The Sticker Camera Opportunity
Reflecting on it, a brief analysis of American consumption patterns suddenly came to mind. Americans barely save. The moment they receive their monthly or weekly paycheck, they spend most of it, which makes their purchasing power formidable.
“This is a slightly sensitive question, so you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but do you spend your entire paycheck the moment you receive it, Remington?”
Curious, Yoo Jae-won asked the question outright. Remington looked mildly surprised by the sudden and personal inquiry, but he had no reason not to answer.
“Haha, I used to. When I was working as a detective, I always seemed to spend more than I earned. If Shannon hadn’t helped me, I would have been out on the street long ago. Thanks to my capable boss, money is finally piling up.”
Remington was on a special contract, so he did not receive a monthly salary. Instead, his annual salary of roughly twelve million dollars was paid out weekly, with additional quarterly incentives tied to sales performance. He considered the amount generous, though Yoo Jae-won had simply set it in proportion to ID Technology’s 1992 revenue scale. In any case, receiving two hundred thirty thousand dollars every week meant that even lavish spending would still leave his bank account steadily growing. Before earning such a high income, however, he had indeed spent everything like most ordinary Americans, with little to no savings.
Korea was heading in the same direction. Fewer people were diligently saving. Instead, many took out bank loans to buy apartments and repaid the loans monthly. In some cases, paying down an apartment loan might actually be a better form of saving than low-interest time deposits. After all, Korea’s real-estate invincibility myth was only just beginning.
For reference, Yoo Jae-won’s salary as chairman of ID Group was thirty-six million won. It had remained fixed at the three million won per month set at a previous shareholders’ meeting. If he ever needed a large sum for personal use, he could simply declare a dividend and receive the funds. The ten billion won he had prepared for his father’s handball association inauguration had come from dividends—personal assets, not company funds. There was no need to worry about his salary, which was why it had stayed the same year after year.
In any case, it was good news that the expensive New Egg 2 was selling well. Even though TG manufactured the product, ID Technology held a significant stake. The bundled operating system and office software were ID Technology products, and the aluminum frame that defined the new design was also quite expensive. Furthermore, products sold through ID Flagship Stores carried a separate commission, so roughly thirty percent of the total price ultimately went to ID.
“Word of mouth is spreading and orders keep increasing. We might sell five hundred thousand units before the year is over. TG is running their production lines at maximum capacity, so you can look forward to strong year-end results.”
Only three months and two weeks remained in 1993. Five hundred thousand units still seemed ambitious given the time left, but Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons would drive massive sales, so the number was not impossible.
After finishing the pleasant report on the product’s success, Remington moved to the next item—the matter he had described as special.
“Itochu Corporation in Japan contacted us. They want to distribute one of our technologies.”
“Itochu?”
Yoo Jae-won repeated the unexpected Japanese company name. Remington opened several emails on his computer. They had apparently exchanged messages multiple times. The documents were written in English, so Yoo Jae-won read them easily. The content was straightforward: a request for a quote on the photo system operating in the ID Technology pavilion at the Daejeon Expo. Upon closer inspection, the inquiry focused not on the instant photo printer itself but on the real-time image correction system that processed photos taken with digital cameras. There was no mention of how or where they intended to use it.
Nevertheless, Yoo Jae-won knew exactly what Itochu planned to do with the technology: sticker photo booths. Sticker cameras had gained some popularity in Korea by the late 1990s, but their true explosion happened in Japan, where the trend started earlier and lasted longer. The emails made it clear that an Itochu buyer had visited the Daejeon Expo, seen the photo printer technology, and immediately thought of the sticker camera concept. Anyone with decent business instincts would make that connection, especially since the expo had deliberately staged demonstrations to evoke exactly that idea.
Visitors could pose in front of a webcam attached to a New Egg 2 or the camera module of a tablet PC. The key feature was the heavily retouched photo that appeared on screen. Raw, unedited faces would create embarrassing memories nine times out of ten, so the system first whitened the skin, then slimmed the jawline and enlarged the eyes. Even mediocre photographers could produce flattering “life shots.” The system also allowed users to add text in stylish fonts, place prepared icons, or even draw directly with the mouse—essentially replicating every function of modern sticker photo booths. With the right booth setup and props like wigs, it would become a full sticker camera experience.
“It isn’t only Itochu. Several other Japanese distributors have also inquired. Only Itochu has provided concrete figures so far.”
