Cannon Fodder Genius Game Producer - Chapter 17

Chapter 17: The 17th Day of a Blockbuster

Although Lin Cheng was filled with a stomach full of rage, he knew he didn’t yet have the capital to go head-to-head with Jixing Studio. He could only grit his teeth, put on a relatively submissive expression, and head over to Wang Fei’s workstation.

As expected, Wang Fei held up Jiang Ziye’s damn “Life” game right in front of him.

“Lin Cheng, do you have any explanation for this?”

Explanation?

What else could there be to explain?!

Lin Cheng gritted his teeth, barely steadying his breathing, and put on an indignant look of being insulted: “Brother Wang, I’ve already explained this on the WG platform! I said I wouldn’t explain it again. If Jiang Ziye can produce any proof that his development time predates mine, I will publicly apologize to him across the entire internet and never touch game production again! If he can’t, then stop slandering me!”

Wang Fei had called Lin Cheng over precisely to ask about this matter. In fact, he had played Crazy Graduation Season himself back then; it was a game with very delicate emotional expression. Purely based on the creation of emotional atmosphere, it was capable of resonating deeply with students.

Wang Fei had originally thought Lin Cheng would be a person with a personality to match, but during the interview, he discovered that Lin Cheng was a young man full of ambition.

While this differed from his expectations, Wang Fei hadn’t doubted him at the time.

Until today, when this game—which had suddenly begun circulating in the internal company groups—caught Wang Fei’s attention. He could feel that although this game was quite crudely made, its design logic was actually very ingenious, including its emotional expression and rendering…

It was exactly the same as Crazy Graduation Season.

As the saying goes, “laymen look at the excitement, while experts look at the craft.”

After finishing the test play of The Stolen Life, Wang Fei’s heart was already 90% inclined toward believing that Jiang Ziye was the original creator of Crazy Graduation Season, or at the very least, he must have been a very important lead figure in its creation.

But it was exactly as Lin Cheng said.

Evidence.

Subjective conviction based on emotion can serve as a judgment for personal sentiment, but it cannot serve as definitive evidence.

Wang Fei also couldn’t understand why Jiang Ziye would have absolutely no evidence.

Moreover, after looking at the evidence presented, Wang Fei felt somewhat strange—if the evidence listed by Jiang Ziye was accurate, Lin Cheng was a pure “player,” and most likely a low-retention, low-activity, low-spending player who holds little value in the eyes of most game developers.

However, players of this type often have an inaccurate understanding of games and would be impossible to pass Jixing Studio’s interview.

He had been one of the interviewers for Lin Cheng and remembered the questions he asked. Lin Cheng’s answers—from his understanding of games to his long-term vision of future gaming trends—contained firm and unique insights. This point had been unanimously agreed upon by the Jixing Studio interviewers at the time.

Precisely because of this reason, combined with the lack of evidence, Wang Fei—despite his inner suspicion—did not completely write Lin Cheng off.

Seeing the look of being insulted on Lin Cheng’s face, Wang Fei knit his brows. He didn’t say much more but instead comforted him: “Alright. Jixing won’t wrong any innocent comrade, nor will we form extra judgments about you based on outside suspicion. Since you are so certain, then work hard here at Jixing.”

As he spoke, Wang Fei looked up at Lin Cheng: “But if evidence is ever confirmed, Jixing won’t let any malicious plagiarist off the hook!”

Lin Cheng nodded and left directly without a word.

He appeared as if he were walking away because he couldn’t bear the insult; in reality, only he knew the panic and suffocating rage in his heart.

Wang Fei watched his retreating back, then glanced at the data Lin Cheng had organized and submitted to him in the afternoon—based purely on the style of this data organization, it was also worlds apart from the style of Crazy Graduation Season and The Stolen Life.

But Wang Fei couldn’t figure out: if Lin Cheng truly was a plagiarist, how did he get his hands on such a detailed proposal, even including easter egg details that clearly required repeated communication with art staff during production? It was all perfectly consistent.

This matter was too strange. Wang Fei ultimately chose to wait and see. Perhaps Lin Cheng’s subsequent performance would reveal some clues.

Pei Shu was unaware of the fallout happening at Jixing Studio.

In the Daonan Road apartment, he introduced his series of plans for the studio to Li Chuyue one by one. However, he didn’t take advantage of having a potential big financier like Li Chuyue by his side to ask for an exorbitant amount.

In Pei Shu’s plan, the initial studio didn’t need many people; a small team of about five would suffice. Much of the content could be outsourced for production; it was more important that the core personnel possessed the skills he recognized and a unity in aesthetic and philosophy.

Regarding the direction of game development, Pei Shu didn’t plan to “eat a fat man in one bite” (rush for immediate massive success). In his plan, the studio’s first game would be one that didn’t require too much capital or content, with relatively simple gameplay.

He had already considered the genre: likely an idle mobile game.

The production cycle for this game wouldn’t be long, making it perfect for the studio to practice and for the members to undergo a “breaking-in” process with one another.

Of course, he also hoped the game could recoup a bit of capital after going online—though that was a matter for further down the road.

Only after completing the initial breaking-in and having a certain understanding of each other’s abilities and aesthetics would Pei Shu consider developing more large-scale game content.

