Nostradamus Ma Huateng
Nostradamus Ma Huateng. The name ranked high in Yoo Jae-won's Memory Palace within his master plan. It couldn't be otherwise—the founder of Tencent, the company that would grow into the largest game company of the 21st century, was Ma Huateng.
“However, this young man has ambition, but there are quite a few questionable points. If the Chairman hadn't instructed me to pay close attention to people from China, I wouldn't have even looked at him.”
“What is it?”
“The company Ma Huateng founded in China is called Tencent, but it's not a game company—it's a messenger company.”
Yoo Jae-won wondered what that meant, but fortunately it fell within his range of predictions.
“It's a messenger called OICQ, and it already holds quite a bit of market share.”
OICQ? What a complicated name. It would later change to QQ, and that change would prove crucial. Already popular, the service would surge even higher after the rebrand, becoming China's national messenger. From that foundation it would launch portal sites and game services, establishing itself as China's largest game company—the very path Yoo Jae-won remembered.
“The problem is, OICQ copied ID Talk, which the Chairman created, almost exactly. When I asked about it, he didn't deny it at all. He simply said he had referenced it.”
President Stevan Barber's slight indignation could be felt through the ID Talk messenger. Illegal copying was the greatest enemy of any software company. Barber believed that if piracy vanished, ID Entertainment's revenue would triple or quadruple, so his distaste was understandable.
Yoo Jae-won, however, felt no emotional surge of anger. When it came to China, illegal copying had always been a given. Even after entering the 21st century and joining the G2, piracy remained standard practice, provoking trade friction with the United States and Europe.
“So I want to ignore it, but that would create its own problems.”
China was a country of both love and hate for businessmen. Its population stood at one billion now and would reach 1.4 to 1.5 billion at its early-21st-century peak. Even if only ten percent possessed purchasing power comparable to developed nations, that still meant 150 million consumers—a colossal market second only to the United States. Success in China could revive dying companies and catapult unknown firms into global giants overnight. Yoo Jae-won was not yet ready to abandon such a market entirely.
Of course, he had no intention of building factories or research institutes for cutting-edge products on Chinese soil. Still, he was open to entering through formal distribution channels via Chinese partners, just as Ma Huateng had proposed.
“Where is this Ma Huateng now?”
“He is staying at a hotel in San Jose. He left his contact information as well.”
“Understood. Tell him I'd like to meet tomorrow.”
“Ah, you wish to meet him in person, Chairman?”
President Stevan Barber had apparently expected Yoo Jae-won to simply approve or reject the matter via ID Talk. The suggestion of a direct meeting clearly surprised him.
“I want to hear the story about China directly from him.”
Yoo Jae-won opened his scheduler.
“Hmm. Let's meet around lunchtime the day after tomorrow.”
“You mean Saturday? Understood.”
Weekends were normally reserved for Tiffany, but this Saturday was an exception. She was traveling to Texas on business, leaving him with free time. He had originally planned to spend the day reviewing his master plan at home, but that was a daily routine and never took long. In his previous life Ma Huateng had been a famous figure, yet they had never met. Yoo Jae-won wanted to see the man in person this time.
Tiffany's trip to Texas stemmed from her fascination with the horizontal drilling technology Yoo Jae-won had casually mentioned. She never dismissed his words lightly. If America's shale revolution arrived a decade early, the credit would belong entirely to her.
The ID Talk conversation with President Stevan Barber continued briefly. What Yoo Jae-won had roughly referred to was Warcraft Online, the game being developed through the merger of Blizzard Entertainment and Origin Systems.
“Ah, how is development progressing?”
“I'd like to know that myself. Reports come in regularly—sometimes they say it's going well, sometimes they mention dark clouds. I can't get a clear picture. Since the Chairman is curious as well, shall I go check?”
“No, don't bother.”
