The Early Release of Hyeolmaeng
The news hit like a thunderclap. “So they’re releasing an online RPG called Hyeolmaeng on May 31st?” Yoo Jae-won asked again, needing to hear it twice.
“It would be difficult to call it a full official launch, sir. They appear to be holding an event they call an open beta—distributing the game for free during a set period.” An Jong-cheol answered stiffly, clearly uncomfortable with the gaming-industry jargon.
“Ah, I understand now.” The report meant the open beta—a pre-release test phase—would begin on May 31st. Yet in terms of development progress, reaching open beta essentially signaled that the game was nearly complete.
“How exactly did you obtain this information?” Yoo Jae-won set aside his thoughts on Kim Taek-jun and the game itself for a moment; how the intelligence had been gathered was equally important.
“It wasn’t difficult, sir. The former team leader’s meetings with various game distributors were hardly a secret.” At An Jong-cheol’s crisp reply, Yoo Jae-won nodded. The picture of Kim Taek-jun’s recent movements had finally come into focus. If the man had already begun sales pitches, the project had clearly reached the final stage.
The realization left Yoo Jae-won with a tangle of complicated emotions. Part of him wondered whether he had run the company too loosely, allowing an employee to develop a game on company time. At the same time, he was now truly feeling the weight of the technological acceleration he had triggered—not only in hardware, but across every layer of society. The aftershocks were far greater than he had anticipated.
His previous timeline had been a precise schedule of every major and minor event he had witnessed before his death. Among those entries was the monumental Korean release date of Hyeolmaeng. The original launch had taken place in 1998—four years from now. This version was arriving four years ahead of schedule.
“Did I unconsciously drop some kind of hint?” No matter how he searched his memory, he could find nothing. He rarely spoke at length when others were present; even alone, he was careful. His habit of cutting straight to the point had been a deliberate choice to minimize any future knowledge that might slip out unconsciously during long conversations.
Still, when he thought about it, he had introduced internet-enabled multiplayer with Doom. Anyone who had enjoyed those sessions could easily have drawn the conclusion that large-scale online games were possible. The hint had been there.
What concerned him next was quality. The original Hyeolmaeng in his memory had used 2D graphics that already felt dated for its time. Even 2D required a certain finesse, yet the game’s resolution had been so low that individual pixels were plainly visible.
“Then this version will almost certainly be even lower in quality.” It was being developed far faster than before, pieced together during spare moments at the office, and created without the help of Song Jae-kyung. A drop in quality seemed inevitable.
Nevertheless, the fact that they had signed with Dongseo Game Channel—the largest distributor in Korea—meant the title had cleared a certain threshold. If Dongseo had chosen it, the game possessed at least baseline commercial viability. Since an open beta was imminent, Yoo Jae-won could evaluate it himself soon enough. He would also watch whether Kim Taek-jun honored their agreement and used the ID Cloud Service for Hyeolmaeng’s servers.
Yet an even larger issue loomed: Ultima Online.
“This puts Ultima Online in a difficult position.” One of the game’s proudest claims was that it was the world’s first commercial online title. Of course, the question of “first” had always been hotly debated, so the claim remained debatable. Text-based MUD games had thrived during the PC-communication era, and graphical online games such as The Kingdom of the Winds and Meridian 59 had already existed. Still, it was Ultima Online that had properly established the MMORPG genre.
If Hyeolmaeng launched early, that historic milestone would be lost.
“That said, I doubt Hyeolmaeng will surpass Ultima in overall completeness.” Even if, by some miracle, the new version proved superior to the one he remembered, Yoo Jae-won was certain it could not overtake Ultima Online. What he refused to allow, however, was arrogant complacency—watching rivals chip away at his advantages until everything collapsed. When the environment changed, the correct response was to adapt immediately.
Since Hyeolmaeng had moved, Ultima Online needed to move faster.
“Still, we’re not ready to enter open beta at the same time.” Not long ago Yoo Jae-won had visited Origin Systems, met with Richard Garriott, played the game, and offered feedback. Having experienced it firsthand, he knew Ultima Online still lacked the polish required for open beta.
