The Unwanted Talent

Facial markers dotted across his face to help the computer read every micro-movement of his eyes, nose, mouth, and jaw.

A head-mounted camera fused to a helmet, built specifically to film that face ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of mine.

It was a sight you'd find at any motion capture shoot, but still…

Why am I the one wearing this?

I'm the client here, aren't I?

When I came to my senses, I was already changed into the suit and standing in the middle of the studio.

"CEO Cho! Move around a bit so we can check the tracking!"

"Excuse me? Director, no, that's not—"

"Tracking looks great! Perfect!"

Watching Director Choi hunch over the monitor, thumbs raised high, I could only stare in disbelief.

Okay, that's just going too far.

All I'd done was offer a few suggestions to get a better result out of the shoot, and this is how he retaliates? I knew Director Choi was talented, and I knew there were only a handful of motion capture studios in the country, but that didn't justify a 'if you're so frustrated, Mr. Client, why don't YOU do it' attitude. Even someone as patient as me has limits.

"Haah. Director Choi. What is the meaning of this?"

"What do you mean?"

"As a paying customer, I made a couple of remarks hoping for a more perfect result, and you're humiliating me for it? That's crossing a line, don't you think? I wasn't being disrespectful — at a shoot like this, that level of input is barely a casual suggestion—"

"Whoa, no, no! CEO Cho! You've got it all wrong, all wrong!"

Director Choi waved his hands in protest, the picture of injured innocence.

"You think I'd lose my mind and treat a precious client that way?"

"Then what exactly is going on right now?"

"Even as a motion capture director, how am I supposed to sit still when there's someone acting like THAT right in front of me? Am I right, everyone?"

When Director Choi asked the staff for backup, they all nodded along.

"The Director's right. That was a genuinely fine performance, even to my eye."

"Motion capture work is different from ordinary filming — facial acting matters far more than voice projection or enunciation — and your facial acting was so good I couldn't believe you weren't a professional actor!"

The other staff chimed in to back up Director Choi's excuse. However, every one of those people was his employee. Skeptical, I turned to look at Ms. Kim Min-ji.

"You did well."

"Ms. Kim. Don't say things you don't mean. Be honest."

"I am always sincere."

I knew full well that Ms. Kim was the type to stay silent rather than offer empty flattery — which was exactly why I found it so hard to believe.

"I'm the person in this world furthest removed from acting."

"Director. Whatever do you mean?"

"Hm?"

"Every time you develop a game, you say a director needs total immersion to build a character, and you act out the movements yourself. Isn't that all acting?"

I understood what Ms. Kim was getting at.

She must have seen me imitating zombie creatures and the Dot Hero heroes back at the office and gotten the wrong idea.

Those were simple demonstrations to help the art team understand, nothing like actual acting.

"That's not acting."

Acting was a far more refined thing — immersing yourself in a role until you became the character.

"Hm. That IS acting."

"Ms. Kim. We're outside the office, but this is still an official business trip. If you're joking around—"

"Now, now, let's not fight. CEO Cho, let's just try it lightly, one take. Nothing to lose by trying, right? And if I'm wrong — if I've committed a great insult against you — then I'll knock 10% off the filming fee we agreed on!"

This wasn't a sampling booth; he was proposing I take a 'taste' of the work. A hollow laugh escaped me. But… a 10% discount. That was hard to resist.

How much was it per day of shooting again?

Seungwook would know the exact figures, but I remembered the rough numbers. Renting the studio for a full day (eight hours) ran about 2 million won, and once you factored in the professional actor's fee and data cleanup (post-processing), nearly 4 million won left the account per day.

The shooting schedule is about 35 days, so 10% would be…

Nearly 15 million won in savings.

I have been spending quite a bit lately.

Company acquisition costs, investment capital, that sort of thing. It was all money well spent, but between buying companies and splurging on luxuries, our retained earnings had visibly thinned out.

It was laughable — a man who'd blown through billions of won agonizing over a mere 15 million won discount. Still, when someone offers you a discount, you don't refuse. Even if the terms of that discount were a little absurd.

"Phew… I just have to do it once, right?"

"Yes! Whether I lied or not, we'll see right there on the footage."

"Mm."

"Just one scene. One scene."

I'd already, in a daze, changed clothes and strapped on the equipment. One quick take, that's all. At worst I'd be performing for the ten or so people in the studio. I could manage that much, I decided.

"Phew. Let's do it."

"Excellent!"

"Which scene will it be…?"

