they don't want to lose, some players try to hide their strategies and play styles. While I understand the sentiment, you can't own a strategy like a patent.

There's no rule saying that the only one who can use a strategy is the person that came up with it; other players are free to imitate it or adapt it to their own styles. People tend to cling to their hard-earned discoveries. If they get complacent and let up on their efforts, it makes them weaker. The more time passes, the less an advantage their past achievements provide.

When exploring every option for possible strategies, I'll sometimes hit upon surprising discoveries that boost the power of the character I'm playing. Maybe you could call them Umehara ultimate moves. You'll realize right away if you see one. I never cling to such moves though─when I come across a new strategy, I immediately start hunting for clues for my next one.

At times, I've wondered why I even bother working so hard to discover new strategies, given that others will just imitate me. But I remind myself that, no matter how hard I work on developing it, I can't own a strategy. Of course, I don't announce what I'm looking for, nor do I publicize what I've found, but I don't hide anything, either. If you see me using a technique, as far as I'm concerned it's fair game. Just know that by the time everyone has figured it out, I've already moved on.

There are also trends. However, no matter how hard something catches on, once it fades its value will be less than before the fad started. Fads are fickle; they spread at an incredible pace and scope, then get tossed aside once people lose interest. If you latch onto a particular strategy as“yours,”you'll hit a wall when that strategy falls out of fashion or is rendered unusable.

Personal growth is about figuring things out and gaining experience, not hoarding knowledge. An attitude that promotes discovering the new and the valuable is far more important. Thus, your tactics and strategy should always be changing and evolving. Adopt fresh tactics regularly to replace your old ones. Today is more important than yesterday.

What's yours is not the new technique, but rather the effort that goes into unearthing it. Knowing what's needed to make those discoveries will allow you to perpetually keep winning. The ability to make new discoveries is far more important than the techniques discovered. Once you realize that, no amount of imitation will bother you.

Business world examples would be the energy to keep producing a better product, or giving shape to ideas for needed yet undeveloped products, or the ability to continuously develop marketing strategies with a novel angle. All these have more value than singular examples of past products or strategies.

People have a great ability to adapt to the discoveries of others. This means that innovators need to keep producing new things. If not, the competition will overtake them, and they will cease to be leaders. I made it to the top by resolving not to rely on the strategies I discover and having the patience to keep searching for new ones.

Don't Play Dirty

I consider it a loss the moment I stop playing my opponent straight up, no matter how lopsided the match is.

I faced all types of players after I became the best in Japan. Some I faced just once, others a hundred times or more. After a while, I started to see what motivated each of them in challenging me.

Many of them were older players, looking to show up the punk that thinks he's the best. Some would use tricks that only work once, just to score one win. These types would inevitably flee the scene without sticking around for a rematch, knowing their sneak attack would never work a second time. To me, that's cowardly.

Others were players only relying on their cleverness. They had quickly picked up on the flow of the game without taking the time to learn its finer intricacies and won solely by reading their opponents. When that failed, they would try to psych opponents out before the match.

I don't want to resort to tricks. I wasn't always that way, though. In junior high, I always played at the same arcade, so I pretty much knew the crowd and played against all the regulars. One day, while sitting across from my opponent, I decided to try throwing him off by casually putting my empty can up on the cabinet. It wasn't anything out of place for an arcade, but would be over just far enough to be in his line of sight.

After a bit of that, however, I changed my mind and stopped. If someone had done the same to me, it wouldn't have fazed me in the slightest, but it still felt like cheating, and I was just legitimizing such behavior. I realized that there are people whose main strategy is to play mind games, and if that was clear to me, others had likely already figured it out as well.

Someone not used to such tactics might have been a little annoyed, but not seasoned players. So tricks like that had no real effect, except making others look down on me for resorting to cheap tricks. Games pit one mind against another. If you give the opponent a window into your psyche, you immediately put yourself at a disadvantage.

However, if you can maintain your composure in the face of anything, there's no reason to be intimidated by those willing to stoop to such lows. Once I realized that, I quit using unfair tricks. I realized that there will always be those who try to play mind games to get ahead, but they are destined to fade away. Building yourself up is more important than tearing the other guy down.

Overreliance on Reading Hinders Growth

Reading your opponent is a critical skill in fighting games, but if you're relying on it too much, then it'll prevent you from truly developing as a player.

Reading consists of memorizing the opponent's habits and actions, analyzing their characteristics, and then striking at their weaknesses. In high-level matches, the outcome is dictated by who reads who better. Many people will thus try to win by this alone anytime their opponent has an obvious weakness. You may rack up a bunch of wins playing this way, but only at the expense of your own growth.

