Super Synergy Effect
The price tag for the Super Synergy Effect package read $39.99. The $29.99 figure was the wholesale cost Electronic Arts charged retailers, who then added their own markup based on store policy and strategy. This particular shop, located in a bustling commercial district, tacked on an extra ten dollars, yet even at that premium price the game flew off the shelves. While Yoo Jae-won and Choi Kang-wook browsed the aisles, six more copies sold. In Silicon Valley, computers were inseparable from daily life, so games were simply part of the routine. With solid hardware everywhere, it was no surprise that Keyboard Warrior moved so well.
“Thinking of buying one yourself?”
“Yes!”
Yoo Jae-won joined the checkout line without hesitation. It was standard practice for Electronic Arts to send a few complimentary copies to the developer’s studio, but ID Technology was based so far away and the holiday season had been so hectic that the usual allocation had never arrived.
Thanks to the dedicated register, his turn came quickly.
“Welcome. Would you like Keyboard Warrior?”
The clerk was clearly busy, yet she spoke kindly to the child—typical of service in this country.
“Yes, ma’am! Ten copies, please!”
At the mention of ten copies, the clerk’s eyes widened.
“Little one, one copy is plenty for home use.”
“I want to play with my friends too, so I’m buying gifts for them.”
There were many people back home who needed copies—some for archival purposes, others for actual play, including Soo-kyung and Minister Oh Myung, plus several more recipients he wanted to surprise. Ten copies were already fewer than he would have preferred; he had trimmed the number to avoid complications at customs. When he presented his credit card, the clerk decided the boy must come from a wealthy family and began packaging the games without further comment. A child buying ten copies was unusual, but she had seen plenty of adults purchase dozens during the Christmas rush. Some were from small and large game studios in Silicon Valley doing research; others were buying in bulk for network play.
Because ten large boxes were too much for one person to carry, the clerk split them into two bundles of five. Even divided, the packages were bulky. Yoo Jae-won and Choi Kang-wook each took one, hailed a taxi back to the hotel, stored them safely, and then headed out again.
Lunch was a quick stop at McDonald’s. Everything around them was so fascinating that pausing to eat felt like a waste of time. Back in Korea the weather was below freezing, but San Francisco in January stayed comfortably above zero. On warmer days the temperature climbed to eight or ten degrees Celsius, so a moderately thick coat was all they needed for sightseeing.
By three o’clock they had thoroughly explored Silicon Valley. It was time to get down to business. Their destination was the Electronic Arts headquarters. A Cadillac sent by President Hawkins waited outside the hotel and whisked them away.
“Welcome to Electronic Arts.”
President Hawkins, who had looked visibly flustered at the airport the day before, now projected calm professionalism. He had reviewed the background documents prepared by his secretary, listened again to the negotiation tapes from their earlier meeting, and even booted up Keyboard Warrior once more to confirm that the Electronic Arts logo and catchphrase appeared correctly. The voice matched the boy he had met at the airport. The two accompanying lawyers were the same staff members who had handled the paperwork before. A thirteen-year-old really was the president of ID Technology, and his game-development talent was nothing short of genius. That was all that mattered.
What Hawkins wanted, after all, was the next title that could ride the success of Keyboard Warrior. A favorable contract would benefit everyone.
“Did you have a pleasant first day in Silicon Valley?”
“Yes, thanks to you I slept well and feel completely refreshed.”
Yoo Jae-won offered the polite reply. When no contract was on the line, he was perfectly willing to exchange pleasantries.
“I’m glad to hear it. I understand you also took a quick tour of Silicon Valley this morning?”
“Yes! It was especially nice to see our Keyboard Warrior posters everywhere in that big store, and even better to watch the game actually selling. The Irish-style display with its own dedicated register made it impossible to miss the moment you walked in.”
“Ah, so you visited Best Buy. Haha. That’s one of the stores right in our backyard that we keep a close eye on. If you had come on Christmas Eve you would have seen absolute chaos—quite a sight, really.”
Chaos. Having seen plenty of Black Friday and Singles’ Day footage in his previous life, Yoo Jae-won could easily picture last year’s Christmas sales frenzy.
