Agreeing to Create Bad Games, What the Hell Is ‘Titanfall’? Chapter 13
It was close to noon when Chu Qingzhou finally returned to Golden Wind.
She had rushed back, hoping to attend the interview with Shen Miaomiao and check out what kind of so-called “Sleeping Dragon and Young Phoenix” Gu Sheng had recommended.
But to her surprise—
By the time she got to the company, the contracts had already been signed!
Chu Qingzhou massaged her forehead, quietly lamenting Shen Miaomiao’s impulsiveness.
But what was done was done. All she could do now was reluctantly accept it.
So she figured she might as well go meet the two newcomers.
After all, they'd be seeing each other often in the future—it would be polite to at least say hello.
With that in mind, Chu Qingzhou greeted Shen Miaomiao, then headed to Gu Sheng’s office.
"I'm your dad."
"How about you be my dad? That makes more sense."
"I don’t know about that—who’s your dad, exactly?"
"Are you the dad?"
"I'm the dad, right?"
"Or maybe just ‘Who’s the dad’?"
"Yeah, that’s a good one—whoever wins gets to be the dad. I like it..."
Standing outside the door, Chu Qingzhou froze on the spot!
What the h*ll were they talking about?!
Some kind of family drama?
Why were these people seriously debating who should be whose father?!
It sounded like a messed-up ranking ritual!
What was this—a live “Name Your Daddy” contest?
Were these people mentally stable?
Weren’t we hiring based on resumes?
Why did these three sound like they walked in with medical records instead?
For a moment—
Chu Qingzhou started to seriously question reality.
She even took two steps back and glanced at the nameplate beside the office door.
Game Director’s Office – Golden Wind.
Yep. This was the company—not a psych ward.
After a pause, Chu Qingzhou slowly lowered her hand. Listening to the trio’s brain-dead debate about “Who’s the dad,” her eyes were filled with helplessness… and maybe a touch of despair.
Forget it.
Better not interrupt this support group for mentally unstable co-workers.
What if they bite?
The company may be valuable, but life is priceless.
Chu Qingzhou nodded solemnly to herself.
Yeah… I better stay away from these people.
I don’t want to catch whatever they’ve got.
“…Let’s just call it Who’s Your Daddy then.”
Inside the office—
After a heated discussion, the trio finally settled on the name for their new game project: Who’s Your Daddy.
It perfectly matched the gameplay, and players who experienced it were guaranteed a good laugh.
“You’ll be handling the programming, Bian,” Gu Sheng said.
“Choose whichever engine you want—doesn’t have to be expensive. Actually, the simpler, the better.”
“Alright,” Lu Bian nodded, smacking his lips, “but why go with a simple one? Didn’t Little Nezha say she didn’t mind burning cash and that expensive is better?”
“That would make the game too high-quality, which isn’t good for the visual style,” Gu Sheng explained.
“You both saw the proposal—we’re aiming for something abstract.”
“If we use engines that are too powerful or have too much automation, the final product will look too polished, which clashes with the aesthetic.”
“…Got it,” Lu Bian nodded. He didn’t really understand why Gu Sheng wanted to downgrade the visual quality on purpose, but since the boss said so, he’d just follow orders.
“As for Dajiang,” Gu Sheng continued, “you’ll need to hold back as much as possible with your modeling. The dumber it looks, the better.”
“You’ve seen those memes online—‘Three years of animation school to make Titanic’ or ‘Three years of animation to make Frozen’? That kind of style.”
“Huh?” That was a tough ask for Dajiang.
Everyone knew—it’s way harder to make a talented singer sing off-key than to teach a tone-deaf person how to sing.
“Sheng-ge, if you want polished modeling, I’m your guy. But this…”
Dajiang looked genuinely conflicted. “I’ll… try my best to make it as crappy as possible…”
“If you can’t do it, go ask some of the deadweight in your major,” Gu Sheng waved him off.
“Ask them how they managed to score only 10 out of 100 on their final projects. Learn from failure.”
Then Gu Sheng remembered something else: “Oh right—Dajiang, don’t include collision detection.”
“No… collision detection?” Dajiang blinked.
“But if you don’t map hitboxes to the models, it’s super easy to get clipping issues in the game.”
“I want clipping issues,” Gu Sheng said, looking at them both.
“Model clipping, collision bugs, scale errors—any non-crashing bugs you can think of, I want them. Understand?”
Emmmmmmmm…
Lu Bian and Dajiang exchanged looks, shrugged, and said, “Not very ethical, but we get your point.”
“Good. Just get it done,” Gu Sheng waved again.
“I’ll take care of the boss.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear!”
At that, Lu Bian and Dajiang were thrilled.
If someone’s willing to take the fall, what’s there to be afraid of?
Let’s make this as awful as possible!
Full steam ahead!
Two weeks later!
7:00 p.m. on a Friday night.
Normally, Golden Wind didn’t allow overtime.
But tonight was different—it was the official completion date for the game.
As Game Director, Gu Sheng had to lead his team in giving a final report and demo presentation to President Little Nezha.
If everything went smoothly, they’d be scheduling the launch date.
As the presenters, Gu Sheng and his two “dumb bros” arrived at the meeting room first.
“Sheng-ge… you really think this trash fire of a game will work?”
Staring at the pitiful “art plan” in front of them, as thin as a cicada’s wing, Xu Dajiang looked deeply worried.
“I’m not optimistic,” Lu Bian chimed in while fiddling with the projector.
“Other people’s games try to avoid bugs. Ours? Even if there are none, we make some.”
“You guys know nothing,” Gu Sheng rolled his eyes.
“That’s what’s called a feature. Ever heard of it? Seriously… sparrows like you can’t understand a swan’s ambitions!”
“F***, bro, can you stop butchering idioms?” Lu Bian was stunned as he finished setting up the projector.
“Our game’s barely an egg—where the hell do you see a swan?”
Just then!
The door to the meeting room opened, and in walked Little Nezha, with Executive Assistant Chu Qingzhou following behind.
Little Nezha looked pretty hyped.
After all, she’d seen Gu Sheng’s proposal—which could easily be called the pinnacle of postmodern abstraction.
Shen Miaomiao was dying to see just how awful his new project turned out to be.
After exchanging greetings, Gu Sheng stepped to the projector and looked toward Little Nezha.
“Shen President, shall I begin?”
“Go ahead, Director Gu,” Shen Miaomiao nodded, motioning for him to start.
“Alright, let’s get straight to it,” Gu Sheng began.
“This project is officially titled Who’s Your Daddy. Development time: 18 days. Investment cost: approximately 100,000 yuan.”
“Of that, around 28,000 yuan went to personnel salaries, 25,000 yuan for engine costs, and another 50,000 for sound, UI, and art assets.”
“Game price is set at 5 yuan. Genre: role-playing puzzle game. Tentative release time: 8 p.m. tomorrow…”