Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Cheon Wooil glanced briefly at Seongcheol. He heard this was a small development company, but the quality was unexpectedly high. He figured either their capabilities were exceptional, or they heavily referenced something else.
To put it nicely, he called it “reference material,” but what he was really considering was the possibility that it had been copied from somewhere.
[Start Game]
But the moment he selected Start and entered the actual game screen, that suspicion quickly vanished.
It feels somewhat similar to Legend of the Hero, but...
Legend of the Hero was the first JRPG released in this world back in 1987. But it launched on an 8-bit console and only supported sixteen colors. So while this game gave off a somewhat similar feeling, the graphics were far more advanced.
“The graphics are really impressive.”
In negotiations, it was usually best not to say things that benefited the other side unnecessarily. But when something was this obvious, honestly praising it often helped smooth the process.
Once Cheon Wooil saw the field graphics, the character art, and the freely moving characters, his thoughts already shifted toward signing a contract.
Now it was simply a matter of determining how much treatment they deserved.
As he moved around, he encountered a monster and entered battle. The screen transition itself was familiar. But the battle screen felt quite unfamiliar.
It seems turn-based at least?
There were around twelve terrain tiles similar to those on the field, and the monsters stood on the opposite side.
Grid-based? No... they aren’t moving.
Because it was unfamiliar, he fumbled around briefly at first. But since the system was simple and intuitive, Cheon Wooil quickly figured out how combat worked. And because he was knowledgeable about games, he immediately recognized the strategic differences created by positioning.
It was quite a deep system. More than anything, the character movements and effects displayed during combat were remarkably flashy.
This is genuinely good.
But even that was only a tiny portion of the game. As he rescued companions and events and quests began unfolding, the world increasingly felt alive, and Cheon Wooil realized he was slowly being drawn deeper into it.
“...This is a very well-made game.”
He tried to judge it as coldly as possible, but this was a game he simply had to acknowledge. Honestly, if the situation were different, he would have wanted to continue playing it right then and there.
“Ah! Thank you!”
Seongcheol could not hide his smile after hearing praise for his son’s game. Ironically, if he himself actually made it, he probably could have maintained his composure much more easily.
“We’d like to acquire this game for our company. However...”
“No. We have no intention of signing a full buyout contract.”
Cheon Wooil cautiously tested the waters, but after hearing Seongcheol’s firm response, he instead nodded with an expression that almost looked relieved. In his opinion as well, there was no way a game with this much effort put into quality would be sold off cheaply.
“Then I assume you want a publishing contract.”
“Yes.”
In truth, much of this had already been discussed beforehand through Mijin. But both men were adults and professionals, so neither bothered pointing that out.
Afterward, Seongcheol and Cheon Wooil spent a long time locked in a tug-of-war over contract conditions.
“I admit this game is well made, but it’s still your company’s first product. You have no reputation or proven track record. On top of that, 386 adoption rates are still not very high, so it’s difficult to expect massive sales.”
It sounded convincing. But Seongcheol researched extensively for this negotiation and prepared his own arguments.
“You work in the industry, so you know computer adoption is steadily increasing. And hardware performance is improving rapidly as well. Which means demand for software that matches those improved specifications will also grow. Securing a game like this will be a major advantage for your company.”
“Hmm.”
So he really is from Hankuk University.
Strictly speaking, Seongcheol’s argument was still only a prediction. But attacking that point would essentially mean downplaying the game’s future potential itself, and since the other side’s attitude already seemed firm, pushing too hard risked collapsing negotiations altogether.
If Cheon Wooil thought losing the deal was acceptable, he could have pressed harder. But in truth, he himself agreed with much of Seongcheol’s argument.
And I have to consider Mijin’s position too.
Though Cheon Wooil outranked Mijin, unless he intended to completely destroy their relationship, he could not simply steamroll her. Besides, Mijin herself was someone receiving considerable attention from upper management.
After much thought, he finally decided to step back.
In the end, the contract was settled at 62:38.
“Excellent.”
Maintaining his poker face, Seongcheol shook Cheon Wooil’s hand. But internally, he was extremely satisfied.
From a twenty-first-century perspective, people might think Insu’s side receiving only thirty-eight percent was too small a share.
But in this era, even 2:8 contracts were common.
And of course, the “2” belonged to the development company.
That was only natural. In this era, games were physical products. Manufacturing disks and packaging cost a great deal of money, and there were also physical distribution costs, so developers naturally received a smaller share.
By comparison, a 6:4 split was usually only possible for mid-sized developers producing games with fairly high quality.
The reason they managed to secure such a favorable contract was partly because the game itself was exceptional, but connections also played a huge role. Another factor was that development was already complete.
That evening, when Insu heard the news, he unconsciously threw his arms around his father.
“Whoa!”
Insu remembered his previous life, where developers taking seventy percent through mobile platforms or Steam was sometimes still considered unfair. But because he was always deeply interested in games, he also knew how much distributors used to take in the past.
So he mentally prepared himself for the worst-case scenario of a share somewhere in the twenties.
Hearing they actually secured thirty-eight percent naturally made him overjoyed.
His respect for his father surged all over again.
As expected of a major corporation employee!
Negotiations like this were just as important as development ability itself. No matter how good a game was, if it failed to sell properly, there would be no driving force left to continue developing future games.
