The Million-Dollar Report Card
Objectively speaking, the super-synergy effect made sense on both counts. There simply weren’t any programmers yet who matched Yoo Jae-won’s standards, and the problems he posed were difficult enough that even experienced coders would struggle. That was only natural—his questions weren’t about simple coding but about designing architectures that required advanced mathematical calculations.
The first problem asked applicants to implement, in C, a method for lossless compression of a Keyboard Warrior image file created at 320×200 resolution with 256 colors, reducing its size as much as possible. Faster compression earned higher scores, and the smaller the final file, the better. The second problem required presenting the optimal algorithm for sorting one thousand random numbers ranging from one to twelve digits, either in ascending or descending order. Speed, accuracy, and the elegance of the implementation all mattered. The final question was somewhat more human: applicants were to share their thoughts on the internet and propose the most efficient business model that could arise from combining ID Technology with the internet, then explain their reasoning.
“Is this really that hard?” Any programmer who had neglected algorithm study would find it difficult. Still, in Yoo Jae-won’s estimation, anyone who had mastered the fundamentals could solve the problems step by step. Moreover, his expectations were not sky-high; he wasn’t demanding algorithms on the level of zlib or LZMA, which would still be widely used in the twenty-first century. The third question was equally straightforward. This was an era when understanding of the internet remained low, so his bar wasn’t set particularly high. Just as with the first two problems, he wasn’t looking for ideas that transcended the times, such as an online distribution platform like Steam or a powerful search engine like Google.
Yet once the job posting went up, the flood of emails that had been arriving steadily dried up almost completely. The occasional application that did arrive left him sighing the moment he opened it. Even so, he couldn’t lower the difficulty. Problems one and two were essential algorithms for developing the office suite that would be ID Technology’s flagship product in 1989. Handling large corporate datasets, generating statistics, extracting desired values, and sorting them were the very foundation of office work. Although the first problem specified lossless compression of image files, the same algorithms could be applied to text files and ordinary binary files. The third question about the internet was no different. The internet was the core technology that would become ID Technology’s home base; even in 1988, applicants needed at least a basic understanding. He simply wanted to see whether they were comfortable with cutting-edge technology and whether they could express their thoughts clearly in writing.
“Hmm. Maybe I should just scout talent directly.” If he approached Lee Chan-jin, the creator of Hangul, with a proposal to build a word processor together, the man would surely respond. Likewise, he was confident that the famous computer-industry giants from his previous life would react positively to a direct offer. If he gathered every one of those named developers into ID Technology, developing the office suite would become far smoother.
“But they each have their own roles to play.” The challenges those individuals had faced—head-butting against barren ground in Korea’s fledgling computer industry—had already become history. The experience and environment built from repeated successes and failures had laid the foundation for Korea’s IT infrastructure. Of course, the side effects they created were considerable in proportion to their achievements, but this was not yet an era with the luxury to worry about such things. Absorbing them all would only make Korea’s computer industry even more barren.
“Well, let’s wait a little longer.” Yoo Jae-won decided to leave them alone unless they bit the hook he had cast himself. With plenty of winter break remaining, he would give it more time.
A few days later, Yoo Jae-won grew busier. Two major events he could not miss were approaching in quick succession, and once the new year arrived he would have to fly to the United States. The two events were an invitation to the Blue House and ID Technology’s shareholders’ meeting. The Blue House invitation was scheduled for the next day, the twenty-seventh, and the shareholders’ meeting would follow three days later, on the twenty-ninth.
From Yoo Jae-won’s perspective, neither event required much preparation. The Blue House’s “Night for Exporting Companies” was simply a dinner hosted by the President to thank business leaders who had contributed to the nation’s exports throughout the year. Had he been the chairman of a major conglomerate, he would have used the occasion to exchange favors and maximize benefits. Yoo Jae-won, however, had no such concerns. He had nothing to offer and nothing to request. He considered serving as the mascot that demonstrated the success of the government’s computer distribution campaign more than enough; a few dignified photographs would easily justify the meal. The only potentially troublesome situation would arise if the President or the chaebol chairmen in attendance became curious about the state of his business operations in the United States.
“Well, I suppose I should at least be familiar with the current situation in the States.” They might not ask at all, but if they did, he would need to answer. True to his nature, Yoo Jae-won acted the moment the thought occurred. He immediately contacted Choi Kang-wook in Seoul and asked him to fax over any materials that had arrived from the United States. If nothing substantial existed, even a single-page summary of sales figures would suffice.
Yoo Jae-won was only human; he was curious about the American situation as well. Yet he understood how busy companies were during year-end events, so he had refrained from making additional demands of Electronic Arts. “I wonder how many copies sold?” Waiting for the documents, he felt a faint tension. When the fax machine whirred to life, that tension sharpened. As the paper began to emerge and characters appeared, he deliberately looked away—he preferred to see the result all at once rather than piece by piece. The moment the completion alert sounded, he scanned the document.