Say that you have a sword but no armor and are faced with a well-armored opponent. Your opponent has a sword, but also a critical weak spot: lifting their sword to strike reveals a chink in their armor. All you need to do is strike that opening at the right moment. By always targeting such vulnerabilities, you can easily overcome the fact that your opponent is armored and you are not. By successfully reading your opponent, you have secured a high chance of winning; fixing a bad habit on the spot is no easy task. But your advantage will be specific to that individual and that fight. It won't apply to other situations, and it won't help you grow.

True skill is honed by winning on your own without attacking the opponent's weaknesses, no matter how blatant they may be. If you fail to raise your own skill and knowledge levels, instead relying on reading your opponents just because you can and it's winning for you, you will definitely have a rough time when faced with a stronger opponent. That's when you'll realize that, in fact, you do need armor.

No matter how you cut it, starting from scratch and figuring out your opponent for each match is inefficient. Getting that perfect read can be a stylish way to win, but you're deluding yourself if you think you can pull that off all the time. You have to take things more seriously if you want to grow as a player. In fighting games, you need to learn how to get off your punches faster and increase your blocking accuracy. You need to fill the holes in your armor while you improve your swordplay.

Some players will be easier to read than others. Even if you're good at it, some players will be better, and read you before you read them. That's happened to me with several opponents. So don't grow complacent regarding your abilities and strengths. You may think that because you can predict what the opponent is going to do, you don't need any armor. This is nothing more than pride.

Without experience and skills gained through old-fashioned hard work, even talent will fade in most cases. Say you're a writer. You could have the most wonderful idea ever, but it won't reach your audience without the technique to convey your message. Those aspiring to be professional writers need to ensure they learn how to improve fundamental techniques for expressiveness without getting caught up in flash and style.

I don't like attacking my opponents' weaknesses; it's a crude way to win. There are times where I'll see an opening that my opponent misses, but I prefer to vary my angle of attack and not choose the easy route to victory. To me, lashing out at weaknesses all the time just cheapens the win. It's a waste─here you have an opponent that can help you grow as a player, and you squander it just to win. I prefer to attack their strengths.

In the end, the best thing is to win on your own ability and place self-improvement as top priority. My commitment to this is one of the secrets to why I've stayed on top for so long.

Focus on Your Opponent

If you want to increase your own skill, you need to focus all of your energy on the match at hand. Too many people forget that you have to take it one step at a time. You can't expect yourself to reach the top of a mountain if you can't even climb the first few steps.

As a kid starting out, I took it one step at a time. My first goal was being the best at my local arcade. Next, I challenged some of the stronger players in the neighboring areas. Once I beat them, I headed to Akihabara in search of the strongest players there.

From the outset, I was willing to do whatever it took to be the best in the world and wasn't about to let anything stand in my way. But I wasn't fighting for the world title in my early battles. Becoming world champion was the result of focusing on the opponent in front of me and giving it my all in every match.

No matter the opponent, coming up with a winning strategy against another person takes effort. It can be useful to analyze your bigger foes, but people can be difficult to understand even if you know everything about them. What games do they like, and what games have they played in the past? Are they stubborn or humble? Of course, I don't analyze every opponent in such detail, but when I found someone stronger than me that I wanted to beat, I did my research. It was like a mountain had appeared before me, and I just had to climb it.

I consider the real competition between two individuals to be in the buildup. First, you fight a bunch of battles and try everything, taking the losses with the wins. Only then can you hope to defeat your opponent.

Challenge the Conventional Wisdom

In the gaming world, often you'll hear talk of certain concepts that are just taken as a given. There are certain commonly accepted concepts particular to fighting games as well, on topics such as the in-game systems or reading the opponent. You can rely on such conventional wisdom when things aren't going your way or you're having trouble reading the flow of the game. As examples, a particular game's systems might put a character at a disadvantage if they are knocked down, or maybe being too repetitive in your movement patterns will make you more predictable for the opponent to read.

While helpful, it's never good to overly rely on conventional wisdom, as it isn't absolute. If you do and fall into a slump, it can be hard to pull yourself out of it with common wisdom alone.

Accordingly, you must challenge conventional wisdom. Just as rules are meant to be broken, wisdom is meant to be doubted. Question common wisdom regarding the right way to do things, and explore angles that seem questionable. Maybe things hold in the general case, but for some reason not against certain opponents. In this fashion, you need to take a theory as a starting point and spiral out from there, uncovering your own answers one step at a time.

