The Media's Game Witch Hunt
On June 19, a fire report came in about a major blaze at the home of Park Tae-soon, president of the Korea Herbal Medicine Distribution Corporation, located at 60 Samsung-dong, Seoul. The emergency responders who arrived and extinguished the fire made a tragic discovery afterward: the bodies of the couple in the rubble. At first everyone assumed it was a simple accident, but the corpses had been stabbed more than forty times. The police immediately reclassified it as a homicide and launched a formal investigation.
After examining the circumstances, investigators initially believed it was the work of someone known to the family. The entire direction of the case changed, however, when a nurse testified that blood had been found on Park Sang-han's head and a relative reported a fresh bite mark on his leg. With clear grounds for suspicion, the police focused their efforts on him and eventually secured a full confession.
The day before the fire report, on June 18, Park Sang-han had stripped naked and stabbed his parents to death in forty separate places. He had removed his clothes so he could shower and wash away the blood, but his mother—whom he had already stabbed—bit his calf in her final struggle. That bite became the decisive piece of evidence that led to his arrest. After showering, he set the house on fire to destroy any remaining proof, inadvertently killing his cousin who had been sleeping in another room.
It took only five days for the full story to emerge. Korea had never seen a crime so depraved. Every other issue that had been roiling society vanished overnight. The news was saturated with nothing but the Park Sang-han case.
Rumors spread across the country in an instant. Could something like this really happen? No one could close their mouths in shock. Yet it was the truth, and it was their reality. With an expression as though the sky itself had collapsed, the television announcer delivered the report with raw emotion.
“Ah, I thought it might just blow over, but it finally exploded.”
Yoo Jae-won’s first reaction after reading about the incident online was surprisingly calm. It made sense; every major event of 1994 had been meticulously recorded in his master plan. Political and economic incidents were mandatory entries, and crimes that caused massive social repercussions were included as well. Park Sang-han’s case had delivered a tremendous shock to society at the time, so of course it was in the files.
The incident had originally occurred in mid-May. When June passed without any word, he had assumed his own social changes had altered the future slightly. He had even wondered whether the news library—packed with every conceivable disaster—had finally outlived its usefulness. Yet the event had simply erupted late.
“It looks like what’s meant to happen will happen no matter what.”
After closing the news page, Yoo Jae-won realized that changing the future would require far more active intervention than he had anticipated. It could be a good thing or a bad thing. The news library still had value, but it also meant he would have to expend considerable effort to prevent events that should never have occurred. He had already confirmed this during the earlier Seohae ferry disaster with extremely aggressive involvement, but the Park Sang-han case removed any remaining doubt.
His analysis of the incident ended there. Reality, however, always exceeded imagination. A few more days passed, and the direction of the story changed completely.
The press, which had been digging relentlessly into the Park Sang-han story, had finally found its prey: games. The most profitable article in Korea right now was anything about the case. Yet even the most horrific story runs out of new angles after a full week. That was when the analysis of Park Sang-han’s computer emerged.
Once the computer analysis began, the story veered into strange territory. Reports started pouring out claiming games were the real problem, beginning with the revelation that Park Sang-han had purchased two top-tier NewEgg machines at the ID flagship store on Rodeo Street.
“Tsk tsk. The standard of Korean journalism really is eternal.”
Yoo Jae-won could not avoid seeing the problematic articles. The number of media outlets uploading content to Korea’s Nextcom increased daily. Everyone had realized that contracting with Nextcom to post articles was quite lucrative. On top of that, netizen replies provided excellent real-time feedback. Sometimes those replies even became articles themselves.
For all these reasons, every major newspaper except the Dong-A Ilbo—which had never apologized to Yoo Jae-won—now posted their content on Nextcom.
“Games really are the easiest target, huh?”
Whenever anything went wrong in Korea, the media blamed games. It was the same in America; after every mass shooting, games were immediately blamed. The reason was simple. Talking about personality issues, family environment, or socialization required nuance and offered no easy answers. Those problems were fundamentally about personal character, parenting, and the bond between parents and children—an endless discussion. It was far simpler to declare that violent games were the culprit and draw a neat line.
The first article, claiming numerous violent games had been found on Park Sang-han’s computer, included a photo that clearly showed someone playing Doom 2 on a NewEgg. A careful reading revealed that his favorite titles were from the Doom and Wolfenstein series. Naturally, the reporter belonged to the Dong-A Ilbo.
“Doom 2 is the best-selling game in Korea too, so of course it was there!”
Doom 2’s success had not been limited to the United States. It had been a worldwide hit and continued to sell steadily. The game received an official Korean release. Because Electronic Arts had not entered the market, ID Technology handled distribution directly. They leveraged the distribution network acquired from Korean Microsoft and borrowed retail channels from TG and Sejin, selling the title differently from ordinary software.
ID Group’s policy was to localize every piece of software into the language of the target country, and games were no exception. Thanks to that, Doom 2 was fully Koreanized—subtitles, voice acting, everything. They even hired top-tier voice actors, avoiding any dubbing-related mockery. The dedication paid off. Sales were solid. Moving more than one hundred thousand units in tiny Korea was far beyond decent; it was an outstanding performance. Still, to Yoo Jae-won, whose standards had been raised by millions of copies sold in the American market, it was merely acceptable.
Although illegal copying was rampant in Korea, the requirement of a valid serial key for multiplayer and the near-mandatory patches delivered over the internet had successfully encouraged genuine purchases. In any case, since the game sold so well, it was only natural that Doom 2 would be installed on the computer of a criminal like Park Sang-han. Nor was it unusual. For young men of his age, games were the culture of the new generation. You could barely hold a conversation if you didn’t play them. They adapted quickly to new titles and immersed themselves easily, so it was perfectly normal for them to play online games as well.