The game had been teased at IDDC 98, but even Yoo Jae-won did not know when it would be finished. Blizzard and Origin were filled with craftsmen who treated game development like a sacred art; if something failed to satisfy them, they would scrap it without hesitation. That outcome was exactly what Yoo Jae-won wanted. Wasted labor and capital were regrettable, yet far preferable to releasing a flawed product and suffering greater losses later. Gamers could instantly recognize a truly enjoyable game. Conversely, a broken game reeked the moment it was played. Developers felt the same. A well-made game was fun for everyone. The reason so many broken games still flooded the market was that shareholders and investors demanded only maximum profit. They wanted returns as quickly as possible, so titles launched incomplete or buggy, disappointing the very gamers who had waited for them. In this regard Yoo Jae-won held an overwhelming advantage. He was an owner with an unmatched gamer's mindset. The enormous capital earned in Japan meant even an AAA title could be scrapped multiple times during development without serious damage. Yet gamers' patience was not infinite, and computer performance improved daily. Missing the release window risked rejection for outdated graphics and systems. Therefore, scrapping projects after starting them had to be minimized.
After exchanging a few more confidential ID Talk messages with President Stevan Barber about Warcraft Online, Yoo Jae-won ended the call.
The next day.
“Chairman Gerald Levin has nothing left to say.”
This time the person connected to Yoo Jae-won was Chairman Remington of Time Warner Nextcom. They used the video meeting function. Remington's face was full of smiles, his voice bright. His current situation was exceptionally good. Timeflix, the VOD service, was receiving responses far beyond expectations. The California pilot had already concluded. For one month, every Nextcomcast subscriber had enjoyed unlimited free access to all VOD content. Afterward, continued use of Timeflix cost only nine dollars a month—seemingly high at first glance, yet astonishingly cheap. HBO, also under Time Warner Nextcom, charged $12.95 for a single channel. Timeflix offered hundreds of thousands of VOD titles for unlimited viewing at nine dollars. In Yoo Jae-won's larger vision, Timeflix would receive a massive influx of exclusive content and rise to become the premier service over time.
Following the successful California pilot, Timeflix launched commercial service across North America. Thorough preparation ensured the Timeflix system itself encountered no issues during the trial period. Even when thousands or tens of thousands of users converged on popular titles, there were no interruptions—thanks to the diligently expanded cache servers. Service was not entirely problem-free, however. The customer center had been overwhelmed. Not by literal fire, but by an unending stream of calls for the first two or three weeks. The biggest issue was elderly users unfamiliar with the VOD interface. For those accustomed to computers the design was simple and intuitive, but for seniors who had only ever used channel-changing and volume controls, it was alien. Hundreds called the center after pressing the ID button, reaching the VOD screen, and having no idea how to exit. They only needed to press the exit button, yet many simply powered off the set-top box instead. Yoo Jae-won, anticipating this, had greatly expanded the customer center. In preparation for Time Warner Nextcom's future growth he had increased new hires by a full hundred percent. When overload still occurred he urgently contracted additional outsourcing firms. The immediate crisis passed, and users gradually adapted. Promotion uptake across North America also rose sharply. Time Warner Nextcom's maximum target was twelve million cable subscribers by 2000. The original goal had been ten million, but the Nextcomcast–Time Warner merger had already pushed the total past nine million—5.7 million from Nextcomcast Cable and 3.6 million from Warner Cable. The figure was hastily revised upward to the more realistic twelve million. Securing fifty percent of those subscribers for Timeflix became an additional objective. VOD was an entirely new market. This success was also why Chairman Gerald Levin could no longer act superior toward Remington. Finished programs had once aired a few reruns on cable before vanishing. Now they gathered under the Timeflix banner and generated tremendous synergy. For nine dollars a month viewers could watch any program again. Show programs were popular, but dramas proved especially powerful. On 2CH.com countless posts praised the ability to binge completed series, leading to rediscoveries. Above all, the greatest beneficiary of Timeflix's success was Remington himself. His support on the Time Warner Nextcom board had grown considerably stronger. Yoo Jae-won had installed Remington as general chairman because he controlled management, yet he could not arbitrarily dispose of or restructure Time Warner's original assets. Those assets were fiercely protected by Time Warner's own directors. Forced restructuring would provoke resistance and risk unraveling the hard-won merger. The successful launch of Timeflix had demonstrated clear synergy between the dormant content library and IT technology, proving Yoo Jae-won's capabilities beyond doubt. Even skeptical board members now supported him more strongly. That support lent weight to Chairman Remington's words, visible now in his bright expression on the video meeting screen.
