Agreeing to Create Bad Games, What the Hell Is ‘Titanfall’? Chapter 109

The project proposal was finalized.

Every department in the company began operating at full speed.

When it came to budgeting, Gu Sheng had been thoroughly spoiled by Shen Miaomiao—his go-to phrase now was “the more, the better.”

You know how it goes: it’s hard to learn good habits, but easy to fall into bad ones.

From being shocked by Shen Miaomiao’s wild spending and the crazy budget increases…

To eventually getting used to the soaring budget line…

And now, not even waiting for the boss to speak—he would just reach out and ask for more money, endlessly hungry for it.

Didn’t understand rich folks → Started understanding rich folks → Became a rich folk.

This three-step evolution, which seemed like it should take ages, only took Gu Sheng a year and a half.

Not because she feared the company might go broke—

But because it seemed like she just couldn’t keep up with his budget demands anymore.

Still, this situation wouldn’t last too long.

Once TTF officially tanked, she’d be flush with cash again.

Then, she could return to her former glory as a rich queen—waving around eight- and nine-figure sums like it was nothing.

And for that glorious goal, in this round of funding, Shen Miaomiao fully supported Gu Sheng.

She matched him, indulged him, and worked hard to squeeze Golden Wind dry.

Luckily, the PUBG project was still riding high—super popular nationwide with stable, impressive revenue.

In the end, the project’s finalized budget even exceeded the initial estimate.

A full 170 million yuan, with a planned price of 198 yuan per copy and a projected development cycle of five to six months.

On the official project launch day, Shen Miaomiao hugged her trusty Fifty with glee for a long time.

“Fifty, oh Fifty—we’re gonna make a fortune this time…”

She couldn’t stop smiling.

“A budget of 170 million, even if Old Gu only brings back 100 million,”

“That’s still a loss of 70 million,”

“70 million times 10 is 700 million…”

“Tsk tsk...”

Thinking of this made her heart bloom with joy.

Once upon a time, she used to sob and freak out over losing a measly ten million from her personal stash.

Now?

Just a month or so later, her financial vision had grown by seventy times, eyeing a project that could potentially net her seven hundred million in kickbacks.

Truly!

A blessing in disguise!

Sure, PUBG had made money.

But it had also laid a solid financial foundation…

So she could now lose even more!

“Trust me!”

After basking in her fantasy for a bit, Shen Miaomiao gently placed her Fifty back on the desk and gave it a pat.

“This time, we’re gonna win!”

Beginning of Winter.

Auspicious for travel, marriage, job changes, and ground-breaking ceremonies.

With the funds in place, the Titanfall project officially began.

But the first step wasn’t running a script.

It wasn’t sketching, modeling, or even making a new folder.

It was—

“President Ou’s replaced all the floor’s security cams with facial recognition now,”

In the project office, everyone surrounded Gu Sheng, deeply worried:

“How are we supposed to work overtime now?”

Actually!

This time around, the schedule wasn’t too tight.

Unlike with PUBG, they didn’t need to burn themselves out working late every night.

But the thing is—when it comes to work, especially doing something you love, you can’t always punch out at exactly 5 PM.

Facial recognition cameras don’t care, though.

If they catch you in the office anytime between 5 PM and 9 AM—even if you leave one minute late—

It gets flagged as overtime.

And if that happens—

No more snack coins.

And everyone knew!

Snack coins were now the main currency within Golden Wind!

They weren’t just used at the claw machine.

You could use them to bribe someone to bring milk tea, bum a cigarette, or even trade fruit after meals.

Yep.

Shen Miaomiao’s bonkers anti-overtime policy had worked a little too well—

Now, nobody could live without snack coins.

But they also couldn’t guarantee never staying even one minute late.

So the first real challenge the Titanfall dev team had to solve was:

How do we work overtime and keep our snack coins?

Ideas flew.

Someone suggested hacking the cameras.

Another proposed pulling the plugs.

Someone inspired by a movie wanted to stick photos in front of the lenses.

Eventually!

After heated discussion—

Everyone agreed the best idea was from their beloved director:

Tilt the cameras up.

High-end hacking techniques…

Often come in the simplest form.

And just like that—

The team’s biggest concern was solved.

Work resumed smoothly.

The old “Favor Exchange Squad” chat was revived.

Shen Miaomiao’s Porsche started appearing in the group again.

The project kicked into high gear.

And this time, everyone was working even harder than they did on PUBG.

Gu Sheng also moved out of his office once again, choosing to hang out with the devs full time.

“…Ah, this is what I like to see.”

Gu Sheng lounged with one leg crossed, cigarette dangling from his mouth, nodding as he reviewed the level design concept art sent from the art team.

On the screen—

Towering mountains loomed under a crimson sunset.

