Chapter 22

“What? Change the ad content?” Jiang Qiubai, who thought he had already understood the players’ mindset, was utterly baffled this time.

Was there something wrong with the original advertisement? Or was there an issue with the product itself?

If it was the latter, then that could affect the game’s reputation.

Jiang Qiubai frowned slightly. “Is there a problem with the original collaborative product?”

“No.” Liu, whose professional ethics were at stake, quickly denied it. “Boss, just check the comment section under your latest post on Weibo.”

Previously, Jiang Qiubai had specifically emphasized the importance of investigating the collaborative product before finalizing the partnership. Liu had diligently followed instructions, inquiring from all sides, and only signed the contract after confirming there were no issues.

“Let me take a look.” Jiang Qiubai, puzzled, logged into the long-abandoned Weibo account.

When he had directed the hate toward his own Weibo, Jiang Qiubai had already anticipated the chaos that would unfold after this update. There was no reason for him to check it voluntarily.

Upon logging in, he selectively ignored private messages and mentions, focusing only on the replies under his latest post—nearly ten thousand comments had already accumulated.

It was clear without even looking: everyone must be complaining about him.

“Excellent, it seems our player retention is very high.” Jiang Qiubai nodded approvingly, opening the comments. “This will make future game promotions much easier.”

As for constantly being criticized by the players...

Jiang Qiubai was indifferent.

So what if people complain?

For those in the gaming industry, if no one is criticizing you, it only means one thing—

It’s not that your game is ethical, but that your game isn’t popular enough; nobody knows who you are.

From ancient times to present, whether single-player or multiplayer, among all the renowned game planners, how many have not had their families “greeted” by players?

In the end, players still curse while pouring money into the game.

Having honed a strong psychological resilience in his previous world, Jiang Qiubai always focused on whether criticism was reasonable and beneficial, ignoring everything else.

One must look on the bright side.

It was the same in his old world, and here, Jiang Qiubai intended to do likewise.

Yet this time, the comments were much better than he had expected.

After reading the top-liked replies, Jiang Qiubai finally understood the reason.

“I was wrong. I never should have trusted this damned planner! He tricked me during the livestream, made me think I was getting a great deal, but after the update, I realized just how dreadful these ads are!”

“One minute into the game, thirty seconds of ads—who else? I’m asking, who else?”

“I thought thirty seconds of ads wasn’t much, but playing made me realize—half my minute is spent watching ads! The other thirty seconds are spent dying and restarting from new levels!”

“The one above was too naive (shakes head). I now play with a guide at every step, emphasizing stability and survival.”

“I roughly estimate, from the first level to the last, I’ll watch ads at least a thousand times. Well, maybe not, but it adds up to several hours anyway (tired smile).”

“Planner, doesn’t your conscience hurt? Oh wait, you don’t have one!”

Up to this point, it was normal complaints about ads and the planner, but further down, the tone started to shift.

“Since the ads are here anyway, why not add a few different ones? It’s always the same ads—so boring.”

“Exactly! Please update the ads, planner. I can recite every single slogan backwards now; I’m more familiar with them than the spokespeople themselves.”

“I’ve memorized the ads +1. Give us something interesting, please. Sometimes I get so bored I fall asleep.”

“Thinking about how much longer I have to watch ads before I beat the game, I couldn’t agree more!”

“Thirty seconds is so long—add some storyline at least.”

“Think more about us players and find some exciting ads! (Hinting wildly)”

“??? Are you serious up there? Reported.”

Further down, the topic had already shifted to what type of ads would be best.

... Jiang Qiubai couldn’t help but laugh.

To be honest, he quite liked the gaming environment in this world.

Planners earnestly pursued the games they loved, and the players were adorable—despite all this, their comments only stayed at the stage of critiquing him, and the requests were genuinely cute.

Even the original owner, though eccentric—perhaps very much so—had never considered making a reskinned or fast-food game when planning to earn big money through games.

That simply wasn’t an option for them.

So the original owner dutifully followed all the game development steps, even spending heavily to poach talent from major companies, just to create a quality game and earn honest money.

It showed that in this world, in their hearts, only by making a good game can one make money.

