Agreeing to Create Bad Games, What the Hell Is ‘Titanfall’? Chapter 9
“That’s f**king ridiculous!”
Shen Miaomiao practically screamed in her heart.
If Cat Mario was already a mess when she first saw it, then Gu Sheng’s new project was straight-up bullsh*t.
At least Cat Mario was a derivative of Mario. Whether the game was good or not was one thing, but at a glance, anyone could tell what kind of game it was, how it played, and what the objective was.
But this new project?
Shen Miaomiao couldn’t even begin to picture what kind of game it was based on Gu Sheng’s description.
A brat constantly looking for ways to get himself killed, and a desperate dad trying to stop him?
Where the hell was the gameplay in that?
Shen Miaomiao couldn’t wrap her head around it. She even started to worry about Gu Sheng’s mental state.
One thing was clear: this kind of bizarre game had zero selling points.
Gu Sheng had already picked a super niche track, and now with this weird-ass gameplay mechanic on top, losing money seemed inevitable.
And with that thought, Shen Miaomiao suddenly felt delighted.
Who cares what kind of game it is? The more outrageous it was, the better it played into her hands!
This time, she’d make up for all the rebate she missed out on with Cat Mario!
And make him pay it back—hard!
So she nodded and said,
“Great. I like this idea. (Even though I didn’t understand a word of it.)”
“Then Director Gu, go ahead and start the project. If you need anything, just ask—especially when it comes to investment. The company will fully support you and meet any needs!”
What a great boss!
Hearing that, Gu Sheng gave a mental thumbs-up.
It wasn’t hard to tell from Little Nezha’s expression that she had absolutely no clue what this game was about. She looked completely lost.
But still!
She chose to trust him—just like how you trust your math teacher’s answer in class. Doesn’t matter if you understand or not, just keep nodding along and saying “Right, right, right.”
With a boss like this, what more could he ask for?
Gu Sheng silently vowed in his heart that he would turn this company into something truly presentable. He couldn’t let Little Nezha down after she placed so much trust in him!
Thinking that, Gu Sheng nodded seriously:
“Thank you for trusting me, Boss. Since we’re on the topic, I do have a small request.”
“Sure, go ahead. If it’s doable, the company will back you up 100%.”
Shen Miaomiao nodded, signaling him to speak freely.
Gu Sheng scratched his head with a sheepish smile:
“So, this project is going to be way bigger than Cat Mario. I was thinking maybe we could expand the team a bit.”
“A proper game team, besides having a producer—which would be me—”
“We’d also need a lead developer to handle the engine and operations, and a lead artist for scene UI and character modeling. Some future content might involve trade secrets, so it’s not ideal to outsource everything.”
Actually, he left out one role here: the lead designer.
The lead designer usually handles gameplay mechanics, level design, and narrative structure.
But thanks to the system, the games Gu Sheng redeemed were almost like semi-finished products, already equipped with core gameplay and story elements. So he naturally took on the role of lead designer too. It was a way to save the company money, and more importantly, it ensured the game stayed true to its original essence.
After all, with Gu Sheng acting as both producer and lead designer, he held full control over the game’s foundation—he was the true soul of the project.
Upon hearing his suggestion, Shen Miaomiao nodded enthusiastically.
Great! Awesome!
Our dear Director is growing up—finally willing to spend money for the company!
Without hesitation, she raised her tiny hand:
“Director Gu’s proposal is excellent! Here’s what we’ll do.”
Then she turned to Chu Qingzhou:
“Secretary Chu, start hiring based on Director Gu’s needs. Look for experienced, highly capable candidates. Salary’s not an issue—the more expensive, the better!”
Here’s the thing:
According to the system’s rules, the project lead’s salary—as the person executing the investment—doesn’t count toward the total investment amount. But all other personnel costs do count as investments!
In other words, the more expensive the people under Gu Sheng were…
The higher the total investment!
The harder it would be to recoup the principal!
And the more rebate she would get!
Of course, recruitment had to follow market norms. You couldn’t just hire a dog and pay it a million a year—that’d be cheating.
That’s why Shen Miaomiao told Chu Qingzhou to find top-tier talent—to drive up investment legitimately.
But before Chu Qingzhou could respond, Gu Sheng cut in:
“Uh… What I meant was… maybe we don’t need to go that far?”
Hearing that, both Shen Miaomiao and Chu Qingzhou froze.
“What do you mean?” Shen Miaomiao tilted her head, not quite following.
Gu Sheng chuckled:
“I mean, instead of hiring those so-called seasoned pros who’ve job-hopped a dozen times…”
“Why don’t we build a core team of our own?”
A core team?
The two across the table exchanged a glance.
Chu Qingzhou asked, “Director Gu, are you suggesting we hire fresh grads?”
“Exactly.”
Gu Sheng nodded:
“Rather than chasing after ‘industry elites,’ I’d rather train up a brand-new team.”
His reasoning was actually quite solid.
Where were they right now?
A parallel world.
More specifically, a world where creative game concepts were scarce, and game genres were completely formulaic.
But game development is an art form rooted in creativity.
And in this world, those so-called “elites” were nothing more than cogs in a machine, stuck in a rut of rigid thinking.
They saw Crossfire Ops succeed, and assumed all shooters needed a center-locked crosshair, 100 HP, and bomb defusal missions.
They saw Ultimate Racer succeed, and assumed all racing games had to be flashy, tricked-out speedsters chasing peak performance.
But they didn’t realize—
You could have realistic iron-sight aiming in shooters, health regen that actually sped up the pace, and game objectives that didn’t involve the same old bomb.
Racing games didn’t need to be about speed alone. You could drive a heavy-duty truck instead. The scenery that racers ignored could offer players moments of peace and beauty.
Gu Sheng had many games he wanted to create.
He hoped to build a team that could open their minds, embrace the concept of gaming as the ninth art form, and stop fixating on “Is this game profitable?”, “Is this game mainstream?”, or “Is there a market for this game?”
Yes, games could be dull—they were, at their core, just strings of zeroes and ones, flavorless lines of code.
But they could also be beautiful—within those infinite 0s and 1s were sunsets over the Alps, the grandeur of Norse mythology, the thrill of becoming a hero, and reflections on human nature hidden behind layers of fog.
That was the kind of game Gu Sheng loved.
“So I’d like to apply for a trial period for two of my friends. Like me, they still hold deep creative passion for the game industry.”