Failure As an Indicator of Progress

To me, a good indicator of your progression is whether you are letting fear dictate your actions. If you ever sense that you've hit a standstill and stopped growing, or there's no change in your play style, that's a sign that you need to take immediate measures to change. You don't always need to make big changes; there's nothing wrong with small discoveries and growing little by little.

Making a conscious effort to change things daily and avoid overlooking the little changes allows you to make bigger changes later on without hesitation. Whenever that time comes, maybe once every year or two, the constant effort to challenge things and make changes will enable you to make more difficult─but also more rewarding─choices.

Those who are always defensive and don't work on changing themselves often make incorrect decisions. The accumulated effect of small, daily change exerts its power when it counts.

In eSports, trying a new game is a good example of positive change. You know going into it that you won't win at first and it'll be painful, and yet you trudge on anyway. Those around me may wonder why the World Champion is okay with losing.

As a champion, I have a target on my back, but I'm more comfortable being the challenger than I am being challenged. Being challenged is like leaving fate in someone else's hands. If you want to climb higher, at some point you have to play offensively.

To me, facing an undefeatable opponent is the epitome of happiness. It's tough, of course, and you won't see me grinning through the match, but the resulting self-growth is worth it.

When pondering how to defeat a stronger opponent, treat it as an opportunity. If you hone your skills and get creative, that moment when you finally win will be a pleasure and may reward you with change.

Outside Opinions Don't Matter

Too many people are overly concerned with what others think of them. A certain modicum of common sense, manners, and respect for others are of course important. But if you obsess about opinions that don't actually impact your life, you lose the ability to be yourself.

There are also those in the competitive world who consider aggressiveness as embarrassing, perhaps because they think failure makes you look bad or because trying too hard and desiring victory too much looks desperate. In my opinion, fear of being seen as desperate or a failure prevents you from producing results. It's no fun pandering to others or being a follower.

It's suffocating to go through life overly concerned with other's opinions. Please realize that people's opinions don't really matter; we get caught up thinking that we need to care because everyone else does, and that keeps us from making our own decisions.

Maybe you have concerns about living without caring what others think. Maybe you've been taking the easy way this whole time, and so can't visualize your own way, or you're resigned to the fact that you won't always get what you want in life.

In competition, worrying about what others think is always a negative. It only keeps you from continuing to do what needs to be done.

When I was young, I always believed that perseverance would lead to results. Today, I realize that there are times where you don't quit but still can't produce. While your objectives and definition of“results”certainly make a difference, clearly we don't always get what we want.

Not just anyone can become World Champion based on persistence alone. Even so, everything is over the moment you give up, and if you worry about what others think it's exceedingly hard not to. As soon as someone criticizes you for not producing results despite giving it your all, you'll cave to the pressure. Conversely, those with persistence can ignore what others think. They can press on in their own world, oblivious to the opinions of those around them.

Not quitting isn't all it takes to produce results, but if you persevere, the day will come when you won't care what others think. I can attest to the fact that life is more fun if you can ignore outside opinions.

In the past two or three years, I've reached the point where I now see that praise and results are just side effects of the process; my own efforts are far more valuable. I realize now that I used to agonize over whether I was right or wrong because I lacked confidence. It took me pressing forward, strong-willed and without being discouraged, to become satisfied with my life choices, right or not.

Now that I've reached that point, every day feels great. I'm happier now than in any other point in my life. I'm working hard at what I like, and I don't worry myself with others' opinions or evaluations. Maybe that's how I've grown the most.

Concentration

Another benefit of being hardened to outside opinion is the absolute concentration it allows you. Being your own person gives you the confidence to be happy with yourself, which is a fantastic source of concentration. If you ever find yourself getting self-conscious about something, just think of what you'd do if people's opinions didn't matter. Practicing that thing you're confident in to the point that it's almost automatic allows you to concentrate for longer.

Being self-conscious about something makes you seriously consider whether you should just quit. But as long as you're not bothering anyone, there's no reason to stop if that something is really important to you. I've heard stories of others who get embarrassed if anyone sees them practicing their sport or hobby, or even studying, and so do it in secret. To me, they should be proud of their effort, not hide it.

Young people who let what others think keep them from doing what they want are unhappy. I'm sure plenty of younger people question the importance of college and a“safe”career choice, or why we have to be so sensitive and tiptoe around others' feelings.