“Then is that other matter progressing well?”
“Yes! A decision should come soon. And it looks positive.”
The matter Yoo Jae-won referred to was obtaining a broadcasting station capable of producing and distributing video content. Originally he had not been satisfied with merely retransmitting others' broadcasts through the powerful Nextcomcast network. He naturally desired his own content creation and a station to distribute it. The merger with Time Warner had slightly altered that plan. Time Warner alone controlled more than ten stations. Rather than building from scratch, the idea had shifted to taking over one of Time Warner's existing stations and handling production and distribution in full. Time Warner directors had doubted whether Yoo Jae-won could manage such valuable assets. After seeing Timeflix, however, their thinking changed. In addition, digital music distribution had officially begun through Next Music, with sales exceeding expectations. Music-sharing sites offered content for free but were flooded with trash advertisements and fake MP3 files. They also posed security risks; in the worst cases viruses could destroy computers. Even the highly secure Android operating system could not prevent damage if a user was tricked into running an infected file. Files stored in the protected personal-information area were shielded, but ordinary files remained vulnerable. Next Music, by contrast, delivered the highest-quality tracks to a user's computer with a single click. While teenagers without steady income might struggle, anyone with regular earnings found it unmatched in convenience. Compared with Apple's iTunes, Next Music held far superior music libraries. The lack of an integrated management program for both the player and computer files—like iTunes—was noted as a drawback, and Yoo Jae-won was currently developing the solution. The Android operating system already included high-quality video and audio codecs along with a basic media player. Until now the focus had been solely on playback, but library functions would soon be added to enable integrated management all the way to Livepod. Simple drag-and-drop functionality, without complicated synchronization features, would already surpass iTunes. Yoo Jae-won was also working alone on a version that added MP3 tag management and automatic conversion of user-owned CDs into MP3 or AAC files. Targeting completion in early October, the update could be announced soon. By securing the music market and successfully operating even one broadcasting station, proven programs could be launched in succession. The media industry would then become a solid pillar supporting the ID Group. After the successful conquest of Japan, the ID Group was advancing like a ship riding a strong tailwind.
“Hmm. If only things in Korea go smoothly.”
Whenever Korea came to mind, Yoo Jae-won's heart grew heavy. Conservative forces had begun actively undermining the Jeon Myeong-heon government. In particular, he could not tolerate the distortions spread by Daehan Ilbo and others claiming that the constitutional amendment and various reform bills—created with good intentions—did not match reality.
“100 billion won in punitive damages for small entertainment agencies—is that truly appropriate?”
“The punitive damages system only fattens foreign companies. It needs fixing even now.”
It was not only Daehan Ilbo's problem. North Korea, the greatest risk factor on the Korean Peninsula, had also begun acting up without warning. In the Rodong Sinmun announcing the end-of-war declaration, they claimed to have achieved half a victory in the war of national liberation.
“Who won the 6.25 war?”
As expected, it was precisely what had been feared. A premature end-of-war declaration had effectively granted North Korea—responsible for the fratricidal conflict—a free pass. Daehan Ilbo, the most ardent anti-communist voice, was in an uproar, declaring its predictions correct. Today's newspapers were filled with articles that grated on the nerves of the Jeon Myeong-heon government and its ardent supporters like Yoo Jae-won. Such pieces no longer particularly affected Jeon Myeong-heon or Yoo Jae-won themselves. The real problem was public sentiment swaying like reeds under the daily barrage of negative coverage. Paper newspapers still wielded considerable influence, and approval ratings had begun a clear decline.
“This won't do.”
Unable to watch any longer, Yoo Jae-won opened the secret-message function in ID Talk and sent a long text message to Jeon Myeong-heon.