“You needn’t worry about royalties, either. Our barcode-based sales-tracking system records every single package without exception. Once the cash settlement is complete, we’ll wire the funds immediately—no need to wait until March.”
President Hawkins raised the sensitive topic of money first.
“Oh, thank you! I have plenty of places the money needs to go, so that’s a relief.”
Experience really did count. Hawkins had a knack for addressing exactly what Yoo Jae-won cared about. Displaying the live data on a monitor only reinforced his credibility.
In Korea, verifying actual sales figures was far more difficult. Some unscrupulous record labels underreported revenue even when albums sold far better than claimed, reducing both taxes and payouts to artists and copyright holders. The United States, however, had long since adopted POS systems, allowing real-time visibility into shipments and sales. Korea’s limited use of POS and barcode technology suddenly struck Yoo Jae-won as a missed opportunity. A system that could instantly manage inventory and generate daily or periodic sales reports with the push of a button would be highly attractive to retailers and distributors alike. Selling the hardware and software outright—or, if the upfront cost was too high, renting it with a monthly usage fee—seemed like a promising business idea.
While he was still mulling over the potential, President Hawkins continued.
“We’ve set the third production run at five hundred thousand units. That includes roughly two hundred thousand copies for the European version, not just the U.S. market.”
“Excellent.”
Even at the shipment stage, the total already reached 1.5 million copies. If there had been a Game of the Year award this year, Keyboard Warrior would surely have been nominated—an unfortunate missed opportunity.
“Yes, the industry is still reeling from the numbers. It will probably make the Guinness Book of Records as the fastest software to reach one million units.”
As time passed, the record for reaching a million copies would only get shorter. In the internet-saturated twenty-first century, titles would sell ten million copies in a single week. But that was twenty years away. Right now, no company could match what Yoo Jae-won had achieved.
“Ah, and inquiries about Aegis Shield have been pouring in as well.”
Keyboard Warrior’s massive sales owed much to both its quality and the rock-solid copy protection provided by Aegis Shield.
“Even rival distributors have started asking about it.”
Before leaving for the States, Electronic Arts had sent formal notice that Aegis Shield would be applied to their upcoming major releases. An earlier fax had mentioned the same intention; the latest update, received just before departure, stated that the combined print run of those titles would total three hundred thousand copies. Three hundred thousand across multiple games still felt modest compared with the 1.5 million Keyboard Warrior units, but most titles were considered successful if they sold over one hundred thousand. President Hawkins was essentially asking whether Yoo Jae-won would also license Aegis Shield to competitors such as Activision.
“Hmm. That requires some strategic thought.”
Applying Aegis Shield to every piece of software would maximize revenue, but it would also concentrate every hacker’s efforts on cracking it. Aegis Shield was the best current protection, yet it was not perfect. Only a system combining public-key encryption, online authentication, and real-time internet updates that refreshed the code with each release could truly close the loopholes. Moreover, each program required its own custom format file, which had to be coordinated during development; otherwise the protection could not be embedded. Because the code had to access sectors normally unreachable by DOS, sharing too much information risked leaking Aegis Shield’s core secrets.
“In conclusion, it would be best to apply it only to a carefully selected number of titles.”
President Hawkins understood the concern and did not push further. The recent windfall had already demonstrated the powerful synergy between a well-made game and Aegis Shield. Keeping the technology’s inner workings as secret as possible and avoiding a concentrated hacker assault was clearly the wiser course. He accepted that limiting its use to a handful of chosen titles was the optimal strategy.
“By the way, I know it’s early to ask since the game has only just launched, but have you given any thought to your next project?”
Having lifted everyone’s spirits with the positive news, Hawkins finally steered the conversation to the real purpose of the meeting. The early royalty payments and the decision to push a third run of five hundred thousand copies—including Europe—had all been calculated moves. He had hoped for this outcome. Even if nothing concrete emerged, simply securing a promise that the next title would be distributed through Electronic Arts—or at least leaving a favorable impression—would more than justify the cost of ID Technology’s trip to America.
“Yes, I have,” Yoo Jae-won answered brightly. “In fact, I have two.”
Two, not one. President Hawkins’s seat practically trembled with excitement.