The Personalization Vision
2002, the year that would be remembered for the World Cup co-hosted by North and South Korea under global standards, had come to an end. 2003 had arrived. ID Group held its New Year’s ceremonies at each subsidiary and launched into the first tasks of the new year with vigor. Yet the ceremonies themselves looked different from before. In the past, Yoo Jae-won would have broadcast a single, sweeping vision to every affiliate through the company’s internal network. This time, he left the ceremonies to each subsidiary’s president. That did not mean he had stepped back entirely. He personally attended the ceremony at ID Technology, the very foundation of ID Group.
“We will achieve a level of personalization unlike anything other companies can offer, powered by big data.”
At ID Technology’s ceremony, Yoo Jae-won laid out the 2003 vision: personalization. For a man who had lived until the mid-twenty-first century, the concept was nothing new. The core of personalization was simple—analyze each user’s tastes and deliver services tailored to them. The data was already there in abundance. When people moved through the internet, they revealed sides of themselves they rarely showed in daily life. One might imagine that users who posted vicious comments were twisted, abnormal personalities, yet in reality most turned out to be ordinary professionals with respectable jobs. While that raised questions about the reliability of big data gathered from online activity, the data ID Technology possessed was remarkably accurate. It came directly from the Google search engine. No matter how many masks a troll wore, people did not lie to a search engine. The keywords they typed reflected their deepest interests and the work they actually did. With that foundation, personalization could target user preferences with striking precision. Gamers could be shown game-related ads or Steam coupons; fitness enthusiasts could receive ads for nearby gyms or sporting goods stores, combined with location data. Personalization was not only about delivering finely tuned services that respected both privacy and taste—it was also a revolution in precise, high-value internet advertising.
“Still, to truly dominate attention, we need a video platform,” Yoo Jae-won murmured on the way home after the ceremony, a note of regret in his voice.
Influence could be measured by how much of a person’s day a service captured. The more time users spent, the higher the advertising rates climbed. No one could deny that Nextcomm was the world’s largest portal. The banner directly beneath its logo commanded a base rate of ten thousand dollars. During prime-time hours, when traffic peaked, that same slot could easily fetch a hundred thousand. Timeflex followed the same logic. A small advertisement appeared beside the program selection screen—modest in size, yet priced accordingly. Even so, both platforms had limits. Average dwell time on Nextcomm hovered around twelve minutes; on Timeflex it barely exceeded an hour. Users watched a show or a movie and left. Timeflex’s paywall also capped its global reach. Yoo Jae-won knew the single best way to lock users in for hours was a free video platform.
“YouTube really is the answer.”
Unfortunately, while several user-generated content sites existed, none matched YouTube’s potential. He had accelerated technological progress, expecting Korean internet companies to launch services earlier than in the original timeline, yet nothing comparable had appeared. Among the active platforms, Eldorado TV in Korea and Livric overseas stood out—and both were deeply flawed. Eldorado TV was a haven for copyright-infringing content. Variety shows from Korean networks, Japanese anime, American dramas—anything entertaining crossed borders and appeared for anyone to watch. ID Group’s own titles were frequently stolen; Dragon Ball RM suffered the most. Its popularity had swept from North America across the globe. When Japanese broadcasters demanded takedowns for copyright violations, the videos disappeared—only to reappear under new accounts. With no monetization system in place, the sheer persistence of the uploaders was almost impressive. Annoyed, Yoo Jae-won ordered his team to track them down and pursue punitive damages.
Livric, meanwhile, was a repository for every kind of accident footage. It was the successor to Ogrish.com, the site that had gained notoriety the previous year for flooding 2CH.com with graphic images. While ordinary daily videos appeared on the surface, unfiltered accident clips still flooded the platform.
“Not that I can just build YouTube myself.”
Of course he could. The massive servers and streaming technology were already in place. The newly upgraded HTML 3.0 allowed video streaming without Flash plugins. Codec unification, required in version 2.0, was no longer necessary; every format could now be used. Users could record on any camcorder or smartphone and upload instantly. YouTube’s founders had already started a venture in Silicon Valley; acquiring them for a modest sum would solve the problem. Yet a sliver of hesitation remained. Moving too far ahead of the era risked serving half-cooked rice. YouTube had run at a loss for nearly a decade after launch. It only became the flower of internet culture around 2012, once videos surpassed a billion views—most famously with “Gangnam Style.” The billion-view milestone was not the song itself; it signaled that the infrastructure finally existed. Hundreds of millions of people accustomed to smartphones and internet culture had appeared by then, giving YouTube real momentum. Thanks to technological acceleration, smartphone adoption was already racing ahead. From this year onward, mobile Android-compatible devices would flood the market, accelerating adoption even further. Internet user numbers would surge, and the billion-view threshold would arrive sooner than expected.
“Around 2008, then?”