In time the industry would normalize releasing unfinished products and completing them through paid expansions and DLC. Yoo Jae-won, however, had no intention of ever operating that way. He still remembered exactly how much money he had poured into such games as a player—and how viciously he had cursed every random box. Those memories remained vivid; he would not repeat the mistakes of the past.
“Ah!”
A single sparkling idea surfaced while he considered countermeasures. It wasn’t impossible. The solution might be slightly underhanded, but it was perfectly suited to the current situation. It could not be executed unilaterally, however. Prior coordination with Origin Systems would be necessary.
Knock, knock.
“Chairman, it is ten minutes before two o’clock.”
Kim Dae-seok’s voice came from outside the door just as Yoo Jae-won was savoring his “eureka” moment.
“Right! I’m coming out now.”
Only then did he remember his appointment with James. Yoo Jae-won snatched up his laptop bag and left the room at once.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, the large conference room reserved exclusively for the Alpha Team was packed. It had been a long time since all fifty-plus developers had gathered in one place.
Dress was relaxed. Some wore jeans and blue jackets in coordinated denim, others lounged in shorts and oversized tees, and a few—like James—had chosen safe slacks and button-down shirts. Conversation flowed freely: yesterday’s sports scores, the games everyone had played deep into the night, and the latest news from the North-South summit. The only person who could not join the easy chatter was James.
It was already past two, yet Yoo Jae-won had not appeared. James, who normally worked in quiet diligence without uttering a word, had sent a team-wide message through ID Talk for the first time. Now that the appointed hour had arrived and the chairman was nowhere to be seen, James sat in growing discomfort. With every passing minute he imagined the team’s eyes turning toward him. In truth they were all absorbed in conversation and had forgotten him entirely, but his timid nature magnified the self-reproach.
“Hello, everyone. Sorry to keep you waiting. Something urgent came up and took longer than expected.”
Fortunately, before James’s anxiety could swell any further, Yoo Jae-won opened the door and stepped inside.
“The reason I called you together is to share feedback after using Beta 5.” After the brief apology, Yoo Jae-won moved straight to business. The previously noisy room fell silent at once.
Company matters were shared through ID Talk’s internal board, so the Alpha Team in Redmond already knew that Yoo Jae-won had been conducting mid-term evaluations at various ID Entertainment studios. It was only natural they would expect their turn now that he had arrived. Tension thickened the air—though not the stomach-churning kind. Feedback for the game studios had been surprise inspections, but the Android team had been sending Beta 5 continuously and receiving constant input.
In truth, the overall supervisor of Android OS development was not President Kevin Johnson but Yoo Jae-won himself. From the first line of source code to the last, his touch was present everywhere. Consequently, the grand-sounding plan to “create the next Android” had in practice become an exercise in expanding the feature set of Android 2.0.
As ID Group grew larger, outsiders increasingly underestimated Yoo Jae-won’s personal ability. The gathering of so many talented people seemed to dilute his presence. Whenever the Alpha Team or the Android developers heard such remarks, they merely scoffed. Even the skilled programmers on the team were left speechless when they examined the Android source code—there was simply nothing to improve. Being told to add yet more features on top of perfection felt almost insulting, like painting over a finished marble sculpture.
Had Yoo Jae-won known most of the Alpha Team felt this way, he would have smiled bitterly. The functions implemented in the current version were the absolute fundamentals. Response to the internet was still in its infancy, let alone artificial intelligence. The fact that they still relied on him so heavily only made the coming disappointment sharper.
“To begin with an overall assessment of Beta 5, I would describe it as adequate.”
The developers listening intently were unsure how to react. “Adequate” was neither praise nor condemnation. A few people clapped anyway—better safe than sorry. Only James understood that the word masked deeper disappointment. He had watched Yoo Jae-won spend half the night rewriting the very code the Alpha Team had produced. The section on aggressive multi-threading to draw out hardware performance had not met Yoo Jae-won’s standards at all.
When James had installed the packaged Beta 5 on his own machine, performance had seemed acceptable. But examining the source revealed numerous optimization opportunities. Of course, Yoo Jae-won’s bar was exceptionally high; the OS already held its own against competitors. Yet the man who had experienced the technological singularity and even created the machine-psychology module that calmed the resulting chaos could not accept “good enough.”