Having grown up in a world that doesn't think highly of games, I know how hard it can be to brush aside the criticism of the vast majority of adults and continue doing what you like. As a kid, I constantly asked myself whether I was doing the right thing and whether games were really all I had. I constantly wondered why I was different from the other guys. I was best able to concentrate when I ran through all the options in my head, so maybe the thinking process itself was part of what helped me concentrate.

To me, ignoring others' opinions and treasuring the time spent reflecting on yourself and thinking deeply is what builds concentration. In a way, maybe concentration develops out of our ability to reject outside opinion and face ourselves.

Many people tell me that I'm expressionless when I'm playing. Videos support that─my face is deadpan, like a Buddhist monk. That's proof of me not caring what others think, the embodiment of complete focus.

Choose the Most Competitive Game

I make it a point to play the game that is most popular at the time. More players mean more competition, and popular games attract strong competitors. For people like me, those at the forefront of eSports, the level of competition in these games is an irresistible draw.

Others purposely choose unpopular games. Often, such people are just in it for the glory of title, rank, and fame, just wanting to be called number one even if it means playing a lower-level game. If that's what you want, go ahead─I won't say anything.

In business terms, most people would say that work is about the money. It appears to me at least that those who are focused on the business or are committed to doing things a certain way are in the minority. If you're just in it for the money, maybe you're also satisfied doing things the easy way, regardless of if you're experiencing personal growth.

However, those who see business as their life purpose and not just an income source should throw themselves into the most competitive field, just as should those looking to develop themselves through gaming.

I am proud to always play the game with the most intense competition. This means I don't play most games very long. Some I'll play for three or four years, while others I quit after about a year when they cease being the most competitive.

The gaming community always gets shocked when I do that. From their perspective, it seems a waste that I quit so quickly. To put it in RPG terms, to them it's like playing up to the endgame, then quitting. Many also wonder why I insist on playing only the most competitive game at the time. My thinking is the opposite─what's wrong with always wanting to move onto the most competitive game?

I think those who insist on sticking with what they've built place a low priority on self-development. Those with little ambition to try new things aren't being creative. They cling to previous accomplishments because starting a new game is scary, or because they think they'll only succeed by waiting for someone else to develop the“good”techniques first, then copy them. You'll never surpass the top players thinking like that.

I like a challenge. When a new game comes out and I can sense that it's going to be popular, it puts a smile on my face. I get excited when I notice signs that the competition is about to begin. For me, new games are opportunities for self-discovery.

There are games that I've played for almost ten years, and they do occasionally give me a new idea or two. Yet, while fun, they don't teach me anything new about myself.

In the business world, maybe the one- to three-year cycle I have for games is close to that for market changes and competition. To always stay at the top of your field, you need to keep up with the times and compete with the trends on the big stage everyone is focused on. Kudos to you if you've found a niche market to conquer, but constraining yourself to that small field will keep you from breaking any new ground. The race doesn't start until you venture out and face the competition. Unless you're constantly exposed to intense competition, your ability to keep winning will deteriorate.

Skill without Imitation

Skill exceeding ten can't be taught, and it can't be imitated. It's on a whole other plane. Those around you will sense that you're strong, for sure, but they won't be able to pinpoint exactly what's different or wherein your strength lies. The majority of people can't even tell the difference. If you can reach that point, you won't lose at that game.

When you work harder than anyone to attain levels in excess of ten, it gives you an absolute, unwavering sense of confidence. I believe that the reason my gameplay has gained such worldwide notoriety is from having skills beyond the scope of the average player's understanding. Behind all the high praise of being“unbelievable”or a“god of fighting games,”it's my feeling that most people are just in awe of something they personally can't emulate.

Conversely, even an amateur can understand what makes a ten strong. They can see how using a particular special move, or repeating a certain combo, or perfecting a certain guard makes someone stronger. That kind of strength can be put into words and analyzed.

The ultimate strength, however, is strong in a way they can't even fathom. It can't be put into words, and no one can analyze it. Only those who have attained that level of strength know its secret. Therein lies the godlike strength that inspires the masses and makes the crowd go wild.

It's easy to show someone how to reach ten, but it's harder to describe how to attain eleven or higher. To make a weak attempt, I can only urge you to explore every option out there. It's not about technique or methodology; it's about how you approach games and how far you're prepared to go.

I don't expect all gamers to imitate what I've done─I know more than anyone how painful and difficult it can be. It might seem strange to say this, since I did it myself, but I can't recommend that you start out in gaming in the way I did. But if you can't settle for anything less than the best, I wish you luck. Only those who have achieved skills that can't be imitated and no one else understands can ever hope to be called the world's strongest.