“Huh?” The document had not been prepared by the Seoul branch; it was a fresh official notice that had just arrived from Electronic Arts that very day.
“Five hundred thousand copies?” The first thing that caught his eye was the number. Five hundred thousand. And then another five hundred thousand written right beside it. He had already heard from President Hawkins in early December that the first printing would be five hundred thousand copies, so at first he wondered if the number had been duplicated by mistake. Upon closer reading, however, he realized it was not. The first printing of five hundred thousand had sold out, and a second printing of another five hundred thousand was being prepared. Moreover, judging by market movement, the second batch was also expected to sell out before February at the latest. Once the second printing was exhausted, a third batch would be decided based on remaining demand. In total, that meant one million copies plus additional demand.
One million packages sold. At $29.99—call it thirty dollars—each, that was thirty million dollars in revenue. Thanks to the improved revenue split negotiated through Aegis Shield, half of that—fifteen million dollars—would go to ID Software. “So how much is that in won?” At the current exchange rate of 698 won to the dollar, the figure came to 10.47 billion won—an astronomical sum. Of course, that remarkable number would not appear in his account immediately; settlement would occur at the end of March next year.
Yoo Jae-won was strict with himself, yet even by his own standards this report card from America deserved an A+. With results like these, he would have something to boast about at the Blue House tomorrow beyond his age. Naturally, his attitude toward the event shifted. In truth, he had not been particularly pleased by the invitation. He had been summoned not because his abilities were recognized, but because the novelty of a grade-schooler running a business had drawn attention. Now, however, the sales figures alone were enough to earn him a legitimate place on the guest list for the Night for Exporting Companies. Achieving thirty million dollars in revenue in the information and communications sector—where even basic Korean localization was still in its infancy—was a historic milestone.
Yoo Jae-won sat down at his computer and drafted an official request to Electronic Arts for a simple statistical summary of sales performance. It was part of his preparation for the Blue House event; having the data on hand might prove useful. Once the document was finished, he printed it on the dot-matrix printer, signed it, and faxed it immediately. Since the fax machine sat on President Hawkins’s desk, the man would see and handle it promptly despite his busy schedule.
With the small worry now resolved, his bearing toward tomorrow’s Blue House event grew even more confident. “I’m actually looking forward to it.” The list of invitees printed in the newspapers was dazzling. Ilseong Group’s Chairman Choi Hyun-hee. Mirae Group’s Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon. Daeho Group’s Chairman Kim O-jung. Every name was a household word, and every title read “Chairman.” Except for Choi Hyun-hee, they all belonged to the founding generation. Choi Hyun-hee’s name sounded feminine at first glance, but he was a man in his early forties who had inherited the chairmanship last year after the founder’s death. The succession had been completed long ago; aside from a few progressive outlets mentioning inheritance taxes, there had been no controversy. In any case, these men were living legends of the Korean economy.
“Living legends, huh?” While drafting the document to be faxed, Yoo Jae-won had been keeping a sort of work diary. The phrase “living legend” triggered a sense of déjà vu. He had used almost the exact same words before—when Remington Sting first told him about John Carmack of id Software, the term “living legend” had immediately come to mind.
“Of course, not all legends are the same.” John Carmack was the kind of admirable legend one could look up to and respect. The gentlemen he would meet tomorrow were legends of the opposite sort. To put it bluntly, they were stagnant relics from whom there was nothing to learn. His approach would naturally differ as well. With John Carmack, the question had been how to build a positive relationship. With tomorrow’s guests, the question was how to leave a strong first impression. He already conducted small business with them—several thousand copies of the Korean version of Keyboard Warrior had been purchased by the computer companies they controlled—but business was simply a matter of mutual profit. He had no desire to force himself to make a favorable impression. Besides, even if next year passed without incident, from the mid-1990s onward he would clash with these men repeatedly and violently. He intended to crush them so thoroughly that the mere mention of his name or ID Technology’s would trigger their competitive instincts. Therefore, rather than being remembered as a precocious nerd who happened to succeed in business, he wanted his first impression to be that of a bold enfant terrible who said exactly what he thought. With his shining results now in hand, he had nothing to feel intimidated about.
The winter night was long, yet for Yoo Jae-won, whose mind was full, it passed in an instant. The day of reckoning dawned. After a hearty breakfast prepared by his mother, he left the house. He would not be traveling alone. The Grandeur that had come down to Naeo Village after a long absence carried Choi Kang-wook, and a bodyguard would accompany them from the village onward. One guard seemed insufficient, so two more would join them in Seoul. The Grandeur carrying Yoo Jae-won and his party sped toward the capital.