The Day the Miracle Began
The Day the Miracle Began
The game I had developed for five years failed the moment it launched.
And not just an ordinary failure—it went down in complete, utter disaster.
Every related community was on fire, and as if that wasn't enough, users were spreading the news to other game communities, gleefully banging their drums.
The game that had received countless expectations and attention from domestic and international gamers for spending 30 billion won on development costs alone didn't fail because of a developer's typo or an operational issue.
It was because of one single person.
My incompetent boss who was responsible for this entire project.
"Hah, fuck."
Beneath the cold winter sky, the words I exhaled along with cigarette smoke were a single phrase packed with a lot of meaning.
After graduating from university and landing a job at a company considered mid-sized in the industry, it was the first game project I ever participated in.
The rating of a game that could be considered the culmination of my youth—a game I ground my youth into—plummeted into the abyss the moment it launched.
Thanks to that, the office atmosphere was practically a funeral parlor. I had escaped to the rooftop for a moment to avoid my furious boss, who had been raging since morning.
"Assistant Manager-nim, what do we do now?"
At the question from my subordinate, who was smoking next to me, I flicked ash onto the ground and answered.
"What can we do? Either quit and move somewhere else, or whether you like it or not, grit your teeth and stick with the company."
Truth be told, this was a disaster I'd seen coming for a while.
During development, the company's joint CEO and General PD—who had parachuted in—had not only completely rewritten the story of a game already in development for nearly three years to suit his own whims, but had also butchered most of the growth system that was intimately tied to the original story.
The development team, including myself, tried desperately to preserve the game's original form against the General PD's atrocities, but eventually we realized everything was futile in the face of power. People quit or left the industry entirely.
And soon, I'd probably follow in their footsteps.
"Assistant Manager-nim, do you have any companies in mind already?"
"Well, I don't know. I've built up five years of experience, so I should be able to move anywhere, right? You should worry about yourself before worrying about me. Seokjin-ah, you've only been here two years."
When I pointed out my subordinate's bleak future, the kid gave a bitter smile and nodded.
"True, my own nose is three feet long. I'm just barely finishing paying off my student loan, so I shouldn't be thinking about that already."
"I'm already a marked man, so I can't help it, but you haven't gotten on the higher-ups' bad side yet. So don't get swept up in the mood and think about quitting. Stick it out to the end."
I said that, patted my subordinate on the shoulder, then crushed my finished cigarette butt into the ashtray.
"I'm heading back first, so take your time coming down."
"Yes, go ahead, Assistant Manager-nim."
"Yeah."
I answered his farewell absentmindedly, waved my hand, steeled myself, and went back down to the office alone.
Deolkeok!
As I stepped inside the office, an unpleasant silence greeted me.
It felt like standing on a cold, sharp blade—how should I put it?
Normally, when the first revenue from a newly launched game hits the two major app stores, the atmosphere should be festive. But thanks to the massive incident of an internal leak right after launch, our department couldn't dare to celebrate.
'...In a way, it's self-inflicted, I guess.'
That bastard called the CEO didn't bother developing the game; he just played corporate politics like crazy.
Muttering that to myself, I was about to head back to my desk when a female employee sitting near the CEO's office cautiously called my name.
"Um, Assistant Manager Kim."
"Yes?"
"The CEO said to drop by his office when you came back."
"......"
Can I just not go?
That question rose to my throat, but I never had a choice to begin with.
Standing before the CEO's office like a cow being led to the slaughter, I mentally prepared myself and gave a light knock.
Ttok ttok!
"CEO-nim, it's Assistant Manager Kim."
"Ah, come in."
With permission, I opened the door and stepped inside. A familiar face came into view.
CEO Lee Hyun-cheol.
The man who was our joint CEO and the General PD of the 30 billion won new project.
He seemed to be browsing a game community, frantically scrolling his mouse wheel. He gestured toward a chair with his eyes and spoke.
"Have a seat."
"Yes."
As I answered carefully and sat down, CEO Lee Hyun-cheol fixed his gaze on the monitor and asked.
