The Last Piece of the Puzzle
With his silver hair and beard in the global standard style and piercing blue eyes, the middle-aged man stepped into Yoo Jae-won’s study. “Thank you for calling me,” he said, bowing at the waist in the Korean manner. This was Arthur Watson, the final piece of the ID Media Group puzzle. Aside from the slightly hollow look in his eyes that suggested a sleepless night, he possessed the kind of refined appearance one might expect from a successful New Yorker—model-worthy, even. Yet beneath that polished exterior lay a man whose bones had been hardened by decades in the broadcasting industry.
“Mr. Watson, welcome to the ID Group family.” Yoo Jae-won greeted him with a bright smile and a firm handshake. Watson had graduated from Columbia University’s journalism program in the 1960s, worked as a reporter for Time magazine, joined NBC as a news producer, and risen to become president of NBC by the mid-1990s—an inspiring success story. However, his failure to adapt to the shifting media landscape and changing viewer trends from the late 1990s onward had cost NBC viewers to cable and rival networks, ultimately contributing to the chain of events that led to its sale.
When NBC was acquired by the young IT tycoon Yoo Jae-won, Watson’s despair had been profound. After all, the “occupying general” sent to run NBC was none other than the tyrant Ted Turner, whose first act had been to fire Arthur Watson.
“At first, I wondered why you were calling me again. I thought perhaps there was still some way left to humiliate me,” Watson said calmly as the two men sat facing each other on the sofa in the study. He began to share his thoughts on coming to Korea, admitting he had initially suspected some hidden motive behind Jae-won’s offer.
“Haha, why would I do that? I simply needed your abilities, Mr. Watson.”
“You’re right. I don’t know why I agonized over it so much when the answer was obvious.”
Watson’s expression softened as he examined the contract, which contained every condition he had requested in precise language. The doubts that had plagued him—fears of being used like discarded chewing gum—vanished. The document guaranteed that if he successfully normalized ID Media Group, he would be promoted to leadership roles at NBC or Time Warner Nextcom. The only subjective element was the definition of “normalization,” but Jae-won had already established clear, measurable benchmarks that Watson could accept.
Most of the targets were standard broadcasting metrics, but one stood out: any program under the Media Group’s channels, regardless of genre, had to achieve at least 4% viewership. Having researched Korea’s cable television market, Watson knew how difficult that number would be. Cable penetration was low, and even the most popular cable channels rarely exceeded 0.x%. Many stations didn’t register in the ratings at all. Fortunately, the channels Jae-won had acquired—Ongamenet and Mnet23—were relatively popular and occasionally broke 1% on good days. Four percent wasn’t impossible, but there was another condition: the achievement must come without controversy over production practices.
“What I mean is, we must put an end to squeezing the staff dry,” Jae-won explained. “I refuse to let the Media Group I build earn that kind of reputation. I want people to say that anything the ID Group touches is different—and I’m prepared to invest whatever it takes to make that true.”
“Ah, I understand,” Watson nodded. Having risen from producer to president at NBC, he had never held American production standards in particularly high regard. Yet when he compared them to what he now knew of the Korean broadcasting industry, his jaw dropped.
“First, I plan to raise the proportion of in-house productions to 50 percent. And the personnel required for that will, as much as possible, be hired as full-time employees—writers, assistant directors, everyone.”
“That’s quite bold.”
“Some people claim hunger produces great writing, but I disagree. I believe you need to be secure to do your best work.”
Only someone who had truly gone hungry could speak with such certainty. Having experienced real hunger in his previous life, Jae-won knew this better than anyone. The ID Group already offered compensation far above the standards of both Korean and American corporations, attracting the world’s finest talent. With exceptional people came world-class software and products. While no programmer yet surpassed Jae-won himself, the company’s expanding portfolio meant he could no longer oversee everything personally—and the talented recruits were successfully filling those gaps. He saw no reason broadcasting should be any different.
“So what I expect from you first and foremost, Mr. Watson, is precise personnel management. This doesn’t mean hiring indiscriminately. We will recruit proven talent and convert them to full-time positions. Thanks to the labor law reforms, once someone is hired, they cannot be easily dismissed. Therefore, we must be extremely careful when increasing headcount.”
“Next is improving the production culture. The bad habits of existing networks must never be reproduced in our Media Group!” Jae-won declared firmly. Watson nodded in agreement. While preparing for his move to Korea, he had studied the local broadcasting industry and been shocked by several practices—most notably the daily one-hour soap operas and dramas airing twice a week. In the United States, weekly dramas were the norm, and even serialized shows rarely exceeded thirty minutes. In Korea, it seemed, people had to work twice as hard under far worse conditions.