Such an environment may be the most suitable for game development.

Comparing the two worlds in his mind, Jiang Qiubai sighed and decided to revisit Dragon Slayer.

When he first crossed over, the studio was on the verge of bankruptcy, morale was wavering, and, forced by circumstances and habits from his previous world, he produced Dragon Slayer—a low-quality, monetization-focused game, a successful shortcut.

In this latest game, he handled monetization as he did in his old world—a free single-player game? Just add ads for ad revenue.

In his previous world, everyone did this; it was nothing out of the ordinary.

But this isn’t his old world. Here, people have a more balanced attitude toward games, and the environment for game design is far better.

Perhaps he really could create the high-quality games he truly wanted.

Yes, games he genuinely wished to make, and that were also profitable.

Jiang Qiubai quickly added another note to himself.

Forgive him, he had already been corrupted by the money from his old world.

All these thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant, but in Liu’s eyes—waiting for instructions nearby—it looked as though Jiang Qiubai had become uncharacteristically silent after reading these requests.

These demands weren’t excessive, and actually quite interesting.

Liu pondered and ventured tentatively, “Boss?”

“Hm?” Jiang Qiubai returned to himself, meeting Liu’s caring, inquisitive gaze, and smiled. “It’s nothing. I just find these ideas quite intriguing.”

“They make a lot of sense.” Jiang Qiubai tapped the table lightly, pondered for a moment, then said to Liu, “Manager Liu, please reach out to the advertisers again.”

“Tell them I’m willing to halve the ad fees, or switch to pay-per-click.”

Liu looked puzzled, but the trust he’d built up over time kept him from interrupting.

Jiang Qiubai considered his words carefully. “Tell them I want to add an extra method for players to obtain hints for clearing levels, one that takes about one or two minutes, or even longer.”

Yes, as he guessed, some players might make this method the main part of the game.

“Just say that for now. If they disagree, come back to me.”

Liu went off as instructed.

Naturally, things didn’t go smoothly. At first, the advertisers flatly refused to share their traffic.

Until Liu told them the new option would take several times longer than watching ads.

They calculated: even with this option, most users would still choose to watch ads, and their advertising costs would be halved.

A good deal!

Thinking this way, they soon changed their tune, all smiles: “No problem at all. As long as the time is long enough, add whatever you like.”

As for the payment method, everyone chose to halve the ad fees without exception.

It was a joke—at the current traffic levels, there were countless clicks every day. If they paid per click, they’d lose a fortune.

After half coaxing, half urging them to sign the contracts, Liu came to Jiang Qiubai before finishing work to report: “All advertisers agreed, and the supplementary contracts have been signed.”

He didn’t mention the effort he’d put in.

Not just this time; from the first game’s development till now, Liu had worked diligently, striving to execute every task Jiang Qiubai assigned, never claiming credit once it was done.

Jiang Qiubai noticed all this, and after a moment’s thought, kept Liu back as he took the contract.

“We’ve been short-handed lately. Thank you for all your hard work,” Jiang Qiubai said earnestly. “Once we’ve recruited enough new staff, promote the capable ones, and take on the manager role yourself. I’ll be your assistant.”

“Our studio is due for an upgrade to a proper company. We’ll need a bigger office, and I’ll set aside an office for you as general manager. It’ll make things easier for you.”

Jiang Qiubai spoke calmly, without excessive encouragement or praise, as if discussing something ordinary, yet Liu’s lips trembled as he listened.

“Thank you, boss,” Liu said hoarsely.

“You deserve it.” Jiang Qiubai smiled. “And tell the others too. They’ve all been putting in extra hours lately and completing their tasks well. They deserve extra bonuses as a reward.”

Liu nodded and walked away slowly.

Minutes later, cheers erupted outside the office—shouts of “Long live the boss!” and “Boss, I love you!” echoed through the halls.

Jiang Qiubai laughed along with them.

It was wonderful.

A few days later, when the game was updated for the second time, the players couldn’t help but laugh as well.

They spread the news across all their groups, Weibo, and short videos, eager to tell the world in an instant:

“Brothers, open the hint bar! There’s a surprise!”

“Big news, big news! The planner finally acted like a human being!”