Chapter 28: Should the New Game Be Based on the Three Kingdoms or Wuxia?

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The same logic applies to releasing a sequel.

The first game’s appeal came from the system piling on content without regard for cost. It would be difficult for a new game to introduce that many novel classes and gameplay styles all over again.

At most, Gu Meng could improve the character models and make the map larger. After that, he would have to pour money into the system like mad just to maintain the same standard—and even then, the result might not be as good as the first game.

Making Pure Love 2 might bring in a tidy sum, but it would most likely fall short of the original. The details simply could not be perfected to the same degree.

He could build on the first game by copying over its gameplay, mechanics, numerical systems, status bars, attributes, and classes wholesale.

But there was no guarantee he could copy them well. If he copied them too well, it would look as though he were merely milking the franchise, and he would immediately fall from his pedestal.

As for spending money all over again to make another game in the same vein—one that piled on an absurd amount of content while being completely different—the current system was not particularly efficient at that sort of thing. A game this comprehensive was precisely the kind of project that made poor use of the system.

The system offered far better value when assigned to optimize a core mechanic: the feel of combat in a fighting game, the execution of an iconic scene in a story-driven game, or the balance and numerical tuning of a competitive game. Using it for crucial yet troublesome elements like those was where its value truly shone.

Forcing a game from a score of twenty all the way up to ninety by piling on system-generated content was simply wasteful.

Under normal circumstances, even if a game could not reach ninety points, getting it to eighty—or even seventy—was entirely achievable.

Using the system to refine an eighty-point game into a ninety- or hundred-point game was merely fine-tuning, and the expense was acceptable. The difference in cost between raising a game by fifty points and raising it by twenty was not two and a half times greater, but a hundred times greater.

If you gave the system most of the game’s raw materials, it could extrapolate and optimize them without spending much money. But handing it a college graduate’s final project was making things difficult for it. Give it nothing but a design document, and when forced to create something from nothing, all it could produce was a 4399-style game.

Besides, if the second game was to maintain its reputation and meet the players’ expectations, should they start with Pickup Master Simulator 3 this time?

No, no. Absolutely not.

That would be far too humiliating. The hard-won aura of prestige Gu Meng had accidentally acquired through painstakingly outsmarting everyone would vanish completely, and it would confirm that he had used a bug to slip the previous game past the censors.

Once was acceptable. Twice was not.

Some things could remain mutually understood without being spoken aloud. Exposing them himself would amount to slapping the game regulators in the face.

They might not want to interfere with Gu Meng, but if he dared to make a sequel, they would have no choice but to strike hard.

Otherwise, the people below them would revolt. Once accusations of unfair treatment began flying, there would be no way to end the matter cleanly.

This time, Maodou had used a bug to conceal even more outrageous gameplay. Next time, other companies might dare to have their heroine trigger a bug and appear in the Emperor’s New Clothes.

Respect had to be mutual. Making games was not about fighting and killing; it was about navigating human relationships.

Once he understood this, Gu Meng completely abandoned the idea of making a sequel to Pure Love.

If the male protagonist of the sequel became a womanizer, he would be betraying himself.

If he did not become a womanizer, he would be betraying the players.

Then let Pure Love be Maodou’s final masterpiece.

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“There’s no need to discuss this any further. The game has already reached a very complete state, and I’m not going to rush out a sequel. As for downloadable content, there won’t be any for the time being either.”

“Understood, Mr. Gu.” Wu Mengyou had merely been conveying the suggestions she had gathered from the players.

“Leaving aside the players’ desire for a sequel, what do you think?”

“This…” Wu Mengyou hesitated for a moment before voicing her true thoughts.

“Our company has already established a strong brand. I hope that even if our next game belongs to a different genre, we can continue with our suggestive style.”

“No. I’m not going to make suggestive games anymore.”

Last time, he had been able to shift the blame for SM Simulator onto the Flying Old Geezer tribute and claim that he had merely fulfilled the old man’s final wish.

If he pushed the boundaries again, he would be branded for good. He would have no excuse left.

What kind of god of game development kept making suggestive games forever?

…There probably wasn’t one, right?

Still, quite a few protagonists in game-development novels had made adult games in the past…

No, no. Gu Meng was a respectable man. He still had to follow the proper path.