Advancing cautiously—this was the preparation Pei Shu had made from the start.

Under these circumstances, the first round of funding the studio required wasn’t actually that high; an investment of 500,000 would be more than sufficient.

Of course, this could only be considered the initial investment. If they were to continue making more complex games later and the first game’s capital recovery efficiency was suboptimal, a second round of additional investment might be needed.

Taking this into account, Pei Shu requested a total investment sum of 800,000, while promising to complete at least one game within the next year that would be rated B+ within the Universal Group.

A so-called B+ rated game within Universal was not necessarily a high-budget production.

Within the Universal Group, besides Jixing Studio, there were over a hundred other studios. However, the entire group had a unified judging standard for games. Before a game went live, this standard was basically based on art, genre, theme, plot, gameplay, and innovation. After going live, another standard included daily active users (DAU), recharge ratios, and 1-day, 3-day, and 7-day retention rates.

A game with a B+ rating, under ideal operation and promotion, could potentially reach a daily recharge volume of over 200,000 on its launch day. Even after platform cuts, marketing expenses, and production costs, if the game was successful, recouping costs was actually not a difficult task—it might even turn a handsome profit.

For Pei Shu to dare say this to Li Chuyue meant he already had a certain estimate of his own planning, game direction, and content.

After finishing the introduction of these details, Pei Shu looked at Li Chuyue.

Throughout Pei Shu’s explanation, Li Chuyue had not brushed him off. He listened seriously to the entire introduction and asked questions regarding points he didn’t understand.

“What is your average monthly development cost budget?”

“How long do you expect the first game to take to complete?”

“Have you done market research on the direction of the first game? Is it a project that fits the aesthetic of the general market? Who is the target audience?”

“Is there data to support this content?”

Although Li Chuyue intended to invest no matter what Pei Shu said, he knew that if he displayed such an attitude, Pei Shu would definitely use all his ability to push the development progress as fast as possible to return the money.

Li Chuyue didn’t want that. What he hoped for was to spend the coming time watching Pei Shu make the games he loved, and to nurture and grow this studio together with him.

This studio would be like a bridge connecting their relationship.

After Pei Shu answered all of Li Chuyue’s questions one by one, Li Chuyue asked about a few more details and finally made the decision to invest.

“This investment won’t be made in the name of the Li Group; it will be my personal capital.” Li Chuyue pointed to himself and said with a grin: “So from now on, I am your ‘Sugar Daddy,’ Peipei!”

Pei Shu laughed: “Alright, ‘Sugar Daddy’ younger brother, thank you, ‘Sugar Daddy’ younger brother!”

In the following week or two, Pei Shu registered a game production studio named “Bu Shu” (No Loss/Not Losing) in his own name. Then, Li Chuyue’s assistant, Lu You, organized the contracts, and on a certain weekend, he and Li Chuyue officially signed the investment agreement.

The studio was ready.

The investment was ready.

The funds were ready.

Only after Pei Shu finished this whirlwind of tasks did he suddenly remember that he was currently a “one-man army.”

Thinking of this, Pei Shu remembered the little friend in his private messages, Jiang Ziye.

Over these two weeks, Jiang Ziye’s The Stolen Life had spread from the initial scope of the Beijing University of Science and Technology to almost every university in the country. Simultaneously, there was significant discussion on industry game forums; the heat was quite high.

Although Jiang Ziye indeed lacked conclusive evidence, the vast majority of people no longer viewed him as a “plagiarist,” but were more willing to believe in his innocence and his ordeal.

Jiang Ziye, who had once been practically everyone’s target, finally reappeared in the classrooms of Beijing University of Science and Technology, preparing to finish his final graduation project and exams.

Pei Shu thought for a moment and left his WeChat ID for Jiang Ziye on the WG platform, preparing to ask him for a chat to see if this young, talented game creator would be willing to “condescend” to join his small studio.

During this time, Pei Shu was also thinking: if it wasn’t just him, but more “cannon fodder” who had fallen into the dust because of Lin Cheng’s rebirth and the system were to gather together, could Lin Cheng still remain high and mighty under the impact of these “cannon fodder”?

Would those classic game proposals that might already exist in the system necessarily be better or more suited for the market than the things created by real game makers like them?

Ever since Lin Cheng’s nervous and laughable defensive statement, Pei Shu faintly felt he had grasped a thread for fighting back against the “Protagonist” and the Plot Will.

As he thought of this, Pei Shu’s phone vibrated slightly—a new contact request to add as a friend.

It was Jiang Ziye.

If one day the “Protagonist” is continuously defeated by the “Cannon Fodder,” can the Protagonist still continue being a “Stallion Novel” protagonist?

Pei Shu was very much looking forward to it.

Meanwhile, Lin Cheng had been curled up like a rat, both insecure and arrogant, for over two weeks—he was waiting. Waiting for the moment the new expansion for Jixing Studio’s Super God project was released.

That was his opportunity. The opportunity to slap Jixing Studio and the many people who doubted him right in the face!

Life during these two weeks had made Lin Cheng’s mind increasingly insecure and dark. He thought secretly to himself—Just wait. Once the new expansion of “Super God” goes online, I’ll have plenty of ways to make you look good!

Support