"In your opinion, Assistant Manager Kim, how do you think this situation will play out?"
"......"
A difficult question right from the start.
When I couldn't answer immediately and just pursed my lips, CEO Lee Hyun-cheol frowned slightly, adjusted his glasses, and said.
"Speak freely, freely. I just want to hear the employees' opinions."
Pressed by his continuous prodding, I finally answered reluctantly.
"It probably won't end easily. From the users' perspective right now, our game likely looks like something with a clear moral defect."
If it had been a simple operational mishap or a developer's typo, we could have immediately bowed our heads, promised to prevent recurrence, and gotten one chance.
But this incident was triggered by an internal leak from a former or current development team member, so it was obvious the boiling public opinion wouldn't calm down easily.
If we just stopped communicating and waited for the public outcry to quiet down—like other games had done before—the game that already had billions spent on advertising would fail to get its launch hype and sink without a trace.
And that would be the worst possible outcome not just for our development team, but for the investors who trusted the company's portfolio and put money into this game.
"...Hmm, I see."
Hearing my answer, CEO Lee Hyun-cheol put on a face that suggested deep thought.
Knowing that the man sitting right in front of me was the root cause of all this, I wanted to hurl profanities at him, but unless I planned on quitting tomorrow, I couldn't dare do such a thing. So I left it to imagination.
"Then let's schedule a live broadcast in the near future. If I show my face and apologize directly, at least the public opinion won't get worse than it is now."
I was surprised by his unusually bold decision and asked.
"Are you sure you'll be okay?"
CEO Lee Hyun-cheol answered with a smile on his lips.
"If the people below aren't doing anything, then at least the CEO should do something to save the game, don't you think?"
"......"
There was a barb in his words; it seemed my question had rubbed him the wrong way.
If I kept up this conversation, unnecessary trouble might come my way, so I cautiously asked.
"If your business is finished, may I leave now?"
CEO Lee Hyun-cheol, as if nothing had happened, relaxed his stiff expression and turned his attention back to the monitor.
"I suppose I've kept a busy man too long. Go ahead and get back to work, Assistant Manager Kim."
"Yes. Thank you."
Having received permission to leave, I backed away from his desk, then carefully pulled the door handle just as I had when I entered.
Just as I was about to escape that suffocating space, an unexpected question flew at me from behind.
"Ah, one last thing. Do you have any suspicions about who among the current employees or former employees might have written that exposé post?"
Cheolleong!
From his perspective, it was probably a trivial question, but from mine, honestly, it scared the living daylights out of me.
But showing any sign of panic in this situation would obviously make me look suspicious, so I forced a calm voice and answered.
"...No, I don't."
"Is that so?"
CEO Lee Hyun-cheol didn't ask anything further, and feeling oddly uncomfortable, I hurriedly escaped the CEO's office like I was running away.
That evening.
"I'm home."
Muttering habitually as I opened the front door, I saw the dark, gloomy apartment and let out an involuntary sigh.
"Haaah."
Five years had passed since I came up to Seoul with the big dream of becoming a game developer.
I should be used to living alone by now, but whenever I felt how tough life was, the loneliness that suddenly visited me was something I couldn't help.
'I miss my mom's kimchi jjigae.'
Thinking that, I turned on the living room light and placed the convenience store bag containing the dinner box I'd bought on the way home onto the table.
Then I took the dinner box out of the bag, peeled off the plastic, and put it in the microwave out of habit. During the remaining time, I went into the bedroom and changed into my pajamas.
Ppiik! Ppiik! Ppiik!
The alarm sounded right on cue. I took the dinner box out of the microwave, grabbed a cold beer fresh from the fridge, and sat down at my computer desk.
"Let's see... Anything interesting to watch today?"
After work, I'd put on a video from my favorite YouTuber or an OTT movie, and to forget the loneliness, I'd mutter to myself while eating a late dinner—it was practically my daily routine.
I was in the middle of watching a YouTube video and eating my late dinner when it happened.
A mid-roll ad played a commercial for a very familiar game.