The additional screen showed Mitsubishi Corporation and Sumitomo as well. The Japanese certainly had a keen nose for money. At the same time, Yoo Jae-won felt a surge of revulsion at Mitsubishi’s three-diamond logo. Every time he saw that mark, images of war crimes rose unbidden—an entirely natural reaction for a Korean. He recalled that a compensation lawsuit was already underway in Korea. Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook had said a verdict was expected soon, yet several more months had passed without any new report. Courts routinely delayed rulings on sensitive issues, but this felt excessive. Given the civilian government’s strong anti-Japanese sentiment, the lack of progress was especially disappointing. The prolonged delay strongly suggested Japanese pressure, and the outlook for a favorable verdict was growing dimmer. If the result were going to be positive, the ruling would not have been postponed this long.
“Boss?”
Remington’s voice pulled Yoo Jae-won from his thoughts—an increasingly common occurrence.
“Ah, I was just feeling a bit irritated after seeing the Mitsubishi logo.”
“Did the Mitsubishi people do something to offend you personally?”
Remington immediately showed concern.
“No, it isn’t personal. They’re a representative war-crimes corporation.”
Yoo Jae-won briefly explained the forced labor issue and added that the ID Foundation’s Kim & Jung Law Firm was leading a lawsuit on behalf of surviving victims. Remington looked genuinely shocked; he had never heard the story before. Yoo Jae-won decided the man needed to know. Emotions were emotions, but business was business—up to a point. Even if Mitsubishi offered the best terms, they would be excluded. The same principle applied in the United States. As Remington’s reaction showed, most Americans held fundamentally favorable views of Japan. Though Japan had been an enemy during World War II, its postwar alignment with the United States had erased lingering animosity. Japan also invested enormous effort in American politics, emphasizing atomic-bomb victimhood while suppressing information about its own war crimes. Its lobbying was so effective that even conservative figures like Remington displayed little hostility toward Japan. Korea, by contrast, remained inward-looking and paid little attention to international affairs. Even the global stature of ID Group was barely recognized at home. That was why a mere Blue House chief of staff had felt comfortable speaking half-formally to Yoo Jae-won over the phone. While the ID Foundation’s activities were improving the group’s image, they could not match Japan’s state-level efforts. If things continued this way, nothing would change. Someone had to step forward, and that someone could only be Yoo Jae-won himself.
‘Ah, I never considered this.’
The problem was the master plan. Upon reflection, it contained only strategies for making money. The only people it looked after were family and relatives. Despite the years spent crafting it, significant gaps remained. Removing Japan’s political and cultural influence, however, could not be accomplished in the short term. The Korean Wave would not emerge until the early twenty-first century; at present, nothing existed. Moreover, few politicians in the United States could be called pro-Korean. If forced to name any, only President Clinton and Al Gore came to mind. Their friendship with Yoo Jae-won was the main reason, yet neither had shown overtly pro-Japanese behavior. Clinton, in particular, had no hesitation naming Kim Dae-jung as a politician he respected. Thanks to that, Kim Dae-jung’s eventual election as president had led to fairly smooth Korea-U.S. coordination. The problem was that Al Gore’s loss to Bush had caused both Clinton’s diplomatic achievements with North Korea and Korea-U.S. cooperation to collapse—though the future remained uncertain.
“Unless Mitsubishi changes its attitude, they will remain excluded.”
“Understood.”
Remington not only answered but also wrote the note directly in his old notebook. Yoo Jae-won gave several concrete instructions.
“Could you quietly assemble people skilled at gathering evidence?”
“That’s what detectives mainly do. I still have quite a few friends working in the field. What do you need them for?”
An idea occurred to him: collecting records of Japanese war crimes. Since the end of the war, Japan had systematically destroyed evidence and continued to do so, yet a fair amount still remained. The evidence might not carry immediate weight, but it would eventually prove explosive.
“They will need to operate in the United States as well as Korea and other parts of Asia. I will pay their wages and expenses out of my own pocket.”
Korea already had an intelligence team, so sending personnel from the United States seemed unnecessary. However, that team was currently occupied with other tasks assigned by Yoo Jae-won and could not be mobilized immediately. Forming a special team was simpler.
“Out of your own pocket? That isn’t necessary. We can treat it as a social contribution or memorial project and expense it accordingly.”
Yoo Jae-won shook his head at Remington’s suggestion. He wanted to earn like a dog and spend like a statesman. Besides, tax law was flexible enough to be twisted either way. Although ID Group was a multinational corporation, its headquarters remained in Korea, so eliminating any potential future problems at the root was the wisest course.
The brief detour into heavier topics soon returned to business.
“Japan’s interest in the photo printer technology is almost certainly for sticker cameras. We could handle it ourselves, but Japan’s distribution networks are extremely closed, so it would be difficult. We will ultimately need a Japanese partner. Itochu seems acceptable.”
