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

"No fixed gear?" Gus Shepard's brow furrowed, the first crack in his calm since the meeting started.

Zoey Parker's heart did a little dance. Got him!

"Yup," she nodded, doubling down. "Most games have set equipment drops—same time, same place, same gear. It's boring. No surprises. Can we make it random instead?"

Random gear?! Luke Bennett's jaw dropped. Was she serious? Players grind for loot, only to get… a stick? That's just trolling them!

Luke opened his mouth to shut it down. "Zoey, that's—"

Gus cut him off with a raised hand, eyes lighting up as he stared at Zoey. "You mean… Roguelike?"

Roguelike games—non-linear, with random generation, one-way progression, simple visuals, and deep systems—were a niche goldmine in Gus's past life. Titles like NetherHack had hooked him with their unpredictable chaos and rewarding depth.

But in this world, where game innovation was stagnant, Roguelikes didn't exist. No NetherHack. No nothing.

Gus gaped at Zoey. How had she nailed the exact formula for a Roguelike with her string of awful ideas? Was she secretly a time traveler like him?

"Uh… what's a rogue-like?" Zoey blinked, tilting her head. "Rogue? Like, sneaky thieves? Are we talking lunch or something?"

Gus sighed. Never mind. Not a time traveler. Just clueless.

"No worries," he said, waving it off. "Any other ideas?"

Zoey hesitated. The room was frosty—Luke and Jake Rivers looked ready to riot. She decided to quit while she was ahead. Her pile of terrible ideas was enough to tank any game.

"Guess that's it," she said, smirking inwardly. This is doomed.

"Cool," Gus nodded, his confidence surging. "Zoey, your suggestions are bold. Inspiring, even."

Zoey froze. Inspiring?! Why's he grinning like he's about to make bank in an hour?

Before she could spiral, Gus shifted gears. "Let's talk budget. The Indie Game Expo's less than a month away. Tight timeline for a polished game. We'll need to outsource some assets."

He looked at Zoey. "That means more funding."

Jackpot! Zoey thought. She wasn't good at much, but throwing money at a flop? Her specialty.

"No problem!" she said, channeling her inner tycoon. "How much? Five million?"

Gus nearly choked on his water. "Five million? For a pixel-art Roguelike? No way. We don't need epic cutscenes or ads. Maybe $130,000, tops."

"Too low," Zoey pouted. "Three hundred thousand."

"Not worth it," Gus countered. "One-fifty."

"Two hundred, and you'd better spend it all."

Zoey's word was final. Luke and Jake stared, dumbfounded. Reverse haggling? They'd seen bosses slash budgets, not inflate them.

"Alright," Gus said, chuckling. "Two hundred grand. We'll find some killer assets."

"Deal!" Zoey flashed a toothy grin, nodding like she'd won the lottery.

You're faking it well, she thought, eyeing Gus's notebook. Bet it's full of doodles by now.

The meeting wrapped, and the project launched. Zoey didn't bother checking Gus's notes. If she had, she'd have lost her smug glow.

No doodles. Just pages of Zoey's ideas, meshed with Gus's own tweaks, forming a blueprint for a game titled… something dangerous.

…

Post-meeting, Zoey was practically glowing. Two hundred thousand invested, two million in rebates next month! And it'd all go straight to her personal account.

WindyPeak was a subsidiary of her dad's "Parker Capital." As CEO, Zoey managed the show, but profits stayed in the company's coffers, overseen by the group. Per their rules, unlisted startups like WindyPeak, in their "growth phase" with "big capital plans," could only pay out 10% of profits as cash dividends.

So, a $200,000 game? Lose it all, and Zoey's system would drop $2 million in her pocket, clean and legal. To earn that same $2 million from profits, she'd need $22 million in sales—a pipe dream.

Zoey kicked her legs up on her desk, leaning back. "Salted fish life it is. Losing money's way easier than making it."