The Moment of Happiness

It's hard to express the joy of realizing you've finally gone beyond ten. You feel invincible. That feeling is what gives me the conviction to stick with it until I reach my goal. Maybe that's an odd sort of motivation, but it works for me.

I'm sure that most people will feel that ten is good enough, given that going further is so hard. Personally, however, I wouldn't trade anything for the sense of fulfillment I get from the time and effort required to reach the point where the tens can't defeat me. That's the only time I'm ever truly happy.

It never ends, though. You can work hard and become strong enough to defeat all challengers, but when a new game comes out you have to start all over again. It's not a task any sane person would choose. However, I don't play games for fun or even because I want to win; I'm thinking of things on another level. In the end, the games are just games. My true objective is self-development. That is what motivates me.

I know that despite all the painstaking effort needed to achieve near-invincible levels of skill, supremacy is short-lived. That doesn't deter me. Even though I only get to savor it for a brief time, the joy it entails is enough to keep me going. If skill beyond ten could last ten or twenty years, I'm sure more people would be willing to work for it. I'm different. I can bear all the hardship for just a momentary taste of that pleasure.

Staying In My Prime

Since having entered the gaming world in my teens, I've frequently been asked when I hit my peak. My response is always“Right now.”Right now, I am stronger than I've ever been. Otherwise, I wouldn't deserve being called a professional.

If I can't become stronger tomorrow than I am today, I don't see the point in even trying. If I'm not continuously growing, I might as well stop competing altogether.

Mike Medavoy, a respected Hollywood producer and studio executive with over four decades experience, has said of films that no matter how many you've made, you're only as good as your next one. I strive to embody that remark. I've always believed I was the strongest out there and still do. Grinding in the arcades and always producing results fuels my pride, and continuously one-upping myself gives me confidence.

Stay Young at Heart

Out in the arcades, you can't avoid playing against younger players.

Whenever a new game comes out, the younger players are generally strongest at first. Young people tend to pick things up faster, because unlike veterans they have an unassuming acceptance of new things.

It's all about how open you are to new games. Those who enjoy a game for what it is are by far the strongest immediately after a new release. Enjoying the games─not winning at them, enjoying them─comes naturally when we're young, but gets harder with age and experience.

Don't reject new things; accept the lessons they present at face value. It's easy to forget this as we gain more experience and attain a certain position with age. The older and more experienced you get, the more your experience shapes your thoughts. You get caught up in the past and fixed in your ways, unable to shake preconceptions. You start to consider certain things as impossible.

In contrast, younger players are unshackled by preconceptions, and thus freer to grow. Their lack of cynicism allows them to decide without hesitation. A veteran player that can't maintain the spirit to learn without making excuses about changing circumstances can't beat youthful exuberance.

In the ever-changing world of eSports, when players my age start spouting excuses or raving about how things were“back in the day,”I stop listening. It's far more stimulating to play against younger players than to sit around and listen to that. It's one of the reasons I still insist on going to the arcade.

One thing I have begrudgingly accepted is that longtime veterans are sometimes forced by circumstance to hang it up. It gets harder to hit the arcades with age. It gets harder to find the time or money, and family situations change. We all weigh daily issues against games, and for most of us, the day comes when“real life”tips the scales.

Being a pro gamer, for me it's different. I can immerse myself in gaming without concern. While great for me, it does come with the burden of sadly having to part ways with many great players.

Play the Day After Winning

Clinging to past accomplishments makes us weak. Tournament wins tend to be overly satisfying; much like how you stop studying after a final, winning can make you lax, thinking you can take a break from training.

Become complacent and you stop growing. It'll also lower your peers' image of you. It would bother me if others thought I'm slacking off after winning a championship. Like everyone, I am pleased with myself immediately after a big win, but I fight my urge to slack off and instead keep my celebrations short. I realize that such joys are fleeting. You can't grow while you're basking in victory.

The more I start to feel satisfied with myself, the harder I try to push myself. To keep myself honest, I often wind up staying at the arcade until closing time, especially the day after winning a World Championship. I'll fly back to Japan, hauling all my heavy luggage, yet still make it a point to stop by the arcade despite the jetlag and exhaustion. Going to the arcade proves to me that even champions don't win every match. Staying on top and continuing to grow is far harder and more valuable than becoming champion. Once you realize that, you'll stay grounded enough to get out there and challenge others the next day.

Become even just a little complacent, and you give your next opponent a chance to close the gap between you. Unless you remain aware of the danger of being overtaken, that championship trophy is meaningless.

