Say Yes To Making Bad Games, What the Hell is Titanfall?, Translation

Jiang Yun had been in the gaming industry for nearly a decade.

Fresh out of Cascadia University's game design program, he'd been brimming with passion, dreaming of revolutionizing the field. He wasn't content with the stale state of gaming—not just locally, but globally. He wanted to pioneer a new era, crafting groundbreaking masterpieces that weren't just cash grabs.

Games should be more than profit machines, he'd thought.

Then reality hit hard.

The industry seemed to laugh in his face. "No profit? What's the point? Art? Player joy? Get real."

Money was king—for developers, publishers, everyone.

Why bother with new gameplay or compelling stories? Just scout the latest trends, copy what's hot, and cash in. That was the game.

Over time, Jiang's fire dulled. Ambition flickered, but setbacks snuffed it out. Today was no different.

"Forget it," he told himself, swallowing his pride. Nebula Games had made him a star with BattleForge. Now a game director, he couldn't just walk away.

"So, what's the plan, Mr. Holt?" Jiang asked, voice low, as Chen Holt's rant cooled.

Chen, Nebula's pot-bellied VP, sighed and waved a hand. "Forget DLC. I've got something bigger." He slid a paper across the desk. "Check this out."

Jiang scanned it: Invitation to IndieVibe's Indie Game Expo

"This came from IndieVibe," Chen said. "Big studios like us usually don't qualify—it's for newbies, small teams, or solo devs. But I know their marketing head from way back. They're bending the rules for us."

He leaned forward. "There's a voting phase. Win the crowd's votes, and the designer gets a banner feature on IndieVibe's platform."

Jiang's breath caught. A banner feature? IndieVibe was aiming to make stars.

In the industry, players and platforms only cared about games, not the designers behind them. Most famous designers were from overseas, where the industry hyped individuals. IndieVibe was taking a page from that book, spotlighting a new generation of talent.

This was Jiang's shot at glory—and a big win for Nebula, who owned his game rights.

"Got it," Jiang nodded. "What's our angle for the expo?"

Chen waved dismissively. "WindyPeak's two games are hot right now. Pick one, copy it, tweak it, done."

…

"Copy and tweak? No way!" Zoey Parker snapped in her WindyPeak office the next day.

Chloe Quinn had just pitched a game plan for the Indie Game Expo. Zoey had asked for her take, knowing Chloe wasn't a gamer. A non-expert's framework was bound to flop—perfect for Zoey's rebate dreams.

But Chloe wasn't clueless. She'd studied the market. Most successful studios leaned on one breakout hit, milking it with DLCs or sequels to rake in cash while it was hot. Her suggestion? Make a sequel to Cat Leo or Who's the Daddy, or at least rehash one with a new skin. Both were hits—either could work.

It was solid logic for the indie market. Which was exactly why Zoey shot it down.

A sequel? That screamed profit. She wasn't digging her own grave.

Zoey shook her head, feigning principle. "We're WindyPeak. We chase innovation. Gus is a creative genius—how can we churn out lazy rehashes like other studios?"

"Especially for this expo," she added, "where our rep and Gus's name are on the line. We need something fresh."

She paused for effect. "I'm designing this one myself."

Zoey was no fool—especially when it came to sabotage. If even Chloe, a gaming novice, was pitching safe bets, no one could be trusted to make a bad game. So why not take the wheel herself?

A game designed by a total gaming newbie? No way it'd catch fire.

This time, Zoey was steering straight for a glorious, catastrophic flop.

She slapped the desk, grinning. "It's settled! Chloe, tell Gus we're holding a planning meeting in ten minutes!"