The elevator chimed softly as it reached the penthouse. Yoo Jae-won stepped out with his conclusion. 2008 felt right. YouTube’s losses would be at their worst; acquiring it at the right price would settle everything. After that, embedding it as a default Android app and combining AdSense with video advertising for personalized targeting would put the platform on track far faster than in the original timeline.
“Five years left.”
The thought drew an involuntary sigh. Every day since his regression felt like a precious jewel, yet building the necessary foundations still required so much time. Conflicting emotions warred within him.
“I should just do what I can.”
He walked straight into the study, shrugged off his suit jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and sat before the computer. His immediate task was raising the quality of Legend League. While it was good that the game would become the foundation of the AOS genre, it must not inherit every flaw of its predecessors. The computer finished booting; powered by the custom SSD, ID Tech Engine loaded the Legend League project in seconds. He opened the scripts governing hit feedback and began refining them. His goal was to eliminate the sluggish, dummy-like feel of combat before his departure for the United States in mid-January. That would not be the end of it. He also had to design countermeasures against the inevitable trolls that plagued every AOS title, and lower the entry barriers—balance issues, control complexity—that discouraged new players. Each task was vital, yet with enough time they were all solvable. Yoo Jae-won was determined to launch Legend League this year.
Several days passed. With the turn of 2003, the apocalyptic mood of the century’s end gave way to hopeful visions of the twenty-first century, and Korea remained as dynamic as ever. Lee In-je’s refusal to accept the primary results had created a political earthquake, reshaping the 2003 presidential landscape. Some of the talk inevitably touched on Yoo Jae-won. He was seen as having influenced the Tongil National Party’s rule changes, thereby helping to sideline Lee In-je. Yoo Jae-won offered no elaborate defense. He simply emphasized that the new rules were not temporary measures for this election alone; they would apply to every future contest and serve as a vital tool for reading public opinion.
Lee In-je’s phoenix-like resurgence sent the presidential polling numbers into constant flux. His name still carried weight, and his support overlapped significantly with both Jeon Jae-jun’s base and conservative voters. While Jeon Jae-jun still topped many surveys, an increasing number now placed him second—largely because Lee In-je was cannibalizing the same conservative bloc. The beneficiary of this deadlock was the Democratic Party’s Roh Moo-hyun, who rose to first place. Yet there was little cause for celebration. Talk of a unified candidacy had begun to surface. Any form of unification could instantly flip the top spot. The most frequently mentioned pairings were Roh Moo-hyun with Jeon Jae-jun or Roh Moo-hyun with Lee In-je, but even a Jeon Jae-jun–Lee In-je alliance was being discussed. All the candidates publicly insisted they would only consider unification centered on themselves. Still, once public opinion settled, the candidates would have little choice but to decide.
Korea’s political arena moved at a frantic pace, yet none of it affected Yoo Jae-won. True to his New Year’s resolution, every ounce of his concentration remained fixed on perfecting Legend League. His focus only broke when an ID Talk message arrived.
—Boss, Mr. Watson has finally made his decision.
Only one person in ID Group called Yoo Jae-won “Boss”: Remington. The message concerned Arthur Watson, former president of NBC.
“Took him long enough.”
He had identified Watson in mid-November as the ideal candidate to bring global broadcasting standards to Korea’s chaotic public networks. Watson had asked for time to consider, then gone silent. With Yoo Jae-won’s departure date approaching, he had begun weighing alternatives. Now the reply had come.
“After two months of deliberation, I assume it’s good news?”
—Yes, sir. Mr. Watson has agreed to lead the media group.
“That’s a relief. Did he attach any special conditions? The long deliberation suggests he wouldn’t have accepted outright.”
—As expected of you, Boss. There are conditions. If he successfully stabilizes the Korean media group, he wants a guaranteed promotion to a position that restores his honor, written into the contract. He also demands his compensation be paid in U.S. dollars—thirty percent above what he currently receives in America. If both are accepted, he says he will board a flight to Korea today.
Compared with two months of thought, the demands were modest.
“Of course. None of them are difficult. Accept everything.”
—Understood. I’ll convey your decision to Mr. Watson immediately.
After ending the call with Remington, Yoo Jae-won summoned Vice Chairman Choi Kang-wook. Preparations for launching the entertainment channel—permits, organizational structure—were nearly complete, yet they still lacked a captain. With Watson’s acceptance, there was no need for Plan B. Choi Kang-wook could now focus on finalizing the media group launch instead of recruitment.
—That’s excellent news. I’ll begin preparations for a welcome ceremony at once.
Choi Kang-wook responded with visible relief. No domestic broadcasting talent had met Yoo Jae-won’s standards, and the pressure had been mounting. Now the perfect candidate had stepped forward. The primary purpose of the couple’s upcoming trip to Korea—the launch of the media group—had entered its final countdown.