Number One Can Never Run

I've also learned from experience that you can't be satisfied with results.

Throughout elementary school, I was always faster and stronger than the other kids and never lost at arm wrestling, even against kids a grade above me. I now see that I just didn't have any real competition around me, but back then, I was rather full of myself.

Things were much the same in junior high. Despite me spending my time playing games and the other kids practicing sports every day, they still were no match for me in arm wrestling. I grew conceited, believing my superiority was absolute.

The following year, the tables started to turn. At first, when I saw them arm wrestling in the back of the classroom I'd join in with the confidence of a reigning champion. However, I wasn't eating properly (because doing so cut into my playing time), and it showed. I started to lose weight, while the arms of the class athletes kept getting thicker. Determined not to lose, I soon started dodging them like a coward.

I was afraid of losing my advantage because I didn't have to work to attain it. If I had worked to attain that strength, losing my edge would simply mean I'd have to up my efforts to regain it.

One day, when they asked to wrestle, I backed out. Knowing I would lose, I faked like my arm was hurting, but they saw right through my lame excuse.“Tomorrow,”I'd tell them, but then the next day it'd be the same.

I was definitely stronger than my classmates before. Some who I had once pinned in an instant were now the strongest in the class and towering over me. This reversal of roles was a shock.

I avoided wrestling the top kids themselves, but eventually, just wanting to gauge my strength, decided to target a kid that was visibly weaker─probably about the tenth strongest in the class. I was utterly outmatched. My classmates were as surprised as me... how had I gotten so weak?

Naturally, I had no chance against the top kids anymore. I got pinned in front of everyone; I had become the weakling. The indifference with which I was written off was heartbreaking. It was a humiliating low for me.

Once smug in my superiority, I was ashamed at how weak I had become, and furthermore hated myself for avoiding the challenge. The memory of that crushing defeat remains etched in my mind today.

About the same time, there was a similar situation building in the gaming community; the Japanese Champion in one particular game was avoiding all challengers. His ability and technique were second to none, and yet after winning the championship he was refusing to play anyone, as if he was afraid of losing.

Personally, I had no desire to defeat him myself. I was afraid I was looking in a mirror─was that what I looked like to everyone when I avoided arm wrestling? The thought of it was unbearably embarrassing. I pledged to never again to act so shamefully.

Number One can't run and hide. Those close to the top can wriggle out of matches all they want, but Number One has to be prepared to take on any challenger straight up, at any time. If not, they have no right to call themselves Number One.

Feeling Alive

To me, continual improvement through facing challenges is what it means to be alive. Abandoning growth for momentum isn't my idea of a stimulating life, much less an enjoyable one.

Always challenge yourself and make mistakes. Sure, you'll experience lows at times, but you can always recover, especially when you're young. Your energy and strength in youth ensures that you'll get back on your feet. Not that getting older means you can't make mistakes. The point is not to only make mistakes while you're young, but rather to start making them then.

I want to keep on challenging myself and making mistakes. I hope to keep identifying my faults far into the future. I never look to repeat my mistakes and don't enjoy the lapses themselves, but I never want to fear making them. Starting your missteps from an early age is good for that.

Our responsibilities increase with age, and with more responsibility comes concerns that we're one bad mistake away from losing it all. Fear of failure grows from such concerns. Get in the habit of making misjudgments early on, however, and the process of trial and error becomes second nature. It ceases to bother you so much.

There's no need to set yourself up for failure, and you don't have to fail every time out. The important thing is to know that we learn from our mistakes, and that we can only learn certain things from them. Those who have hit rock bottom and recovered have a different look. You can see the power in their eyes and feel their conviction.

Keep Climbing

I've made countless errors in the past. Having climbed almost every step on the staircase of gaming, I've made plenty of missteps that led me away from success. Anytime you notice a misstep, however, just backtrack a step or two and climb in a different direction. The worst thing you can do is stand still, overanalyzing which way to proceed instead of picking a direction and heading that way. You'll advance far more quickly by just climbing, even toward another mistake.

Missteps are neither bad, nor are they wasted effort. Whether the right step or not, climbing produces a result. Even missteps are gained experience, which will make the climb a bit easier moving forward.

Certain things can only be attained by those who dare to climb. While others may feel differently, I have never felt like taking a wrong step didn't work out in the end. I've been owned in the arcades before, but no matter how embarrassed I was, I never let that get me down or stop my ascent. I've always owned up to my mistakes and taken them in stride as a refreshing opportunity to change direction.