Amidst the peaks stood a series of massive signal towers.

Their weathered metallic sheen glowed in the light, radiating a heavy, cold steel presence.

Cables and wires stretched between the towers.

Together with the mist and mountains, the scene was both surreal and breathtaking.

[My analysis indicates that throwing is the only option.]

BT’s cold, dependable voice echoed in Gu Sheng’s mind.

Once this game’s done, I’ll finally get to experience what it’s like being tossed like a ragdoll.

Thinking that, he smiled and gave Da Jiang a big thumbs up.

“No wonder you’re our art director. Precision, speed—f**king awesome.”

“Uh…”

Da Jiang scratched his head awkwardly:

“Well… actually, gotta give credit to Junior Jiang…”

“Hey—”

Gu Sheng quickly raised his hand to stop him:

“Don’t you ‘our’ me. She never even called me ‘senior’ or anything. I’m not her idol either—don’t drag me down with you.”

The second he said that—

Da Jiang’s face turned beet red.

“N-no, I didn’t mean—”

But before he could finish—

Footsteps approached.

Jiang Shan walked over with a spring in her step, nodded politely to Gu Sheng,

“Director Gu,”

Then turned sweetly to Da Jiang,

“Um… senior, I’ve got a question I don’t quite understand. Do you have a minute?”

Goosebumps instantly prickled up Gu Sheng’s arms.

Without hesitation, he kicked Da Jiang’s chair and sent him sliding away.

“Hey?! Hey, hey?!”

Da Jiang cried out as he rolled off across the room.

Gu Sheng waved with a smile.

Get lost. You two go flirt somewhere else.

Just after kicking Da Jiang away, Lu Bian rolled up.

“Old Gu, won’t take much of your time. Two questions.”

“Go.”

“First—this ‘Cause and Effect’ level? F**king genius. Had to praise it.”

“And?”

“Second—I’ve been working with Kailang’s mom for two hours and we still can’t figure out how to make seamless transitions.”

Gu Sheng immediately knew what he was referring to.

The level where the protagonist gains a new time-traveling gadget midway through the game.

This level was all about clever switching between timelines in the same space—

To dodge battles and solve puzzles.

Super creative.

But of course—

Every game has to go through a loading phase when switching maps. It’s unavoidable.

And this level would require frequent scene switching.

That meant increased rendering load, worse image quality, maybe even screen tearing.

Lu Bian knew—

If they wanted the level to look amazing, the transitions had to be flawless.

“YiYou x2’s performance still isn’t strong enough. We can’t hit frame-skipping render speeds,”

Lu Bian explained.

“So frequent map switching will cause lag. Best we can do is prevent screen tearing.”

“Got any bright ideas?”

Gu Sheng thought for a moment.

“Scene switching causes render delay, right? So… what if we don’t switch scenes?”

“…Huh?”

Lu Bian froze.

“Bro, do you hear yourself?”

This level’s entire concept is about jumping between two maps.

You’re saying—don’t switch maps?

How the hell are we supposed to do that?

What, actually send the player through time for real?

If we had that tech, why the hell are we making games?

Seeing Lu Bian not catching on, Gu Sheng pulled out a cigarette, shoved it into Lu Bian’s mouth, and lit it for him.

“Think—how did we handle the camera problem?”

The cameras?

Lu Bian blinked.

They just tilted them upward, right?

So facial recognition wouldn’t catch them?

Wait a minute…!

“…Holy sh*t!”

Lu Bian suddenly got it.

“Z-axis?!”

Gu Sheng shrugged.

“High-end optimization always looks simple.”

“Holy fk! Fk yeah!”

Lu Bian was floored!

He totally got it—

Instead of switching between two separate maps, they’d merge the maps into one.

Put “Past” and “Present” on different vertical layers—like a two-story building.

Then, switch the player’s Z-axis perspective to simulate time travel.

So when the player enters the building, both “floors” are already loaded.

Now, when the player hits the time-travel button—

POW!

They’re instantly flung to the upper layer.

Hit it again—

POW!

Back to the lower layer.

To the player, it looks like seamless time travel.

But behind the scenes, they’re just bouncing up and down one big map.

No lag, no load time, no tearing.

“Fk yeah, fk yeah, f**k yeah…”

Lu Bian rolled away, utterly convinced.

But barely half a minute after he left—

Jiang Yun rolled over:

“Director Gu, I think we could tweak this part a bit…”

“Sheng-ge…”

Whoosh—

“Boss…”

Whoosh—

“Take a look here…”

The swivel chairs slid back and forth across the dev room.

The entire department looked like a giant curling match—

Everyone gliding around like paralyzed hockey pucks.

And in all that movement—

Project progress skyrocketed.

On one end, Titanfall was well underway.

