Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Savior Quest
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Nothing.
A company born in the early days of Korea's game industry, and even now, it still holds the top spot among game developers.
That said, like many Korean game companies that have survived for so long, it received just as much love from players—or even more hate.
Even so, there was no doubt that Nothing was one of the world's top game companies, far beyond just Korea.
Forgarden
Nothing's flagship RPG and a monstrous title that's been loved for over 20 years.
Most Korean players who enjoyed Forgarden might not realize it, but staying at the top of the MMORPG genre for over 20 years was an achievement beyond words.
And I was the main director of that game.
—Team Leader Kang! Now that you've made team leader, why not try taking on main director?
The first company I joined after graduating university was Nothing.
Back then, it was already one of Korea's top game companies, so I figured I got pretty lucky.
After getting hired, I endured over 10 years sandwiched between shitty bosses and Gen MZ underlings, and the company must've thought, "This guy's a real tenacious slave," because they issued me a "team leader" certificate.
At Nothing, once you became team leader, you had to choose one of two paths.
Either become the main director of an existing game and take command,
or take charge of a new project and develop a fresh game.
For the record, I wanted the latter.
But unfortunately, life's choices rarely go your way.
Of course, to outsiders, it looked like an amazing gig.
I'd been handed Forgarden, Nothing's main game and still the flagship of Korean RPGs even after over 20 years on the market.
And during the three years I served as main director, Forgarden's total sales quintupled.
It had already been pulling in 280 billion won annually, but by 2022 under my direction, it hit 1.2 trillion won per year.
At the same time, Nothing's stock price rocketed to Mars, finally ushering in the 1-million-won era.
-Today too, Deok-bae's normalizing Forgarden♪
A song that had gotten so overplayed it made me sick suddenly popped into my head.
My predecessor, Kim Deok-bae (39 years old, afflicted with circular baldness).
Deok-bae, the former main director of Forgarden, was the one who had plunged it into an endless abyss.
"Probability manipulation," "user disdain controversy," "design plagiarism"—he'd stirred up every scandal a director could muster.
Thanks to that, his name spread beyond game communities to every corner of Korea's online world.
Then, when some folks started uploading YouTube videos compositing his face with that song, it went viral like crazy.
Believe it or not, those clips—nicknamed "Deok-pop"—easily surpassed a million views and hit ten million.
It wasn't even a flash in the pan; Forgarden and Deok-bae's names became synonymous with mockery for nearly half a year.
Because of that, Deok-bae abruptly "resigned" (read: fled), and the company had to quickly pick a successor—which is how I ended up as main director.
"The company won't expect much. Just cleaning up Deok-bae's messes will be tough enough; they won't meddle."
"Really? So I can do whatever I want?"
"Yeah. Sigh... What kind of company hands a newbie team leader a disaster cleanup as their first big gig?"
Cleaning up a game that's hit rock bottom isn't that hard, surprisingly.
Assuming you're willing to let it die, of course.
But Forgarden was Nothing's crown jewel, too precious to abandon, so the order came down: save it somehow.
After agonizing for days, my team and I concluded that a cataclysm patch—essentially a season reboot—was the only way.
"So, after adding the fourth job advancement, we roll out the awakening patch to release new tier gear, resetting the value of all the in-game currency and items piled up over time..."
"Hold on. I've been thinking... What if we make this awakening system a gacha?"
At first, the team shot down my "crazy" idea.
But I had a hunch it could work.
The first major patch since I took over as main director.
This was the perfect timing to introduce an awakening system as a random gacha pull.
Tier it from S-grade awakenings down to A, B, and C.
Give three free pulls at first, then make 'em pay up with premium currency after—the so-called "ant hell project."
Naturally, everyone from the team to the higher-ups voiced concerns.
But the results?
Lmao, posting 'cause I pulled one
No suckers without an S-grade yet, right?
The users' reactions were immediate.