Gu Meng shook his head, firmly reaffirming his resolve not to cross the line.

“Don’t bring this up again. Our company, Game Metaphysics, is a brand-new company now. We must remember the lessons of the past, and we must open an entirely new path. I’ve made up my mind. This time, we’re going to make a different kind of game.”

Wu Mengyou’s inner thoughts:

If you had already made up your mind, why did you ask for my opinion?

What a moron of a boss.

Gu Meng’s inner thoughts:

Doesn’t this make me look democratic?

Besides, in this company reborn from the ashes, the only people who can really be considered executives are you and me. I fired everyone else.

Before I do anything, shouldn’t I consult you, my canine-headed secretary and second-in-command?

“Then what are you planning, Mr. Gu?”

“I haven’t truly made up my mind yet, but I do have a few ideas. Here are two design documents. You can take a look as well.”

Gu Meng picked up two paper files from his desk and handed them to Wu Mengyou.

“What are these?”

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“Design documents for new games. I haven’t been idle lately. I drafted preliminary versions of these two proposals. Once I’ve made a decision, we’ll hold a meeting and show them to everyone so we can pool our ideas.”

Gu Meng had inherited his game-planning abilities from his predecessor, though his predecessor had learned those abilities from Gu Ritian. In other words, they were fairly ordinary.

One should not expect too much from the game-planning abilities of the film-and-game industry. Maodou Games had always relied on the same core formula: a suggestive female protagonist surrounded by a harem, a male protagonist who showed off and slapped his opponents in the face, and straightforward entertainment that gave players simple, immediate pleasure.

But this world itself was a gigantic amateur production. Compared with certain absurd games whose very existence was impossible to explain—such as Starfall Counterattack—Gu Meng at least possessed basic skills, along with memories from his previous life to supplement them. He could even copy games that did not exist in this parallel world. As a result, the design documents looked fairly decent.

“This one is a martial-arts game. Its working title is Heroes of All Ages.”

“And this one is set during the Three Kingdoms period? Its working title is Crouching Dragon: The Empire’s Final Hour. Indeed, these two settings seem very suitable…”

Wu Mengyou seemed to understand.

She quickly accepted Gu Meng’s decision to abandon the urban setting that had brought them such tremendous success and instead turn to the utterly unrelated settings of ancient warfare and martial arts.

Her boss was a once-in-a-generation genius. There was nothing wrong with a genius wanting to try something new.

If he could even abandon Maodou’s traditional suggestive content and the easy money of straightforward sequels, then choosing a new historical setting was hardly surprising. It fit perfectly with the stereotype of a genius who was arrogant, capricious, and entirely guided by his own whims.

What occurred to her was the advantage of the subject matter.

The Three Kingdoms period was indeed something Chinese gamers had long yearned for.

At present, when it came to Three Kingdoms games worldwide, the title with the strongest overall combination of fame, reputation, and influence was not Chinese. It was the Records of the Three Kingdoms series from Japan’s Koei.

The series had already released more than a dozen numbered installments, yet its influence remained. After games conquered the global entertainment industry in this parallel world, it even showed signs of a second revival.

Even if it never managed to revive completely, at least it had once enjoyed glory.

As for China, its most popular Three Kingdoms game was the one that had once faced off against Gu Ritian’s Maodou masterpiece Love’s Single Choice in a climactic battle for supremacy atop the Forbidden City, ultimately defending its position as the greatest game in the land—

Three Kingdoms Battle.

Its gameplay differed somewhat from that of the former-world game Killers of the Three Kingdoms, but the controversies outside the game had been reined in. It was the sort of title where the game itself was fine, but the operation was a disaster.

That this was China’s most popular Three Kingdoms game had already been embarrassing in the world Gu Meng came from. In this world, where games reigned supreme, it was even more disgraceful.

Gu Meng now had the support of countless players and was practically a celebrity developer. If he could create a high-quality Three Kingdoms game, it would make for excellent publicity.

Restoring glory to Three Kingdoms games was a duty I could not shirk.

The martial-arts game was even easier to understand.

Maodou possessed the precious legacy of two masters, Gu Yong and Jin Long: the rights to their works were nearing expiration, and it would be a waste not to use them.

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