"How about the scene where Minsu, our protagonist, sees Sua on the verge of being bitten by her zombified father and hesitates? It's the part where you criticized the actor's facial performance earlier."

It was just one throwaway scene anyway. What did it matter? I nodded.

"Alright, take a look at the storyboard here, and I'll give you a moment to get into character."

"No need. The storyboard's already in my head."

"Pardon?"

"I wrote the story, and I conceived the scene. How could I not know it? Let's just go."

I wanted this over with so we could move on to the real shoot. Beyond the story-mode cutscenes, there was a mountain of footage ahead — zombie motions, NPC motions, action motions, you name it.

"Okay! Then let's go right in! Stand on the marks over there… Scene number 4, cut number 2! Action!"

As Director Choi's signal fell, I painted the scene in my mind. I knew that trying hard would only yield a wretched performance, but going too halfhearted might show on camera somehow, so I gave it my best anyway.

A sudden zombie outbreak.

Raving lunatics committing incomprehensible violence.

And a father turned zombie, and a child.

For a split second, Minsu looks at this child — a total stranger — and sees his dead little sister.

For a protagonist who lived with crushing guilt over his sister's death, that memory overlapped onto the moment.

Helping the girl could cost him his life, but to Minsu, the sight of this girl — who for an instant had looked like his sister — coming to harm was more unbearable. Not yet understanding what the zombies really were fed into that judgment too.

I acted out that brief moment of anguish as fully as I could.

Forgetting, for just a moment, that this was a film set. Believing I was the protagonist.

"Cut!"

Director Choi's voice rang out.

It ended so quickly I was left flustered.

"Huh?"

"That's a cut! Cut!"

So he'd finally screamed stop at my wretched acting, I thought — but his expression was nowhere near disappointment.

"CEO Cho! Come over here and look at the footage!"

In a daze, I walked over to Director Choi and checked the capture. A polygonal lump of a model stood motionless — nothing like the film dailies I'd imagined. But the expression on it was startlingly alive.

"…?"

"See? I told you you were good!"

When the professional actor had shot it, I'd been so dissatisfied I demanded a reshoot — but this take was actually decent.

"Why… why is this decent?"

"CEO Cho. Do you see now that I wasn't talking nonsense? Look at that subtle expression. Capturing that whole arc of anguish and resolve through facial motion capture rather than live filming is no easy feat."

It turned out I had a genuinely unexpected talent. I'd never known because I'd never once tried acting this seriously in my life. Of course, a professional actor would still outperform me on raw skill — but this was possible because ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of how deeply I understood the character, having been immersed in the protagonist throughout the entire writing process.

But even so, a talent is just a talent…

I'm a game developer?

For someone with not a single speck of interest in acting, discovering a talent for it stirred up precious little excitement.

"Anyway, let's stop here."

"What do you mean, stop…?"

"The deal was one scene. One take. Me playing Minsu for the whole shoot is a bit…"

I'd only come to the studio with Ms. Kim today because it was day one; I couldn't show up here every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠single day while the shoot ran. There was coding to do, art and sound work to review — I was a man with plenty on my plate—

"CEO Cho!"

"Gah! You scared me. Why are you yelling all of a sudden…"

"That day! What we said over drinks after the meeting! Have you forgotten it?!"

"Huh?"

"You said you wanted to make the greatest game! That since this is PlayForge's first AAA-grade project, you wanted to make it the best! And you asked me to give it my very best!"

I didn't think I'd put it quite that dramatically, but I had asked him to take good care of it.

"And yet! When the single best person to play Minsu is standing right here — you, CEO Cho — you refuse?!"

"Hold on. You run a studio yourself, Director, so you know — I simply have too much work, there's nothing I can—"

"I still remember it. The moment you said you treat every game you develop like your own child."

It was a line I often used with my employees about taking responsibility for their work — but I had no idea I'd said something like that over drinks.

"Was your love for your child worth that little, CEO Cho?"

"No, Director Choi. Please, calm down for a moment."

"Isn't it a parent's heart to want to give their child only the best? Even when circumstances are hard, isn't it still a parent's wish to see their own child eat well and dress well?!"

Suddenly, an old memory surfaced — what my seniors used to say about Director Choi.

Those words were why I'd sought out Director Choi in the first place.

But thinking back now, there had been more.

"Director Choi has a few screws loose — every once in a while he gets fixated on something strange. When that happens, just smile, nod, say 'yes, yes,' and move on."

"…Screws loose, you say?"

