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

A golden light erupted amid the monster swarm on Jada's Twitch stream. A massive Holy Sword, towering three times her character's height, plunged from the sky, slicing through enemies with dazzling, colorful effects. It carved a rift in the bat-flooded screen, mowing down foes like wheat.

"Holy—!" Jada and SlickRick gasped in unison.

The sword danced, slashing left and right, reducing monsters to ash on contact. Jada nudged her joystick, and the Holy Sword followed, a loyal guardian shredding everything nearby. Gems rained, experience pings spiked her adrenaline, and her heartbeat raced.

Jada's jaw dropped. "If I wasn't born Jada, the art of swordplay would be lost forever!" she yelled, grinning. "Sword, let's roll!"

The blade obeyed, clearing paths with ruthless precision. Chat exploded:

"OHHHH!"

"Level 1 weapon? Busted!"

"This is god-tier!"

"Better than TikTok rug-cleaning vids."

"Harvest simulator, one swing at a time."

"It's the cross's final form!"

"How'd she get it? Gold chest?"

"Four hours, first gold chest. RNGesus."

"I'm downloading this now."

The Holy Sword was a dopamine bomb. Its visuals and power fused into an electronic high, igniting Jada, chat, and even SlickRick, who gaped at her stream. "How'd you craft that?!"

As a veteran gamer, he'd seen countless gear upgrades, but this was wild—no hints, no patterns, just pure chaos. "I'm researching this synthesis," he muttered. "That sword's too strong."

The night was a player carnival. Nearly 600 games, 400+ designers and studios, all vying for IndieVibe's "Supernova Designer" title and a 30-day homepage banner. It wasn't just clout—it was cash.

…

The next day, at Nebula Games' Seattle office, VP Derek Chen dialed Marcus Holt, IndieVibe's marketing director.

Marcus, pushing 50, was a platform veteran, steering marketing since its start. Five years ago, he'd climbed to director, wielding serious clout. Game studios groveled to him for promo slots. Derek, a fellow alum, called him "mentor" and kept the relationship greased with "tributes."

Profit ruled the game.

"Hey, mentor, it's Derek," he said, chuckling.

"Mr. Chen, got time to chat today?" Marcus replied, smirking. "What's up?"

"Come on, can't I just check in with my old mentor?" Derek teased.

Both laughed, but they knew the drill. No one called just to chat.

After pleasantries, Derek cut to it. "Mentor, this Indie Game Expo's blowing up."

"Yeah," Marcus said. "New CEO, Victor Lang, is shaking things up."

His tone hid disdain. Victor's reforms—transparent data, crackdowns on corruption—felt like posturing to Marcus. IndieVibe was a platform, not a revolution. Games were games; push the big dogs like Apex Interactive, who "borrowed" globally. Why fuss over "innovation"?

Victor's "clear platform, drive indie creativity" spiel was just a power grab, Marcus figured. But he kept that to himself, playing loyal.

"How's Nebula's Brothers' Quest doing?" he asked Derek.