A closer look at Itochu’s history, which dated back to 1858, would reveal some past actions that might displease Yoo Jae-won, but nothing on the scale of Mitsubishi’s record. Still, he wondered whether a company specializing in textiles and clothing could properly distribute sticker cameras. Japan’s retail networks were already in place, however, so it probably would not be a major issue. Sticker cameras were the kind of product that would sell out the moment they hit shelves, so the partner hardly mattered.
“Yes, sir. I will begin negotiations and report the details once we have concrete results. I will also carefully select reliable personnel for the special team.”
With Remington’s dependable report concluded, Yoo Jae-won moved to his next schedule.
“Chairman, it’s been a while.”
Dr. Lisa Su and the semiconductor division development team greeted Yoo Jae-won warmly. As their words suggested, this was their first in-person meeting since the USB chip project, so it truly had been some time—yet no one complained.
“We’re ready to go out.”
“Then let’s head out.”
Because the meeting time fell near lunch, they had decided to eat together near the office and were already prepared to leave. They had not dressed up excessively; everyone wore their usual work attire, though they had put in a little extra effort knowing they would be dining with Yoo Jae-won. Lisa Su seemed to have gathered people with similar temperaments—none of them paid much attention to appearance. Yoo Jae-won was the same. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, a light casual outfit, so the restaurant was not a formal establishment but a casual steakhouse they could visit comfortably. It was the same place they had frequented when ID Technology was first establishing itself in Silicon Valley. As ID Technology had grown, the steakhouse had changed as well—expanded and renovated—but the taste remained the same. The size and flavor of the meat were exactly as they remembered.
At first everyone focused on eating, but once their appetites were somewhat satisfied, conversation picked up. Naturally, the topic turned to semiconductors, especially the recently released CPU that felt like the centerpiece of everything.
“I heard that anyone trying to order a New Egg 2 already faces a month-long wait.”
“It’s a complete HPC product. Other companies omit one or two components and still call it an HPC computer, but the New Egg 2 has HPC certification on everything from the CPU and memory to the video card and even the sound card. That’s why people trust it.”
Lisa Su answered proudly. When it came to the Egg series, she possessed knowledge comparable to the top experts. Moreover, the products incorporated the Coppermine process she had personally worked on with Yoo Jae-won, so she could not help but take an interest. Yet some companies were apparently advertising incomplete machines as HPC computers? Even in the United States, there were firms with a “use and discard” mentality—slightly shocking. Still, profiting from information asymmetry happened everywhere. To avoid being taken advantage of, consumers simply had to conduct thorough research before buying. Of course, Yoo Jae-won had no intention of ever playing spec games with the products ID Technology designed.
Then a curious secret suddenly occurred to him.
“Did you know that the HPC CPU performance we have now is only half of what it could be?”
“What? What do you mean?”
Everyone looked startled. The current HPC performance was already tremendous—how could it be only half? Yet Yoo Jae-won was not making things up. Intel had named its new CPU the Pentium II, but the Pentium MMX should have come first. MMX stood for MultiMedia eXtension, a multimedia-specialized instruction set that allowed a single instruction to process multiple identical data elements simultaneously. It offered remarkable efficiency for handling continuous streams of uniform data such as graphics and sound. Both Intel and AMD had already developed the MMX extended instruction set, but they had not included it in the CPUs released this time. While the process transition might have diverted attention, to Yoo Jae-won it looked like a deliberate omission.
“So we can just swap the CPU later, right?”
Yoo Jae-won nodded at the straightforward remark. Since the socket was the same, simply replacing the CPU would boost performance again. Everyone assumed that would be the case. But the future was uncertain. In the early twenty-first century, when Yoo Jae-won had worked extensively with computers, changing the CPU had usually required changing the motherboard as well.
“By the way, Chairman, is the assignment you gave us really about developing a CPU?”
As the conversation about the new CPU wound down, Lisa Su moved to the main topic. The group’s recent focus had been organizational restructuring, but the semiconductor division was unaffected. Instead, Yoo Jae-won had formally assigned the division a CPU development project—not a vague “make a new CPU,” but one with extremely specific guidelines. The concept was ultra-compact and ultra-low power. To achieve this, they would use a RISC architecture that simplified CPU instructions as much as possible and would boldly abandon x86 compatibility. The chip area would also be minimized to maximize production efficiency. Performance could not be allowed to drop too far, however; the chip had to handle 320×200 resolution video encoded with Android’s native codec without difficulty. When Lisa Su first received the assignment, she could not imagine where such a product would be used. It lacked the performance to replace Intel or AMD CPUs. Even for laptops or the tablet PCs whose concept had been completed at the Daejeon Expo, it would be insufficient. Yet it was far too powerful for a simple electronic calculator.
“It’s going into mobile phones.”
Yoo Jae-won’s answer was simple. One sentence, and that was all.