Giant Killer
Sambo Computer currently made its living solely from manufacturing computers. The company had always kept a close eye on the latest trends in major components, so they were well aware of Intel’s upcoming 486 release. Yet despite their best efforts, they still hadn’t managed to get their hands on one. Major American computer makers had reserved massive quantities and were sweeping up every available unit. On top of that, the chip suffered from high defect rates during production, and overall output remained limited. It had reached the point where even retail stores in the United States rarely stocked the processor for customers to see.
By comparison, Sambo was a modest Eastern company selling only four or five thousand computers a month—and those were outdated XT and 286 models rather than the newest chips. There was simply no reason for a giant like Intel to offer them any special treatment. Even the large domestic conglomerates—Ilsung, Mirae, and Daeho—found themselves in the same position as Sambo, sharing the sting of being treated as second-class customers.
That was why it came as such a surprise when Intel personally sent a 486 sample to Yoo Jae-won, a software developer with no manufacturing operation of his own.
“Would it be all right if I came down to take a look sometime?”
“Of course.”
Yoo Jae-won’s presence had already been growing day by day, but seeing Intel actively reach out to him made Lee Yong-kwon realize he had still underestimated the young man.
“Now, let me run it for you.”
Having finished his explanation, Yoo Jae-won launched ID Office. Roughly an hour later, Lee Yong-kwon spoke again.
“I think I understand why Intel is giving your company preferential treatment.”
The vice president had gained a fresh appreciation for both Yoo Jae-won’s abilities and the significance of ID Technology through ID Office. An hour was far too short to explore every feature, but even a surface-level look had been enough. He was certain that JewelWrite 2, the word processor Sambo Computer had been working so hard on, along with the in-house programs from other major firms, would have to be scrapped immediately. Compared to ID Word, they looked painfully crude.
No other word processor had implemented WYSIWYG so flawlessly. The user interface was excellent, and the feature set was overflowing rather than lacking. Most impressive of all was its handling of Hangul input. There was no need to argue over whether to use the combination or completion method, nor any reason to debate two-set versus three-set keyboard layouts. It offered the elegant fonts of the completion method while supporting every possible Hangul character like the combination method, and users could simply change the keyboard layout in the settings to switch instantly.
“The text doesn’t break even when you enlarge the font. What’s that feature called?”
“It’s called outline fonts. Right now we only support Myeongjo, but we’ll be adding more styles in the future. We’ve also included a font-creation tool, so anyone with design talent can make and distribute fonts—either for free or for sale.”
The outline font feature had been born from synergy with the Silicon Valley team. Whenever Yoo Jae-won set a direction, they delivered results at an astonishing pace. Thanks to them, functions originally planned for version 2.0 had made it into the first release, outline fonts among them.
There were many other useful additions as well. Table creation, for example. Tables were indispensable for timetables, simple data organization, and statistics. That too had been slated for version 2.0, yet the Silicon Valley team’s intense focus had produced it in record time. They had even added basic calculation functions to the tables themselves, allowing four arithmetic operations, sums, and averages without needing to open a separate spreadsheet.
“The Hanja font is nice too.”
“I knew you’d notice, Vice President.”
When the Silicon Valley team went all out, Yoo Jae-won’s own enthusiasm rose to match. That was how they ended up creating a font containing all 1,800 commonly used Hanja characters. To compensate for the readability issues outline fonts sometimes had at small sizes, they had also included a 12-point bitmap font. Working on at least thirty Hanja characters a day, the task had taken a full sixty days.
“How could I miss it when the characters are sitting right there?”
Yoo Jae-won opened ID Word and created a sample file to demonstrate its capabilities. It was a readme containing a brief program description and legally binding terms. He had inserted images and tables to showcase the software’s power, and important terms were accompanied by their Hanja equivalents.
“How do you switch to Hanja?”
In response to Lee Yong-kwon’s question, Yoo Jae-won pointed to the right Alt and Control keys.
“We haven’t assigned dedicated Hanja or language-toggle keys yet, so I’ve mapped them here. You can also toggle between Korean and English by pressing Shift and Space together.”
Yoo Jae-won demonstrated. He typed the word “baek,” then pressed the right Control key. A list of Hanja sharing that pronunciation appeared instantly. Users could select the desired character with the mouse or arrow keys and confirm with a click or Enter. Even more remarkably, a tooltip displaying the meaning automatically appeared for whichever Hanja the cursor rested on—an aid that let even users unfamiliar with Hanja find the right character with ease.
“This would be incredibly convenient! I wouldn’t have to memorize Hanja at all!”
Lee Jae-hyung’s voice rose with excitement.
“Good heavens.”
Lee Yong-kwon, who possessed deeper programming knowledge, could only stare in stunned silence. He understood exactly how much painstaking work had gone into implementing such features.
“Basic functionality matters, of course, but it’s the small differences that turn a product into a masterpiece.”
ID Word was not the only standout. ID Spreadsheet was equally revolutionary. It ran in graphics mode yet remained lightweight, and even complex calculations linking multiple formulas executed quickly. Most importantly, the programs within the office suite created genuine synergy. Lee Yong-kwon was now convinced that using them effectively would bring substantial benefits to any business operation.
“This is extraordinary. We shouldn’t just bundle it with our machines—we should adopt it for Sambo Computer’s own internal use. How much per copy?”
“We’re planning to charge forty thousand won per program.”
“So the full Office suite would be one hundred sixty thousand won. That’s not exactly cheap. Then again, you did say it was developed with an American team. The development costs must have been enormous, and since a single purchase lasts a long time, it can’t be priced like a game.”