「Red Asterisk! Thanks to our teachers' love, we're already celebrating our 7th anniversary!」
A mobile subculture game I'd only barely managed to check in on because real life was too busy, until one day I completely dropped it.
"......"
Without realizing it, I watched the entire 30-second commercial from start to finish, completely focused.
After the ad ended, I lost my appetite and put down my chopsticks.
'I wanted to make a game like that too.'
Every gamer has a few life-changing games.
For me, 'Red Asterisk' was exactly that kind of game.
It was the only game I'd stuck with for over five years, despite getting bored with most games after a year or two.
'How did it come to this?'
Suddenly, grief washed over me.
The game I wanted to make was one that made users happy, just like Red Asterisk.
A game that satisfied both the creators and the players.
But the product I'd ground five solid years of my life into had failed overnight.
In a world with a highly developed internet culture like today, a game's first impression was incredibly important.
In that sense, barring a real miracle, the game my team and I made would never recover its rankings until service ended, and would be forgotten as just another mediocre game.
The more I thought about it, the more infuriated I became.
And that fury soon turned into anger.
"Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! Lee Hyun-cheol, you son of a bitch!"
I punched the yellow dinosaur plushie—a souvenir from an offline event for another game—that was sitting next to my computer desk.
Peok! Peok! Peok!
In my heart, I wanted to expose everything on an anonymous community and quit the company like my former colleagues.
But with no proper place to move to yet, doing something like that would only hurt me.
When I thought about the utility bills, credit card payments, and bank loans due next month, no matter how much of a shithead my boss was, I had to stick with the company.
After venting my misplaced anger on the yellow dinosaur plushie, my excitement subsided somewhat, and I sat back down at my computer desk.
Then I immediately searched for 'Red Asterisk' in the search bar.
It was originally a mobile game, but I'd heard they'd also released a PC client version this time.
So I thought I'd install the game for the first time in a long while.
'The last time I logged in was about two years ago, I think.'
In mobile gaming, two years might as well be an eternity.
With competitive elements between users, the inflation rate was even faster, so the characters I'd used as my mainstays might already be obsolete by now.
I'd kept up with spending consistently until right before I quit, so thinking about that stung. But the water was already under the bridge—regretting it was pointless.
'I'll just hope the inflation hasn't progressed too much.'
After about 30 minutes, the download finished. I clicked the icon on my desktop to launch the game, and the red logo I used to see every day appeared on the screen.
「Red Asterisk!」
The opening sequence where the character shouts the game's title—a common practice for Japanese otaku games.
It's considered tacky these days and many games have dropped it, but hearing it after so long gave me a strangely comforting feeling, like I'd returned to my hometown.
'Yeah, this is it.'
After a few clicks, I entered the familiar UI lobby. The character I'd set as my representative before quitting came into view.
Tachibana Saori
A cool beauty-type character with long, straight black hair tinged with a faint violet hue, and ruby-red eyes.
「It's been a while, seonsaengnim. Did something busy come up?」
She was the only character I'd maxed out to 100 affection before I quit the game.
In modern terms, you could call her my "bias" or "my waifu."
'Still pretty even after all this time.'
Thinking that, I moved my mouse cursor to click on the lobby character to hear her next line.
And then—
Beonjjeok!
The monitor screen, which had been perfectly fine a moment ago, suddenly flashed with a blinding light.
"Wh-whoa?!"
Udangtangtang!
Startled by the unexpected flash, I fell backward, chair and all.
"My eyes! My eyes!"
As I writhed on the floor clutching my eyes in agony, a mysterious presence suddenly filled my apartment, which should have been empty.
"Kkeuk kkeuk."
'What the hell?'
It was utterly baffling. Enduring the searing pain, I forced my eyes open. Through my hazy vision, I saw a human figure.
"Seonsaengnim still has a knack for being ridiculous."
The moment I realized what that figure was, my jaw dropped in disbelief.
"...What?"
And no wonder.
Because standing before me in the flesh was my ultimate favorite character, who had been displayed on my monitor just moments ago.