"Yeah. Nothing serious. He just does the occasional lunatic thing. Says he's losing focus, then suddenly changes the stage's background color mid-project. Or insists on shooting shirtless. Or swaps out the actor without warning. Sometimes he even demands revisions from US, saying a take he shot differently from our storyboard is more 'alive.'"

"Doesn't that cause problems with the work?"

"Problems, my foot. I told you, the man's work is excellent. Just let it slide and he'll turn out great deliverables on his own. Fast, too."

Why am I only remembering this NOW?

Though honestly, even remembering it wouldn't have helped. Of all the examples my senior gave, not one mentioned having to act myself, so I never saw this coming.

"You're right, Director Choi. Parents always want to give their children the best. But 'circumstances' are—"

"In my head! No one else even registers anymore! No one else but you, CEO Cho, is fit to play Minsu!"

"This is maddening."

"Just close your eyes and take the plunge! Let's shoot it! Didn't you like your own performance just now? If the schedule is the issue, I'll wrap the shoot as fast as I can. Eight hours a day, five days. That's all we need!"

If I refused here, I had a feeling he'd sooner eat the penalty for breach of contract than let me walk away.

Part of me wanted to just tear up the agreement outright, but there were only a handful of motion capture studios in the country, and booking one took at least half a year in advance. Studios without that backlog were brand-new operations that hadn't done a single project yet — hardly reassuring places to hand over work.

It's the time more than the money…

I hesitated a moment, then nodded with a heart half surrendered to fate.

"Haah… Fine."

"Haha! I knew you'd come around! We're people who make things, you and I — how could we stomach choosing second-best when the best is on the table? You perform Minsu better than anyone, CEO Cho — how could I possibly use one of our actors?"

"Just… please, restrain yourself a little…"

"In exchange! I'll add another discount! No — better yet, I'll pay YOU a wage! Actors' day rates run around 150,000 won, so it should be a nice little earner. Haha!"

"That's enough. Just be generous with the discount."

Well, it had come to this. Nothing to do but go through with it.

Shooting AND coding… my sleep hours are about to take a serious hit for a while.

A brief farewell, then.

Goodbye, my precious average of five hours of deep, restful sleep.

When I came out of the shower for work, Som-mungchi was sitting right at my door, looking up at me with worried eyes.

"Nyaaang…"

"I'm fine."

Motion capture shoots. Coding for the next project. Reviewing the art and sound teams' deliverables. Reading and signing off on the paperwork Kim Seungwook kept sending over.

The past few days had been a genuinely relentless sprint.

"Nya. Nyaang…"

"I know. It's hard to adjust."

After regression I'd been sleeping a generous average of five hours a night — I never knew cutting down to four a day would leave me this exhausted.

"Well, at least my shooting days are over."

Whether that counted as a blessing, I couldn't say, but the scenes requiring physical action all used a stand-in, which was why I'd gotten off this easy. Had I filmed every single scene myself, it would have ended with dark circles pooling under my eyes and two kilograms gone from my frame.

Never again.

This experience taught me that unwanted talents can be poison. Get snagged by a lunatic psycho like Director Choi, and you end up exploited like me.

Still, the results were decent, so…

Otherwise, no matter how Director Choi carried on, whether he tore up the contract or not, I wouldn't even have bothered pretending to listen.

"Good morning."

Stepping onto the sixth floor where my office was, I greeted Mr. Woong and Ms. Boyoung, who had already arrived. I usually got in one to two hours before regular start time, but today I sauntered in at a luxurious 9:10. Normally I would have been the one welcoming the arriving staff — today, the tables were turned.

"…Pfft."

"…Kk."

Yet neither of them even turned their heads, absorbed in something.

Did I have a task due today that they were rushing to finish?

Nothing came to mind.

What on earth could have them this glued to their screens with their boss standing right there? Curious, I walked closer.

"Hukk—!"

"Mr. Namgung Woong. Ms. Ha Boyoung."

"D-Director! You're in already?"

"Hand it over."

The two of them, only now noticing my presence mid-video, hastily tried to hide a smartphone.

"Th-this is, uh, private…"

"Give it."

"…… Yes."

The moment I saw the video ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠those two had been trying so hard to hide from me, my hands began to tremble.

"Mr. Namgung Woong."

"Y-yes…"

"Go fetch Ms. Kim Min-ji. Right now!"

What I truly, desperately wanted to know was: why on earth were these two watching a video of me in a blue bodysuit, acting my heart out on a motion capture stage?