Sure, they cursed it as shitty pay-to-win bait.
But there was always a chance for a good grade within the free pulls,
and even if S-grade was a stretch, A or B was above average, so most players finished awakening with freebies or light spending to snag a B.
The problem was—
"No, an A-grade awakening is plenty good, guys!"
A few Forgarden streamers who made it their job, or top-rankers, had to drop hundreds of thousands—even millions—to keep up with rivals.
And occasionally, some insanely lucky players would brag about S-grades from free pulls or pocket change.
That sparked a "maybe me?" frenzy, and everyone started blowing cash on gacha.
"Team Leader Kang!!! I believed in you!!!"
Exactly one month after launch, my senior—who'd been promoted to division head after I vouched for him—checked the revenue, hugged me, and paraded around Nothing HQ.
'Eh... about that much?'
Buoyed by confidence and full authority, I started pulling out all my wild BM (business model) ideas that had been simmering in my imagination.
"Argh!!! You fucking bastard Kang Seon-woo!!!"
"There is but one god at Nothing, and his name is Kang Seon-woo. Kang-reluiya! Grant us the grace of performance bonuses...!"
The company cheered, while users hurled abuse.
Some griped it was devilishly greedy merchandizing, but player counts swelled back to Forgarden's golden age.
"If they spend, give 'em their money's worth of dopamine."
I balanced it with new patches for top whales and buffer zones so mid-to-high tiers could catch up.
"Whew... Kang Seon-woo, you money-grubbing prick. Fine, I'll bite."
People called Forgarden shitty but fun—the ultimate praise for a game director.
Now I was Nothing's next exec in line, untouchable even internally.
How untouchable? Well...
"Team Leader Kang, maybe it's time to come back..."
"Division Head, Nexcom emailed recently. Their dev division head spot's open—interested?"
"Take it easy!! Yeah, vacation days are for using! Forget work, rest up, and we'll see you back at the office, Team Leader Kang!"
In the game industry—ruthless as 19th-century Britain—I'd stacked enough PTO and extra leave for a full month's sabbatical.
So here I was, lounging in bed, scrolling webnovels on my smartphone.
"Nothing beats this."
I'd always hated exercise and wasn't outgoing enough to roam outside, so webnovels were my ultimate hobby.
Truth be told, I got into game dev because of webnovels.
Specifically, reading a game fantasy novel in the school library in my second year of middle school flipped my life upside down.
Game fantasy.
A dead genre now—no readers, no writers—but back then, it was huge.
And the flagship, Savior Quest, hooked me instantly.
"Back then, I thought I'd make VR games myself someday..."
After reading Savior Quest as a middle schooler, I had one dream.
'Virtual reality games.'
Even just words on a page, sparking my imagination—it was that alluring.
I'd dream of playing VR games.
And someday, I'd create one like Savior Quest with my own hands.
Maybe that's why, in high school, I blindly applied to computer science for the CSAT and college entrance.
'I thought learning computers meant I could make games.'
Kid stuff.
Should've researched more; it's barely related to game dev the deeper you dig.
Still, I hustled through college and lucked into Nothing, the top game company then.
I was thrilled, thinking I'd conquer the world and build my VR dream.
But reality hit hard.
—Hey, you think you're some Shigeru? What's with this open-world RPG pitch? Fix it now!
I knew compromises were needed, but not that I'd have to abandon my true passions entirely.
All my dreamed-up games got trashed as "unrealistic," and I became a company cog, building what they wanted.
'Still holds up.'
I gazed at the text on my phone screen.
Savior Quest, repurchased on a nostalgia binge and reread from start to finish.
Days glued to it, and reaching the end brought satisfaction laced with a strange regret.
The VR game in Savior Quest still looked so fun, but making one remained sci-fi territory—nothing but wistful longing.
'I wanted to make a game like this.'
With that absurd thought, I turned off my phone and drifted off to sleep.