“We’ll also launch a general entertainment channel—tentatively called Entertainment TV—that won’t carry news. Naturally, we’ll produce dramas as well. I want the entire production environment modeled after the American system. That’s why you’re the perfect person for the job, Mr. Watson.”
Jae-won explained why he had not recruited a Korean broadcasting executive. Bringing in someone from the existing system would likely result in the same outdated practices being repeated, complete with all their flaws. He had seen it happen too many times before the regression. People who had fought valiantly against government interference in broadcasting often became the very executives who perpetuated the old ways once they gained power.
“You may have your own ideas, Mr. Watson, but there is one rule I must insist upon: no single individual should ever hold absolute authority over a production.”
In baseball, they say it’s the pitcher’s game; in broadcasting, it’s the PD’s game. But while the baseball saying still held, the PD-centric system had only emerged later, around 2008 with the rise of real variety shows. The excessive concentration of power in PDs had created countless problems. Power revealed character more clearly than anything else, and when PDs became intoxicated with authority, they committed all manner of abuses—accepting bribes in exchange for casting opportunities being the most common.
“Of course. That goes without saying,” Watson replied. America had similar issues, but it also had checks and balances—and when someone crossed the line, they were cut off without hesitation. Korea made a show of punishment, yet after a while the offenders quietly resurfaced once public memory faded.
“I intend to make the head writer a full-time employee and divide authority with the PD. Think of it like the military: PDs are officers, writers are non-commissioned officers. The best combat effectiveness comes when they work in harmony. By strengthening the writer’s voice, we create a check on the PD.”
Existing networks couldn’t do this because writers were treated as disposable non-regular staff. But under the Media Group, even assistant writers would be full-time employees. The only exception would be drama writers, since dramas had clear endpoints and project-based contracts made more sense. Of course, the possibility of collusion between PDs and writers couldn’t be ignored, so systemic safeguards—including oversight from the Group Audit Office—would also be necessary.
After a long and productive discussion, Jae-won and Watson had reached a solid mutual understanding.
“I’ve already drawn up a basic blueprint for operating the Media Group channels,” Jae-won said, presenting his vision. “We’ll hold a drama contest to coincide with the launch of Entertainment TV. Ah, and among the entries from the Million Dollar Challenge, I’ve already selected a few that could be adapted into dramas. You can use those as references as well.”
The Million Dollar Challenge had concluded with one hundred winning works spanning webtoons and novels. Unfortunately, it hadn’t generated the same impact as the earlier Security Challenge, largely because the entries were heavily skewed toward science fiction and fantasy, limiting their audience. This also created challenges for drama adaptation, as those genres required substantial CG budgets. NBC’s in-house studio was already struggling with the slow production pace of White Ronyap River and the Monster Meadow due to the need for extensive monster rendering. Jae-won believed a drama contest would both identify suitable stories and generate buzz for the new channel’s launch.
“Real variety shows, food programs, and travel shows are going to be the next big trends, so please prepare for those in advance.”
This was why even the most accomplished PDs couldn’t match Jae-won—he already knew exactly which formats would dominate in the years ahead. Real variety, food, travel, health—he understood viewer interests better than anyone.
“If this new approach to running a media group succeeds, we can apply it to NBC and Time Warner Nextcom as well. And you, Mr. Watson, will be leading that charge.”
“So you didn’t call me here for nothing after all,” Watson said, his posture growing more serious as the conversation drew to a close.
Back in late November of the previous year, when Remington had first asked him to come to Korea as president of a cable network, Watson had thought it was a joke. When the offer evolved into leading a newly formed media group combining several cable channels and internet media outlets, he had dismissed it as the eccentric hobby of a young billionaire. Now he understood how deeply mistaken he had been. This was part of a far larger, far more serious plan—and one with every chance of success. If he accomplished this mission, he could redeem his tarnished career at NBC. More than that, if Jae-won’s vision succeeded, it wouldn’t merely transplant American standards to Korea. It would establish an entirely new global standard—one that could be applied to NBC and Time Warner Nextcom alike. Jae-won also hoped the Korean broadcasting industry would take notice and change, though his expectations in that regard remained modest.
“Here’s the contract. Feel free to take it with you and review it before signing.”
“No need. I’ll sign it right now.”
Though Jae-won had offered him time, Watson had already made up his mind. He picked up the fountain pen and signed the document with a decisive stroke.
On January 13, 2003, ID Media Group—whose beginning was humble but whose future would be grand—held its inaugural broadcast amid a lavish founding ceremony.