Super Synergy Effect: Castle Bravo
The super synergy effect—Castle Bravo. It was America's first hydrogen bomb, packing a staggering 16 megatons of destructive power. The fascinating part was that the research team had estimated roughly 5 megatons. When they actually detonated it, the yield exceeded three times their prediction at 16 megatons. The scientists were stunned by the unforeseen power. So was Keyboard Warrior.
North American retailers began selling Keyboard Warrior simultaneously at 9 a.m. on the 23rd. The game flew off the shelves. Consumers had lined up early that morning—some even the night before in warmer regions—eager to purchase the title releasing on the 23rd. On launch day alone, 140,000 copies sold. It was a record-breaking number in the PC game industry.
Retailers were the first to sense the extraordinary purchasing power. They rushed to place additional orders with Electronic Arts, and when the numbers were tallied, they surpassed 500,000 copies. Panic hit Electronic Arts. Naturally, some retailers who had placed orders never received their stock. A shortage erupted—not a minor incident in some small city, but a massive war raging across all of North America. Calling it a war might seem excessive, yet no other word captures the phenomenon.
Every Christmas season produces one breakout item whose popularity dwarfs all others combined. On Christmas morning, children race to the gifts beneath the tree, and parents who secured that must-have toy feel a quiet joy watching their children's delight. They scour stores far and wide to obtain it—so much so that films have been made about the frenzy. In 1988, that item was Keyboard Warrior.
Beyond Electronic Arts' advertising blitz, the game dominated conversations among college and high school students on PC communication services. Game magazines that reviewed Keyboard Warrior sold out rapidly. Yet Hawkins had not anticipated an even more effective marketing tool: the preview version released earlier. Downloads of the preview on CompuServe had already exceeded 100,000—the first time any title in CompuServe's history had crossed that threshold. The number was so large it overflowed the display field.
The preview had not been limited to CompuServe. It had spread across university internet bulletin boards and smaller PC communication archives, surpassing 100,000 downloads. Players who experienced it simply counted the days until the 23rd, turning their anticipation into a wave that struck the North American Christmas season with full force.
The unfortunate reality was that even though additional stock was hastily prepared, Christmas season meant immediate delivery was impossible. Everyone was enjoying the holidays; there were no staff to ship diskettes or assemble packages. Meanwhile, the prepared 500,000 copies sold out completely by the 26th. Until the second batch arrived, there was nothing to do but wait. Had Hawkins produced 1,000,000 copies instead of 500,000, Keyboard Warrior would have become the first game to sell a million units in its first week.
Normally, such shortages benefited illegal copiers. Unable to buy legitimate copies, those who simply wanted to play would turn to pirated versions. But Keyboard Warrior, meticulously prepared, proved the exception. No matter how many copies were made or cracks attempted, success remained elusive. Diskettes copied fine, yet running the game always demanded the original disk. Even the industry's top hackers, including James, failed. Their defeat had been inevitable from the start.
Though initial projections fell short, the shortage did not diminish Keyboard Warrior's appeal. If anything, limited supply only amplified its popularity. The 1,000,000-copy milestone had merely been postponed—it would happen soon enough. The real priority was not settling for a million but sustaining the momentum to maximize final sales. Fortunately, Electronic Arts were professionals at this.
For Yoo Jae-won, December was a leisurely break. From early in the month, he had secured a $10,000 bonus from Electronic Arts along with their commitment to adopt Aegis Shield. Things had started well. Money flowed in effortlessly. Moreover, Electronic Arts planned to implement Aegis Shield in their very next title. The licensing fee was 10% of the retail price, as agreed. Even at a few thousand won per unit, royalties would snowball into substantial sums as sales grew. Once the market witnessed Aegis Shield's capabilities, buyers from the software industry would come without any sales effort on his part.
Jae-won spent his time playing at school until winter break and, when the mood struck, sitting before his computer to write core code for next year's projects. Then winter vacation arrived—a true break exceeding forty days, with no forced self-study sessions at school. The only obstacle was homework. The longer winter break meant more assignments, enough to require several days even with cramming. Fortunately, Jae-won received an exemption. Anyone who placed in an authoritative competition or received official recognition was excused from homework, and he was the only student who qualified. A long winter break without homework worries was guaranteed.
With external distractions neatly resolved, Jae-won could focus on ID Technology. His first tasks were applying for a U.S. visa and booking a flight. He planned to meet the young Remington Sting in California and formally establish the American subsidiary. He had also scheduled a visit to ID Software. The prospect of meeting a living legend made sleep difficult. He would stop by Electronic Arts to meet President Hawkins in person and witness Keyboard Warrior selling in stores firsthand. Beyond official matters, he intended to handle several confidential tasks—such as founding an investment firm specializing in U.S. stocks and futures. It would be a company owned entirely with his personal funds, not a subsidiary of ID Technology. Though the same person would manage it and it would fall under the ID umbrella, it was technically a completely separate entity. The reason was simple: to invest freely without interference, 100% personal ownership was essential.
While concentrating on product development and company operations, Jae-won's thirst for talent grew intense.
"How can there not be even one?"
Nearly three weeks had passed since he posted the recruitment notice on KETEL. Despite the service's small user base, the post had already garnered thousands of views. ID Technology, though a venture company, enjoyed nationwide recognition. Its fame had begun with the fact that its president was a twelve-year-old elementary student, but now it was the massive contract with Electronic Arts that dominated conversations. The compensation offered for programmers was nothing short of extraordinary. The average monthly wage for manual laborers, including bonuses, hovered around 400,000 to 500,000 won. Even at large corporations, it reached 600,000 to 700,000 won. Yet ID Technology's programmer salary was listed plainly at 1,000,000 won per month—bonuses, holiday allowances, and incentives separate. Programmers tended to be young, and opportunities for twenty-somethings to earn such money were extremely rare. This was no empty boast. The company already employed high-level talent receiving several million won monthly. With proven results, paying a few programmers 1,000,000 won each posed no risk of bankruptcy. Naturally, applicants flooded in.
Resumes poured into Jae-won's inbox like rain. But he did not hire based on resumes alone. Final interviews were mandatory, and an intermediate programming skills test stood between. Originally, he had planned to test only those whose resumes met minimum standards. With so many applications, however, reviewing them all proved impossible. Instead, he posted the problems publicly and collected answers via email. If answers leaked, he would change the questions. Since applicants might receive outside help, he intended to ask unexpected questions during final interviews to identify genuine talent.
He posted exactly three problems.
"Why hasn't anyone solved even one?"
Weeks later, not a single answer had arrived. Had the 1988 evaluation standards for programmers been too high? Or had the problems simply been too difficult?