Whether out of genuine goodwill toward Yoo Jae-won or not, Lee Yong-kwon had voiced exactly the points the young developer would have made himself. Every word was correct. Keyboard Warrior had been aimed at individual consumers, but Office was professional software intended for corporations, government offices, and schools. Sales volume would be limited, so the price had been set accordingly. Even so, one hundred sixty thousand won was still remarkably affordable. In his previous life, Microsoft’s Office suite had rarely sold for less than two hundred thousand won. University promotions offered discounts, but only after proving enrollment, and commercial use always required the full price.
“Since Sambo Computer is a partner of ID Technology, we’ll offer it at a discount. As before, twenty percent off—twelve hundred eighty thousand won.”
“Haha, thank you. I’ll show it to the chairman tomorrow and get the exact purchase quantity. It won’t be a large number at first, though. You know why, don’t you?”
“Because it requires a 386 or higher?”
“Exactly. Korea is still in the 286 era. Even the office computers our own employees use are XT or 286 models. We don’t have many machines capable of running ID Office. Besides, Araea Hangul runs perfectly well on 286s and XTs.”
Ah, Hangul. It had been about two months since Araea Hangul, created by Seoul National University graduate Lee Chan-jin and a few colleagues, had officially launched. Sambo Computer had apparently obtained a copy and was already using it.
“Still, for accounting and bookkeeping work that requires spreadsheets, switching to 386 machines and using ID Office would be worthwhile. We could also bundle ID Word as a standard inclusion with the 386 models we sell to individual customers.”
“Hehe, thank you.”
Yoo Jae-won bowed deeply, expressing his gratitude. Once again, Lee Yong-kwon had readily purchased his work. Since the company planned to use it internally, the parts suppliers working with Sambo Computer would naturally adopt ID Office as well. The same would happen with subcontractors and affiliates once the parent conglomerates began using it. Schools and government offices would follow the same pattern. Once the upper levels opened the way, adoption would flow downward naturally. That was the true trickle-down effect.
Of course, Yoo Jae-won was not relying solely on trickle-down. He had also prepared a strategy to approach from the bottom up. University students who would soon enter the workforce would be given ID Office at near-free prices so they could grow accustomed to it early. The same policy would apply not only in Korea but across the United States, Europe, and the rest of the world. In time, people might call it unfair, but for now it could still be dismissed as cutting-edge marketing.
“Dad! You’re done with work now, right? Then let’s play Keyboard Warrior!”
Lee Jae-hyung, who had been watching Yoo Jae-won and Lee Yong-kwon handle ID Office for quite some time, seized the moment to mention the game. He seemed to possess more patience than his appearance suggested. It looked like Yoo Jae-won would have to demonstrate another last-minute boss kill.
“It’s no trouble at all.”
Cracking his knuckles, Yoo Jae-won booted up the computer and double-clicked the Keyboard Warrior icon on the desktop. By embedding a direct-access code to the final stage in the start menu, he jumped straight into the boss fight.
At the same moment, in Redmond, Seattle, Microsoft’s headquarters remained brightly lit. Americans were said to strictly observe working hours, but that applied only to traditional smokestack industries or customer-facing service sectors. The situation at Microsoft, the very symbol of the IT industry, resembled that of a Korean game-development studio racing toward a release deadline. The launch of Windows 3.0, the next-generation operating system, was now less than a year away.
Overtime, once unheard of, was steadily increasing. To meet the release schedule, key personnel were working late into the night—some even sleeping at the office. Microsoft had every reason to push hard: its previous graphical operating system, Windows 2.0, had been a failure. It ran in graphics mode yet offered nothing beyond DOS’s text mode, and aside from Microsoft’s own applications, few third-party programs supported it. Combined with its high system requirements, success had been unlikely from the start.
Windows 3.0 was being forged with far greater determination. It aimed to deliver a graphical interface on par with the Macintosh, enhance multitasking through virtual memory, and even support multimedia. However, the technical complexity meant the development schedule had already begun to slip. As a result, even Bill Gates, Microsoft’s CEO, was still at the office at this late hour.
Knock, knock.
The door burst open the moment the knock sounded. The towering figure who appeared was Steve Ballmer, Microsoft’s co-founder, standing an imposing 196 centimeters tall.
“What’s going on?”
Gates asked without turning, his eyes fixed on the monitor. The only person who would barge into his office unannounced was Steve Ballmer.
“Bill, I picked up something interesting. Take a look.”
“What? Another new game?”
“Come on, Bill, you know I’m not much of a gamer. This is far more intriguing than that. It’s an office suite.”
At the mention of an office suite, Gates finally lifted his head and looked at Steve. In Ballmer’s hand were seven unlabeled floppy disks.
“It’s called ID Office. They’re running a paid beta test, and the response has been explosive.”
“ID? That’s a name I’ve heard before.”
“Right. It’s the same ID Technology that made all that noise with their typing game last Christmas season. This is their new product.”
“They should stick to making games. Why on earth did they choose to make an office suite? How’s the quality? Trash?”
Stressed by the slipping schedule, Gates responded with open irritation. Even a small company invading his territory was enough to make him prickly.
“I don’t know yet. I just received this package from our Silicon Valley office and haven’t checked it myself.”
That piqued Gates’s curiosity as well. He eventually vacated his seat and told Steve to install it on his computer. Steve inserted the first disk and ran the installer. Somehow Ballmer had also obtained a test serial key; the process completed without issue. Installation went smoothly, and setup finished quickly.
Moments later, a green desktop background depicting the hills behind Deokjin-ri appeared on the screen, accompanied by an elegant ribbon interface. The shock on both men’s faces was only natural.
Having dominated the PC operating-system market with DOS, Microsoft had finally recognized a true rival.