No matter how grand Insu’s vision was, he could not realize it without money.
“Here’s the contract.”
Insu carefully examined the multi-page contract. He already discussed things with Dad beforehand, but he still wanted to personally check whether there were any toxic clauses hidden inside.
Fortunately, it was simply a publishing contract with a modest marketing arrangement attached, leaving no room for dangerous issues like restrictions on the IP. Distribution rights were also limited to domestic release only, with a term of five years.
Honestly, since this was Insu’s first time dealing with something like this, it was difficult for him to judge perfectly. Even so, this really was an excellent contract.
“So the game releases in four months?”
“That’s right. They still need to manufacture the packages, distribute them to stores, and handle marketing, so a few months are unavoidable.”
“Yes.”
Insu answered, though he already roughly understood those circumstances himself. What he really wanted to point out was the fact that the release timing was explicitly written into the contract.
That was more important than it sounded.
Without clauses like that, distributors could endlessly delay release dates. Some might wonder why they would do that when it prevented them from earning money as well.
But in reality, things like that happened fairly often. Internal distributor problems, such as lack of funding or manpower shortages, could delay schedules. Or sometimes the game’s subject matter might suddenly overlap with current social issues.
Not about games, but he remembered an old case where an animation’s broadcast was delayed for a very long time because a famous politician was assassinated and the story happened to contain similar themes.
Situations like that could severely damage development companies. They needed game sales to pay employee salaries and repay loans or investment dividends, but those cash flows could suddenly freeze.
Of course, Insu had not accepted outside investment and had no employees to pay yet, so he was relatively free from those immediate financial pressures. But his long-term plans could still be disrupted.
He could lose the chance to pioneer the 386 gaming market and establish a new turning point for RPGs. Worse, his entire vision of continuing with sequels, increasing company recognition and scale, and securing an advantageous position before the MMORPG era could collapse completely.
Still, the contract itself had been successful, so now all that remained was waiting.
“Four months? So in four months, it’ll really become an actual product sold in stores?”
After hearing about the publishing contract, Eunha traced the shape of a package box in the air with her fingers. She still looked unable to fully process it.
“Yeah. See? It’s written right here. A company called Hyun Soft is going to make a really nice package and sell it nationwide.”
“Hyun Soft? I feel like I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”
Honestly, unless someone was interested in computers, Hyun Soft was not an easy company to recognize. More likely, she was confusing it with the large conglomerate named Hyundai that existed in this world too, though it differed somewhat from the one in Insu’s previous life.
Instead of correcting her, Insu decided this was a good opportunity to talk about profit distribution.
“Noona.”
“Hm? What is it?”
When Insu called her in a serious voice, Eunha immediately met his gaze directly.
“Once the game starts selling, money’s going to come in, right?”
“Yeah. That’s right! My share’s in there too!”
At least she had not completely forgotten. Then again, after working this hard, even someone her age could not help thinking about compensation.
“Yeah. That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
Since Insu dreamed of becoming a game developer in his previous life, he roughly understood how profit distribution worked in partnerships.
“There’s no exact fixed rule for how profits are divided, but there are generally accepted ratios people follow.”
“Mhm.”
“Based on that, and also considering that you’re basically a founding member of our company, I decided on twelve percent.”
Graphic designers usually received around ten to twenty percent. But that was generally when they participated deeply in planning, concepts, UI design, and handled virtually every graphical aspect of the game.
(Translator’s Notes: UI (User Interface) — The visual layout and controls through which users interact with software or games.)
Eunha’s role in completing the game certainly was not small.
Still, most of the planning and conceptual work was done by Insu, with Eunha mainly drawing what he instructed her to. And Insu himself also participated in certain graphical aspects such as UI and effects. Taking all that into account, it was difficult to justify giving more than ten percent.
If he really wanted to undervalue her contribution, he could probably push it down to eight percent, or even below five.
But regardless of their emotional bond, he could not afford to lose someone as talented as her, so he intentionally attached the title of “founding member” and gave her a comparatively generous evaluation.
“Mhm. Sounds good.”
But contrary to Insu’s worries, Eunha accepted it surprisingly easily.
Insu looked slightly stunned, but Eunha was actually capable of fairly objective judgment.
In her opinion, this game would never even have begun without a genius like Insu. She had already accepted from the start that his share naturally had to be much larger.
And compared to his programming work, which she could barely even comprehend, her own role of drawing felt much easier to grasp. Besides, Insu was not completely incapable of doing art himself.
Meanwhile, the sheer volume of code Insu showed her was enough to make her dizzy.
Because of that, Eunha already believed her contribution amounted to around one-tenth at most.
If she were older and more shameless, she might have demanded more. But since she was still young, the moment she judged the arrangement fair enough, she simply accepted it.
“...Then later, I’ll send you an actual contract for it.”
“A contract?”
“Yeah. If we don’t properly formalize this kind of thing, it’ll cause more trouble for me and Dad later.”
“Okay.”
But that was not the end of what Insu wanted to discuss with Eunha.
“Noona. Honestly, I think you were a huge help in making this game.”
“Really?”
Eunha tried to act calm, but she could not completely hide the slight upward curl at the corners of her lips. Embarrassed by that reaction herself, she quickly asked again.