If you can actively challenge yourself, you should be able to laugh at failure. Other players might snicker at your mistakes today, but they won't in a year or two if you keep challenging yourself. They'll instead forget your mistakes and praise your efforts.

Luck

Part of my motivation for writing this book was to share my methods for finding your own way to win, even when luck isn't on your side.

In fighting games, the stronger player doesn't always win. The game changes with each decision, and since players don't take turns, you never know what's coming next. You never know if any move will pan out until a split second later.

As an easily understandable example, say that landing some move will make or break the game, but doing so involves a large element of luck; it's impossible to know whether your opponent will answer your rock with paper or scissors.

Naturally, you can increase the odds of landing an attack if you can read your opponent and pay attention to how the game is playing out. At the higher levels, the accuracy of your read can determine the outcome of the game, but still, no matter how well you understand your opponent, you can't predict every twitch. If things bounce the wrong way, even a mistake on their part could wind up putting you at a disadvantage. Luck has a far greater impact in gaming than in other competitive fields.

Because of this, one or two games aren't enough to determine a true winner. Excluding cases of extraordinarily large gaps in knowledge or skill, short matches won't tell you anything. Say, for example, that you can beat an opponent seventy out of a hundred times. In that case, you are definitely stronger than that opponent. The way games go, however, it's entirely possible to lose the first five games, which is enough to determine the outcome in many competitions.

While luck plays a big part in determining outcomes in fighting games, I try not to think too much about it or its unpredictability. I figure it's best to work diligently on developing your game and pay attention to the finer details of your opponent's moves.

In the past, I didn't accept that luck affected my outcome in competition. I loved fighting games and put my all into my matches, and, in my mind, any competition involving luck was something to be avoided.

At the same time, I always thought I was the best player at any game I played. The way I saw it, I would've won more if Japanese tournament organizers would abandon their obsession with the single-elimination format and replaced it with one that better reflected real ability. As much as I hate admitting it, I used to think that I'd win more if only my luck were better.

Then, my thinking started to change. As my outlook expanded, I realized that you can't stay on top by relying on luck. To win consistently, you need to win even when fortune doesn't favor you. Your resolve must be impervious to misfortune. Only those strong enough overcome bad luck can attain the skill to render it inert.

Like a Chinese War General

As a kid, I loved reading Romance of the Three Kingdoms, a Chinese historical novel set in the end of the Han Dynasty. In it, generals like Lu Bu, Zhang Fei, and Guan Yu always stood at the forefront of battle. While I know the story is highly romanticized, I always yearned to be like those great generals, leading a vanguard into battle against thousands of troops. My message to those of you who have fought your way to the top is to stay out on the front lines, just like Guan Yu and Lu Bu. That's the mission of a champion.

I realize that I won't be able to stay on top forever, and I don't deny that effort can only trump age to a certain point. Still, I chose to become a pro gamer precisely because I want to keep working in spite of those limits.

If I'm going to die someday anyway, I want it to be on the battlefield. I'm not the type to take my last breath quietly, holed up in my castle. Just as these warlord generals defied death, I too continue to fight on the front lines of gaming today.

Thoughts on the 2016 English Edition

I turned thirty-five this month, and yet I'm still playing fighting games. It's been twenty-five years since I started, but nothing has changed. My plans are to keep up my childish lifestyle as long as I can and give my best effort, one year at a time.

The original Japanese version of The Will to Keep Winning, first published in April 2012, was a bestseller in Japan and as of May 2016 is in its twelfth printing. As my approach to gaming hasn't changed since, we've decided to leave the content without updating. Here's an update on what's happened in my life since.

Publishing this book and making it into the Guinness Book of World Records completely changed my public image. Now I not only receive invitations to major tournaments, but also offers to give lectures for businesspeople.

This year, I signed with a new sponsor─Red Bull. Joining up with my new team of Red Bull Athletes has rekindled my competitive spirit and strengthened my resolve. I also joined Twitch as a Global Ambassador and took on this new challenge in publishing a book in English for the first time. We're currently making our final corrections to the text in a mad rush to finish it in time for EVO in July.

When I was growing up,“pro gamer”wasn't a career option. I never thought I could support myself by playing games. I thus left the fighting game world for a few years, first trying my hand at mahjong, then working as a caregiver at a nursing home. Apparently, some American gamers even thought I had died. It may seem a roundabout way of doing things, but I needed time away to appreciate the importance of fighting games in my life.

