The Hidden Cost of Yield
Nostradamus — More than ten employees have contracted leukemia, and dozens more are suffering from lung diseases. All the leukemia cases involve workers who were on the memory semiconductor production line. Choi Kang-wook’s ID Talk message was exactly what Yoo Jae-won had expected. There was a reason he had ordered health screenings for all former Ilseong Electronics employees. In his previous life, the leukemia issue at Ilseong Electronics’ semiconductor plants had become a major social scandal. The reason was simple. In semiconductor manufacturing, yield was everything. The fundamental policy on any production line was to use whatever methods necessary to raise that yield. One of those methods was the construction of cleanrooms. A cleanroom did far more than remove dust; it altered the very composition of the air inside the facility. Naturally, this process involved the use of chemical substances, and no one had given much thought to their effects on the human body. Moreover, during wafer deposition and cleaning stages, even more potent toxic materials were introduced. If the production line lacked precision, those substances could leak.
“So the production line definitely has a problem?”
— That is the only conclusion the data supports.
“Launch an epidemiological investigation immediately and find out exactly what went wrong. If you discover any design flaws or equipment failures, fix them at once.”
— In that case, normal factory operations will be delayed for quite some time.
“Memory semiconductor prices are already at rock bottom anyway. We’re selling without any margin, so running the plant right now only generates losses. And that’s before we factor in the threat to employee health. Investigate the factory thoroughly and uncover the root cause. If design flaws are found, or if it turns out the line was built while deliberately ignoring worker safety, we will tear it down and rebuild. Remodeling to strengthen the microfabrication process wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”
— Understood, Chairman.
Converting a semiconductor plant’s process was a massive undertaking that required trillions of won. Yet Yoo Jae-won spoke of it as casually as ordering the replacement of a faulty computer part. His confidence stemmed from the enormous capital reserves he had accumulated. He was also certain the project would never lose money. Demand for computer memory semiconductors was constantly expanding. The size of programs and the resources they consumed never shrank. The server and enterprise markets were growing daily, and entirely new industries such as artificial intelligence and big-data search required systems of staggering scale. Memory semiconductors were not used only in IT. They were needed in mobile phones, automobiles, and numerous military applications. Fast, high-capacity memory was always in demand. Therefore, switching to finer processes ahead of time would pay enormous dividends later.
“And file lawsuits against everyone involved—both civil and criminal.”
In Yoo Jae-won’s view, the leukemia outbreak at Ilseong Electronics had occurred because the company had cut corners on the production line design to save a few pennies at the expense of its workers’ health.
— Yes, I will take the necessary measures.
“And I will serve as the lead plaintiff.”
— Pardon? You intend to have your name listed directly, Chairman?
“You don’t have to do that. Chairman Choi Hyun-hee and the rest of the Ilseong Group leadership are already facing charges over the slush-fund case.”
“No. It must be done. Instead, add Chairman Choi Hyun-hee to the suit. Do it as quickly as possible. And when you conduct the epidemiological investigation, make sure it is carried out by an institution completely free of Ilseong’s influence.”
Choi Hyun-hee would naturally deny everything, but he had been the driving force behind Ilseong Electronics’ semiconductor business. He had been involved in every stage of the factory’s construction and bore responsibility for the outcome. Furthermore, the slush funds siphoned off just before Yoo Jae-won’s acquisition of Ilseong Electronics ultimately traced back to Chairman Choi. In the past, he had evaded such charges with ease, but this time would be different.
“Ah, and begin treatment immediately for everyone whose illness has been confirmed. Of course, the medical costs will be covered by company insurance and then billed in full to Chairman Choi Hyun-hee.”
— Yes, Chairman.
Having confirmed that Yoo Jae-won had no intention of backing down, Choi Kang-wook agreed to carry out the instructions. After ending the ID Talk session, Yoo Jae-won fell into quiet contemplation. He had finally reached this point. Watching Chairman Choi Hyun-hee being led away in handcuffs would bring some satisfaction. Yet he had no intention of settling the grudge from his previous life with a single lawsuit. What pained him most were the employees who had already developed leukemia. Once health deteriorated, recovery demanded immense time and effort. Moreover, in this era leukemia was still regarded as an incurable disease, so the despair these workers must be feeling was overwhelming. Fortunately, leukemia was not incurable. There was hematopoietic stem-cell transplantation, and a drug called Gleevec would be released in 2001. They only needed to hold on until then. ID Group would cover treatment costs, so as long as the patients had the will to fight, their situations would not become completely hopeless.
Perhaps because one thread of his tangled history with Chairman Choi was finally being unraveled, Yoo Jae-won slept soundly that night for the first time in a long while. Still, he dreamed no dreams.
A few days later, news reports flooded the airwaves.
Newspapers and internet outlets quickly followed with their own coverage. Unlike the dry, fact-only style of broadcast news in the nineties, newspapers liberally used words like “shock” and “outrage” to drive clicks. Some articles even portrayed Yoo Jae-won as having flown into a rage, describing in detail how he had erupted after receiving Choi Kang-wook’s report at his San Francisco residence. At the same time, they painted Chairman Choi Hyun-hee as a man willing to sell his employees’ health for profit.