On the other, media and players alike were buzzing with curiosity about Golden Wind’s new project, “TTF.”

Yes—this time, Gu Sheng didn’t lock things down completely.

He just had the employees sign a confidentiality agreement on technical details.

Because he really needed this project to stay hot.

He wanted organic hype. Free marketing.

After all, 170 million wasn’t exactly flush for this kind of game.

The money was only enough for core development.

There was basically no marketing budget.

So he couldn’t keep everything under wraps.

He needed the “mecha game” angle to stir the pot—

Get media and players talking.

And it worked.

Since the project’s announcement, speculative articles poured in nonstop—

《Insiders Reveal: Golden Wind’s Next Big Title—A Mecha Game?!》

《Bold Innovation or Desperate Gamble?》

《Famous Reviewer Declares: “Worst Genre Choice in History”》

《Silent Protest? Is Golden Wind Taking a Shot at YiYou with This Topic?》

《Fall or Rise? A Rational Look at Golden Wind’s Genre Shift》

One after another—articles flooded the web.

Most were pessimistic.

Because in today’s market, mecha games were in a very awkward position.

Even the few neutral voices only held back criticism because of Gu Sheng and Golden Wind’s past record.

“There’s literally no one defending this genre…”

In her office, Shen Miaomiao scrolled through headline after headline, her smile growing wider.

She skimmed the comment section—

‘This genre is nuts. Did Sheng-ge lose his mind?’

‘This isn’t just abstract—it’s performance art.’

‘Looks like he gave up. Normal to bail when you’re up against the Big 3 FPS devs.’

‘You always manage to surprise me. (Yunfei face)’

‘Don’t be so pessimistic—no one believed in horror games either, then Phasmophobia blew up.’

‘You can’t compare mecha to horror! Even if you hate horror, don’t insult it like that!’

‘Hahahahahaha…’

‘True, horror games had a golden age—Midnight 12, Sin, Haunted Mansion. People just got tired of being scared.’

‘But mecha? Never had a decent hit to begin with…’

‘This is pure wishful thinking.’

‘Balancing is a nightmare. Once the thrill’s gone, it’s straight into burnout mode.’

‘If Golden Wind isn’t trolling, they must be doing science research.’

‘No lie…’

A genius. We struck gold!

Shen Miaomiao’s grin turned dazzling. Her big, bright eyes sparkled like gold coins.

Gu Sheng didn’t lie to her.

The project team didn’t lie to her.

This game genre—was the ultimate abandoned child.

A sure failure.

Which meant…

“I can finally sleep easy! Hahahahahaha!”

Meanwhile—

In Shenzhou, in XunTeng Technology’s vice president’s office—

Ding Kai sat across from CEO Chen Guangde, laughing and showing his phone.

“A mecha game. Seriously—tsk tsk tsk.”

Ding Kai shook his head in mock pity:

“Golden Wind’s really grasping at straws now.”

“Guess all that unconventional success got to their heads—they think they can pull off this genre too?”

“No idea if they’re overconfident… or just plain desperate.”

Across the table, Chen Guangde smiled faintly.

Not as arrogant as Ding Kai, but still wore the smug face of someone who thought the game was already won.

They were veterans in this industry.

They knew the winds better than anyone.

And mecha games?

Never even had a golden age.

Let alone a comeback.

Raising hype from this genre was a pipe dream.

Besides—

Golden Wind’s budget didn’t even reach 200 million.

Going 1v3 was already mission impossible. Now they even handicapped themselves?

“Looks like YiYou really arranged a Tian Ji horse race, and Golden Wind’s just decided to YOLO it…”

Chen Guangde chuckled and shook his head.

“Sigh…”

Ding Kai sighed dramatically:

“It’s a shame. I really wanted to get revenge—rub Golden Wind’s face in the dirt. But now…”

“Have some tea, have some tea.”

Chen Guangde cut him off and passed him a small cup.

“No need to dwell on regrets. Focus on the present.”

He kept a smile on his face—but his heart was full of side-eyes.

Bruh, shut the f**k up already.

Last time we got crushed like a watermelon with a tenth of the budget, and you’re here acting all high and mighty again?

You were the one Golden Wind’s FPS sequel beat into the ground!

How’d you forget that ass-whooping so fast?

This time, they had a real shot because Golden Wind’s scale was limited. Budget was tight.

And because they had a 3v1 advantage.

If they still couldn’t win this…

He’d drop everything and go poach Gu Sheng himself.

Revenge, my a**…

Just drink your f**king tea.

Silently roasting him, Chen Guangde took a sip.

The weather was getting colder, and a cup of hot tea really hit the spot.

He set down his cup and flipped open the calendar, nodding slowly.

Once the new year passed—

The battle would begin.