To ascend, I had no choice but to create games

Chapter 258: Chapter 171: Did the Studio Go Out of Business? (Part 1)

The game icon featured a white background with a black Chinese character: “Letter.”

“Letter” was the name of the game.

Although it looked simple, this website was the platform for displaying entries in the competition. Without a sufficiently impressive game, it would not be showcased here.

The competition required a highlight, but the completion of the game was also essential. Unless certain aspects of the game were particularly outstanding, it wouldn’t be displayed on this platform.

With its very simple icon, no character portraits in the game’s introduction, and only a single phrase for its description—”The World of Characters”—it seemed as if a reserved game developer had silently submitted their game.

When Qiu Yu launched the game, the screen went dark and the title appeared, with the large character for “Letter” growing bigger and bigger.

Within this massive “Letter,” there were numerous other characters embedded, which then shattered like raindrops scattering, leaving only the character for “one” on the screen.

The visual effects displayed at the opening were quite stunning; though they consisted only of ordinary text, Qiu Yu could feel an exuberant sense of self-expression coming through. The developer, shedding their earlier aloofness, had fully showcased their vision, resulting in a powerful impact.

And with that, the game truly began.

Watching the flickering “one,” Qiu Yu dragged the character and saw it replicate itself continuously through the dragging motion.

After ten “ones” appeared, they suddenly combined into a new character, “ten.”

Witnessing this, Qiu Yu murmured, “From Tao comes one, from one comes two, from two comes three, and from three comes all things.”

Trying different dragging methods with the previous “one,” Qiu Yu discovered that different combinations of movements could form various Chinese numeral characters.

Yet, this was just the beginning.

Breaking apart “ten,” the original character was split into “one” and a vertical line. The emergence of new strokes allowed him to create even more characters and further expanded the range of characters he could combine.

By mid-game, nouns had started to appear.

“Wood,” “again,” and “inch” could turn into a tree, which, upon being cut down, yielded “leaf,” “branch,” and “root.” A slight rearrangement of “leaf” became “sun,” and the appearance of “sun” filled this black world with light, giving rise to “day” and “night.”

As Qiu Yu continued experimenting, he found that he could create an increasing number of nouns. Although some nouns had no practical use, those that did would change their form through transformations, creating a reflective relationship with their corresponding real-world noun.

Two hours later, the entire world was brilliantly illuminated—mountains and rivers, sun, moon, and stars—all familiar elements from daily life were recreated in the game, leaving Qiu Yu feeling both a sense of novelty and insight.

This game, Alan and the others definitely couldn’t play it.

It was a game with a strong personal touch, one that fully showcased the developer’s personality. The gameplay integrated seamlessly with the intrinsic meanings of the characters, resulting in a game that only nationals could truly understand.

The doctrines of Taoism embedded within made sense, not forced upon the player but revealed through the combination of characters, culminating in an indescribably mystical and fascinating atmosphere.

Once most of the nouns were combined, the game was considered complete.

After finishing the game, Qiu Yu leaned back in his chair, reflecting on the experience it provided.

Although parts of it were still rough around the edges, the overall conception of the game was solid, and the gameplay was complete. It was a very impressive game indeed.

The developer was clearly someone who had researched gameplay profoundly. If assessed on the overall game, Qiu Yu had a slight advantage, but in terms of game mechanics, the other party was probably much stronger.

After comparing, Qiu Yu realized that besides his game and the developer’s game, the other entries pretty much weren’t worth noting. The final first and second place would likely be between him and the other developer.

Having played “Letter,” Qiu Yu was inspired with some new ideas.

Closing the game and opening his document, he launched his own game and began reviewing it anew.

“Flying Sword Questions” was the game he had made for this occasion, but it was not the game he most wanted to create.

According to his plans, once his studio was established, he would use “Flying Sword Questions” as his stepping stone to make a name for his studio.

But the game he truly wanted to develop was another one.

It was a game he had conceived during college. The gameplay was fairly simple, with some elements of microtransactions, but not excessive, focusing rather on content payment. Players could obtain materials through the game or purchase resources with money.

Simple though the gameplay was, it had great depth. The payment model was not heavily emphasized but was enough to maintain about 10% monthly player retention, which suited his desire for a game that could be operated over the long term.

Such a game had been unrealistic in the past because a 10% monthly retention rate was formidable, essentially marking a game as a hit—a normal game’s monthly retention rate was around 3% to 5%.

His career plan was already in place. Now, everything was ready—he only needed the right opportunity. If he could secure a top-three position, he would be qualified to build his own team and then embark on his journey.

But would things really go that smoothly?