Yoo Jae-won was aware of his own exacting standards. The number of programmers capable of truly satisfying him could be counted on one hand. That was why he had softened his critique to “adequate.”
“Adequate is not a negative word. The core of an operating system is versatility and stability, and on those points I am satisfied. However, the market is changing rapidly. Hardware manufacturers improve performance daily, and consumer expectations have reached an entirely different dimension.”
He was generous with people but merciless with software. Releasing Beta 5 with only minor polishing would not satisfy users. Moreover, the next OS was not merely the next version—it was the vanguard that would carry ID Group’s strategies for the coming years. The success of the forthcoming iWorks, in particular, would hinge on it.
Hardware readiness was flawless. TG Computer’s mass-production capacity had long surpassed one million units per month, and relationships with component suppliers were rock-solid. When ID Technology’s expertise was added, the synergy became formidable. Once specs and design were finalized, mass production could begin in mere weeks.
The decisive factor was the “i” functionality, which had to be realized in software. That was why Yoo Jae-won had come to the Android division—to implement those features and incorporate them into the next OS at the same time. Whether iWorks became merely a powerful workstation or an indispensable tool for a new generation of creators would be decided by the operating system itself.
“Adequate means lacking distinct character, which leaves you vulnerable the moment a strong competitor appears. Rather than great adequacy, I want to attempt a great adventure. Even if that adventure ends in failure and draws harsh criticism, I want to have no regrets.”
Yoo Jae-won manipulated the laptop connected to the projector. A slide appeared on the screen.
“I have chosen ‘Intelligent’ as the keyword for the next Android operating system. Here are the concrete functions that will demonstrate it.”
No one questioned the choice. Yoo Jae-won’s charisma was one reason, but the word “intelligent” was already common in the computer industry. Everyone’s attention was quickly absorbed by the list of challenges.
Minimize reboot scenarios. Unless hardware replacement made it unavoidable, reboots should be eliminated. For individual users, even one restart was an annoyance. Naming the feature Intelligent System Care would be perfect.
Enhance video and audio codec performance and quality. Broadband users accessing video and music files were increasing rapidly. Although adult content still dominated and officially distributed digital video was scarce, preparing high-definition streaming and high-fidelity codecs now would position them well for the next two to three years. Since Android 2.0 had targeted VGA, this version would support SVGA and XGA while dramatically improving compression ratios. Low-power hardware decoding should also be considered for the emerging portable-device market. Naming these next-generation codecs with an “i”—iCodec—and marketing them as intelligent features felt entirely justified.
Next came improvement of the language input system. ID Office had already invested heavily in it, leaving little room for enhancement. Its elevation to a major challenge this time stemmed from the recent abusing incident. Most abusing relied on macros, and the company was wasting considerable resources to detect them. While searching for an elegant solution, Yoo Jae-won had focused on the input system itself.
Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V—copy and paste. Every computer user employed these shortcuts. They were indispensable for repetitive tasks, especially abusing. Treating entire shortcut combinations as single character sets would leave clear traces of macro activity, making monitoring and blocking far simpler.
Paired with the improved input system was a new OS-level feature called Android Wizard that would officially support macro creation. Rather than changing only the input engine—which would invite complaints—the reorganization fit so naturally with macro handling that it belonged at the operating-system level.
Additional items filled the screen: a TTS function that could read text documents aloud, and performance gains through adoption of Glide X’s shader architecture. All of it would aggressively promote the “Intelligent” theme.
A gloomy mood settled over the conference room. Each individual feature was impressive; implementing all of them felt daunting.
As if he had anticipated the reaction, Yoo Jae-won continued. “There is no need to worry. Simply follow my lead. There will be moments of confusion and hardship, but at the end we will all share the glory together.”
He intended to mobilize the entire Android company, not just the Alpha Team. The most difficult core implementations would remain his responsibility; the others would provide support. In practice, their daily work environment would change very little. For now, they needed his carry.
Becoming the kind of president who could ride comfortably on a single command still seemed far off.
Having assigned such an overwhelming volume of work, Yoo Jae-won did not rest. He returned to his seat in the Alpha Team office, opened ID Talk, and scrolled through a friend list so long the scroll bar had shrunk to the width of two fingers. He selected one name: Richard Garriott of Origin Systems.