“This is going too far.”
Yoo Jae-won considered whether he should rein in the flood of internet articles appearing on the Nextcom News page. Writers on Nextcom received not only their base fee but also performance incentives based on click counts. Advertisements automatically attached to articles, so higher clicks meant greater exposure and larger bonuses. When writers produced quality articles that resonated with readers, the resulting incentives encouraged even better work—a virtuous cycle. Unfortunately, few outlets maintained that cycle. Many simply chased money. Even more surprising was how many established print newspapers were guilty of the same practice. In some cases, the freshly launched internet-only media produced more substantive reporting than the legacy papers.
“They really are trying to make easy money.”
The temptation of easy money was apparently irresistible. It was unacceptable. Earning other people’s money had always been difficult. Even Yoo Jae-won had only reached his current position after paying an enormous price in his previous life. Only now was that investment bearing fruit.
“I need to revise the incentive policy.”
He decided to implement changes. Adding like and dislike buttons and letting netizens evaluate articles seemed reasonable. High like counts would increase incentives, while high dislike counts would reduce them. Yet even this system was imperfect. Strategic manipulation of the buttons could become rampant. Although penalties for abuse had been introduced and enforcement was possible, people willing to take the risk for money would always exist.
“Systems are meant to be adjusted according to circumstances.”
Yoo Jae-won muttered this while sending a memo to Henry, president of Nextcom, instructing him to revise the news-page incentive policy. Neither systems nor policies were fixed; they had to change with the situation. That was Yoo Jae-won’s fundamental philosophy. Thanks to it, the Android operating system received major updates every hundred days, with smaller patches released monthly. Emergency security patches bypassed the regular schedule entirely and were deployed as soon as problems were identified.
“By the way, I wonder what the National Assembly is doing.”
Yoo Jae-won applied the same thinking to the nation itself. The National Assembly was the body responsible for real-time patches to the country’s problems and shortcomings. He had expected lively debate once President Jeon Myeong-heon declared constitutional reform. Amending the constitution was equivalent to changing the nation’s operating system. Yet that expectation lasted only briefly. Only the Tongil National Party and the Democratic Party had begun serious work on reform proposals. The other parties showed almost no reaction. A few individual opposition lawmakers voiced objections, but their parties’ official responses were minimal.
“What’s going on? Are they waiting for instructions from someone?”
President Jeon Myeong-heon’s timing for the reform announcement had been extremely swift—only days after the declaration ending the war. Most veteran politicians had not even had time to calculate how the new political landscape would shift before the reform statement appeared. Constitutional reform was also a far larger issue than they had anticipated. Changing the presidential term system, defining North Korea’s legal status, expanding basic rights, granting the Corruption Investigation Office for High-ranking Officials the power to request warrants, ending double compensation for military personnel, introducing a recall system—the list went on. Each item carried enormous repercussions. Jeon Myeong-heon and Yoo Jae-won had intended to push the reforms through like a storm and finish the matter quickly, yet the other opposition parties remained almost completely unresponsive, as though they had somehow anticipated the strategy.
“At times like this, the conservative media usually provides direction, don’t they?”
Chief among them was the Daehan Ilbo. In the United States, conservative think tanks produced detailed reports that sparked feedback from media and politicians, shaping public discourse. Korea lacked such think tanks, so the media filled the role. The Daehan Ilbo’s owner was widely known as the “President of the Night,” the hidden power behind Korean politics. No one denied it. Yoo Jae-won immediately opened his web browser and searched for the Daehan Ilbo website. Because of the long-standing enmity that dated back to his youth, Nextcom carried none of the Daehan Ilbo’s publications—not its main paper, not its sports editions, not its magazines. In the early days when Nextcom’s presence was small, the Daehan Ilbo had paid little attention, but after years of explosive growth the paper had belatedly tried to establish contact. Even now, however, no contact existed. The Daehan Ilbo, equally offended, had launched its own website and begun supplying articles to other portals without ever reaching out again. Instead, it had become the first outlet to publish articles disparaging ID Group and Yoo Jae-won.
“As expected, the Daehan Ilbo is still running the numbers.”
He had suspected as much, and he was right. Coverage of President Jeon Myeong-heon’s reform declaration remained dry and factual. Because Korea’s largest conservative think tank and loudspeaker had not yet supplied a framing narrative, the opposition parties’ responses lacked any real force. Yoo Jae-won expected that once the Daehan Ilbo finished calculating the political costs and benefits of reform, it would publish its articles and the opposition would immediately react. He was not wrong.
The Daehan Ilbo’s exclusive had dropped. Remarkably, the paper had obtained portions of the highly confidential government-drafted amendment that the Jeon Myeong-heon administration was preparing. After decades of operating in the shadows, the Daehan Ilbo still maintained enough pipelines inside the executive branch to do its job effectively, regardless of the president’s power. Once the paper framed the reform as a socialist takeover, the previously silent opposition parties opened fire in unison.