Street Fighter V was released this year for home consoles only; for the first time, there are no machines in the arcades. As someone who's been hitting the arcades daily since childhood, playing games at home alone is a desolate experience. I got hooked on fighting games not just from the excitement on screen, but also because I loved the arcades and the crowds that gathered there. As a pro, I thus see working to build offline gaming opportunities as one of my responsibilities.

While Japanese players remain among the top fighting game players, only allowing us to play online will make it difficult for us to maintain our edge. It's no surprise to see complete unknowns who didn't play SFIV climbing the podium at SFV tournaments. As I discuss in the book, success in one game doesn't guarantee success in its sequels.

Recently, I don't worry too much about how much time I spend practicing. I did practice SFV for over ten hours a day immediately following its release, but recently I've settled back into playing four or five hours a day, and then spending the rest of my day living life. But even when I'm not playing, I'm thinking about games. Add in this mental aspect, and I still probably devote ten hours a day to gaming. Operating a joystick is second nature to me at this point─I've been using them since I was a kid, and it's not like there are going to be any major innovations in joystick tech, so I don't need to practice that.

I haven't changed my play style much for Street Fighter V; I'm still more interested in improving my own skill than in winning tournaments. I'm not saying that I don't care whether I win or lose, just that if you're strong enough, the wins will follow. With enough ability, practicing less keeps your mind fresh, which is necessary to get results. Luckily, SFV is a masterfully crafted game. I sincerely enjoy it─playing it is a pleasure and only half feels like work.

In May 2016, Japanese satellite channel WOWOW finally aired Life as a Pro Gamer, an internationally produced feature-length documentary. The documentary crew followed me closely for a while, along with other pros like Momochi, ChocoBlanka, Gamerbee, Luffy, and Justin Wong. The documentary is of course a production, but it isn't manufactured. There are no lies and no attempts to make eSports any bigger than it is.

I'd love to see more candid representations of eSports like this. Fighting games used to be nothing more than games, but recently they've taken off along with the increased worldwide popularity of eSports. This is a good thing, but overly romanticizing the pro-gamer life will turn the eSports boom into a bust. I don't want prospective gamers to be dazzled with the prospects of status, honor, and prize money; I want them to honestly experience the wonder of eSports without making it out to be something it isn't.

I recently donated my entire runner-up prize money of $60,000 from the Capcom Cup Finals 2015 to the Evo Scholarship Fund for the Department of Game Design at New York University. I'm grateful for the opportunities the gaming industry has provided me and wanted to give something back. I know there are young pro gamers out there struggling like I did, unsure what the future holds, and I want to help them. I'm happy for the support my new sponsor Red Bull provides me, and I hope they're willing to take a chance on some of the new blood out there. We pros depend on a thriving gaming industry to make a living.

My motives in donating the money were purely for the gaming industry, but for some reason my actions resonated with my father. No matter how much public praise I get or prize money I win, gaming skill means nothing to my father and others in his generation. After my donation to NYU, six years into my pro gaming career, my father paid me a rare compliment. Compliments were rare in my household─not surprising, given all the trouble I put my parents through over the years─so his appreciation made me feel that I've grown as a person.

I'm grateful to have gained such a creative, powerful ally in Red Bull and to have this book translated into English so that I can share my ways of life and thinking with a wider audience. In addition to fighting game fans everywhere, I hope that non-gamers will read it and get something out of it.

The release of this English edition has made me reflect on what has changed since the Japanese release. While my outlook on life, the fighting game community, and my sponsorship situation have all changed, my commitment to fighting games remains as strong as ever. I'll keep putting in the effort and trying to stay humble so that I can continue to win.

Daigo“The Beast”Umehara

May 2016

Author's Profile

Daigo Umehara (born 1981, Aomori Prefecture, Japan) was the first Japanese professional gamer, and is listed in Guinness Book as“the most successful player in major tournaments of Street Fighter (Capcom, 1987) at national and international level.”He became World Champion in Street Fighter Alpha 3 in 1998, and signed a sponsorship contract with Mad Catz in April 2010. A video of one of his matches, known as“EVO Moment #37,”went viral with more than 20 million views internationally and was listed on gaming site Kotaku.com as the“best moment in pro-gaming history.”Umehara's competitive philosophy is also lauded in the non-gaming world in Japan.

Crowned World Champion at seventeen, pro fighting gamer Umehara was also recognized as“the most successful player in major tournaments of Street Fighter”by Guinness Book in August 2010.

Shogakukan eBooks

The Will to Keep Winning

Author:Daigo Umehara

Publisher:Mamoru Ito

Place of publication:Shogakukan Inc.

Daigo Umehara 2016　ISBN978-4-09-388486-0