Chapter 3

Jiang Qiubai steadied his breath and asked, “Is there a test version? Let me have a look.”

Typically, during game development, to facilitate bug-finding, an internal version is released for testing once the basic framework is established.

He was genuinely curious to see just what kind of ingenious rascal his predecessor had been.

Old Liu noticed his odd expression and hurried off to the programmers for the test version.

As Jiang Qiubai gazed at the open screen before him, his attention was immediately drawn to the gaudy, colorful icon. The icon depicted a cute girl in a short skirt, holding a gun in an aiming pose, set against a backdrop of brightly lit skyscrapers.

At first glance, it didn’t look too bad—if one ignored the name beneath the icon.

“Pretty Girl’s Grand Adventure,” Jiang Qiubai read out loud, his voice crisp and clear. Paired with the content, it sounded almost comical.

Was there a more foolish name than this?

Reality quickly answered him—there certainly was.

Even more foolish than the name was the game’s content.

A name could be changed at any time, but the content left Jiang Qiubai at a complete loss as to where to even begin.

Within two minutes of launching the game, Jiang Qiubai felt as if he’d been beaten half to death.

It couldn’t be said there was no plot at all—but honestly, the plot was so bad it might as well not exist.

Upon entering the game, one was greeted by a finely rendered CG image: beneath the setting sun, the heroine, wearing a school uniform, waved goodbye to her friends. Then text appeared below.

“By day, you are an ordinary high school student.”

“But at night, you transform into the savior of this city.”

The scene shifted to nighttime. The heroine swapped her uniform for a tight-fitting leather suit, slung a gun over her shoulder, and stood atop the city, gazing down at the monsters prowling below.

“Monsters are invading, and the slumbering Demon King is about to awaken.”

“Pick up your gun and vanquish these enemies!”

Was this some kind of over-the-top wish-fulfillment fantasy?

Shouldn’t high schoolers focus on studying and doing homework?

Jiang Qiubai grumbled inwardly and didn’t dare ask further. It was probably yet another of his predecessor’s ‘genius’ ideas.

Once the CG disappeared, a loading screen appeared. When loading finished, the game’s main lobby popped up.

On the left side of the lobby stood the heroine in her default outfit, with a row of function buttons beside her. On the right were various game modes.

Unconvinced, Jiang Qiubai wiggled the mouse—nothing popped up.

Good, at least it wasn’t frozen.

He clicked on a random mode; after loading, a monster lunged straight at him. The screen shook, and the heroine’s health bar quickly dwindled.

The environment and hit feedback were actually decent, but…

“Where’s the tutorial?” Jiang Qiubai pinched the bridge of his nose.

Most games introduce a skippable tutorial on the player’s first entry, helping them quickly get acquainted with the game. The tutorial often showcases the game’s unique features.

FPS games usually throw the player into battle right away, using bots to help them get familiar with the controls.

But this game? It just assumed the player was already an expert—no hints, not even a basic key guide.

“We haven’t made one. Boss, you said, ‘It’s just a few key bindings, just add a brief note when it’s done.’” Old Liu replied quietly.

...He might as well not have asked.

Jiang Qiubai’s opinion of his predecessor’s absurdity was refreshed yet again. He decided to have Old Liu enter commands from the backend, watching as the heroine automatically ran around, eliminated all the monsters, and completed the stage.

On the results screen, the girl jumped up in delight, flashing a peace sign. Then a pitch-black evening dress shimmering in rainbow hues appeared at the center of the screen, with a line of text below:

“Congratulations, you’ve cleared the stage and earned a reward: Premium Evening Gown.”

The screen switched again, returning to the game lobby.

This time, a prompt appeared—would you like to wear the outfit?

Jiang Qiubai clicked yes, then re-entered the game.

Compared to the previous round, absolutely nothing had changed.

Yes, nothing at all.

In other words, the reward outfit was invisible during gameplay.

...

...

“What about positive reinforcement for the player? Where’s the satisfaction? What’s the appeal? Is it just the clothes?” Jiang Qiubai fired off his questions in rapid succession.

In this genre, FPS games attract players with the immersive shooting experience and tactile feel of ballistics, but also with rewards at the end of each stage—allowing them to gradually acquire better gear.

Now he was being told the stage reward wasn’t a medal or coins, nor a more powerful weapon, but a piece of clothing?

Even if the outfit looked quite nice, in a first-person shooter, after equipping it, the player could only admire it in the character or interface screen—the moment gameplay started, all they saw was a gun.

Wasn’t that just wearing it for nothing?

So the game designer his predecessor had headhunted with a high salary was only this capable?

“Uh…” Old Liu’s expression was conflicted, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.

Judging by Old Liu’s look, Jiang Qiubai was certain this was another of his predecessor’s bright ideas. “Go on, just say it.”

Old Liu braced himself: “Our original plan was to reward coins for passing stages, which players could exchange for different weapons.”

Jiang Qiubai nodded. “That’s standard in most FPS games.”

Better weapons mean better attack power and handling, and are necessary for increasingly difficult levels. It also keeps players motivated to keep progressing—solid positive feedback.

Seeing Jiang Qiubai wasn’t opposed, Old Liu continued, “But you said that was too conventional, not novel enough. You suggested giving out outfits as rewards, to attract female players who like pretty clothes.”

“You said it would be unique in FPS games and definitely go viral.”

Old Liu could still vividly recall the proud look on his former boss’s face when he’d made that declaration.

Jiang Qiubai almost choked on his own breath.

It was certainly unique, but as for simultaneously attracting both types of players?

The game’s setting and level of difficulty would scare off most female players who came for the clothes. And those who could handle the gameplay were likely FPS veterans who cared only about getting stronger and racking up kills—outfits were just a minor embellishment. If anything, they’d value flashy, cool-looking weapons more than pretty clothes.

His predecessor’s ‘innovation’ had probably succeeded in alienating both groups at once.

Jiang Qiubai was baffled. “Yet you still went along with it?”

Such a blatantly unreliable idea, and they actually executed it.

Couldn’t they at least suggest integrating the outfits into gameplay?

“That’s why everyone left,” Old Liu sighed.

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t objected, but his predecessor was stubborn to the extreme. Even well-meaning suggestions were dismissed as failures to comprehend his genius.

On top of that, he held everyone’s livelihood—their salaries—in his hands. Reluctant as they were, they had no choice but to comply.

From then on, morale at the studio plummeted. Then, as luck would have it, funding issues arose. Sensing trouble, the talent he’d poached made a swift exit.

Jiang Qiubai: …

So that was the real reason for the mass resignation.

For the studio to have ended up in its current state, his predecessor truly brought it upon himself.