What was truly unfortunate was the impact on Kim Taek-jun’s Lineage. While Doom 2 appeared only as a small window in the data screenshot, Lineage had been mentioned by its full name in bold letters. Compared to Doom 2, distributed by the mighty ID Group, TJ Soft was a small company. The media seemed to have simply ignored it and named the title outright. In a country where media influence was weak, it might have passed unnoticed. But in today’s Korea, where public opinion was driven by the press—especially print newspapers—Lineage took a direct hit.
Branded as the game a parricidal maniac had played obsessively, its concurrent player count plummeted. It was not exaggeration; the traffic graph for Lineage on the ID Cloud servers dropped off a cliff. Even worse, the game had finally bottomed out and begun to climb again. After open beta, the graph had shown a gentle decline before showing signs of recovery. Then the Park Sang-han incident broke, and the numbers crashed once more.
“I can’t just sit by and watch.”
The true causes of the crime clearly lay elsewhere, yet using the case to attack games revealed an obvious agenda. The Dong-A Ilbo’s leading role in the assault was especially transparent. Games represented a massive share of the business empire Yoo Jae-won had built. This year in particular, several meticulously crafted blockbuster titles were scheduled for release. The intent to use this tragedy to sabotage them was unmistakable.
Yoo Jae-won immediately opened ID Talk and searched for the chief administrator of Nextcom Korea. Until a few months ago the position had been held concurrently by Kim Taek-jun. After his resignation, a new person had taken over.
“The new manager’s name was Lee Jae-hong, right? Ah, here he is.”
Rather than text chat, Yoo Jae-won selected voice communication. It was ten o’clock at night in Seattle, and he was working inside his hotel room. With no risk of being overheard, voice was more convenient.
The response came instantly. ID Group’s culture was to focus completely during work hours and leave exactly on time regardless of position. It was completely different from other Korean companies where overtime was routine. Those who could not adapt eventually left. Partners sometimes found it frustrating that they could not reach anyone after hours, but during business hours the responses were swift and precise. Since ID Group usually held the superior position, it never became a serious issue.
It was, however, harsh for those accustomed to working leisurely during the day and finishing everything during overtime for extra pay. Many people considered that their normal routine. ID Group also had no company dinner culture in principle. Yoo Jae-won had never been the type to encourage it, and those who joined later shared similar values. They preferred personal time over forced departmental gatherings. Experienced hires from other companies often found the atmosphere rather cold, while new employees loved it—once their assigned work was finished, no one bothered them.
Lee Jae-hong was one of those diligent newcomers. After graduating from Yonsei University’s computer science department, he had studied cognitive science in France before returning to Korea this year and successfully joining ID Group. He had been assigned under Kim Taek-jun and given the role of service manager for Nextcom Korea. When Kim Taek-jun resigned, Lee Jae-hong was promoted to take responsibility for the division. It was an unusual rapid rise. The era of makeshift operations was over. The reason he could confidently assume one of Kim Taek-jun’s concurrent positions was simple: his ability was outstanding.
In his previous life, Lee Jae-hong had been the founder of Daum, Korea’s leading portal site. This time he had walked straight into Nextcom of his own accord, making the emergence of a site called Daum far less likely. Still, nothing was predetermined. Just as Kim Taek-jun had left to found TJ Soft, Lee Jae-hong might absorb technology at Nextcom, go independent, and start his own venture.
“Yes, that’s correct. This is our first conversation, isn’t it?”
Because Yoo Jae-won had initiated the call without warning, Lee Jae-hong’s voice was thick with surprise. Yoo Jae-won felt the same awkwardness. He had not intervened at all in the hiring process. The Korean subsidiary had followed his guidelines, and Lee Jae-hong had passed every test on his own merit. Only later, when the final list of successful candidates reached him for approval, had he realized that the man who had created Daum in the original timeline had joined the company.
“The reason I’m calling is that I saw an article on the Nextcom news page today. There’s a serious problem.”
Lee Jae-hong sounded startled. His monitor currently displayed Nextcom’s administrator dashboard, and every metric showed normal operation. The news page Yoo Jae-won mentioned was receiving higher clicks than usual, but the robust servers handled it without strain.
“The problem I’m referring to isn’t technical. It’s the content. Haven’t you looked at the articles themselves?”
Lee Jae-hong could not answer right away. He had believed his responsibility was simply to keep Nextcom running smoothly. Korea’s Nextcom was essentially subordinate to the American version; new technology and services were developed in the United States first and then applied locally. No one above him had ever instructed him to create original services unique to Korea.
“Please check the top-page articles right now.”
From Lee Jae-hong’s obviously flustered tone, Yoo Jae-won roughly understood the situation. Instead of scolding him, he gave the man a moment to grasp the issue himself.
“We run the Nextcom news page for the benefit of our users. The richer the service we provide, the more users we attract. There is no reason, however, to place articles that attack our own company at the very top of that page. If they were properly written pieces containing accurate criticism, I would accept it. But these are baseless fake news.”
Fake news that would shake the early-to-mid twenty-first century had not appeared out of nowhere. Traditional media had long used the tactic; when combined with the internet and mobile devices, it created a powerful reaction.
“Our legal team will move shortly. Remove every low-quality article from the site immediately.”
1994 was still an era in which the press retained some authority. Suing over a newspaper article was not something done lightly, but to Yoo Jae-won it was nothing at all. He had no intention of becoming a punching bag every time a bizarre crime occurred. This time he would teach a clear lesson to those who always blamed games whenever something happened, dodging the real issues and hoping everything would simply pass.