Losing Money to Become a Tycoon: Starting with Games

Before the player enters a room, the narrator always offers a bit of "advice."

But once a choice is made—say, while walking down a corridor—the narrator will relentlessly mock that decision, delivering biting sarcasm like a seasoned roast master.

Take this for example, right before the player is forced to choose between "whaling" or "light spending":

. . . . . . .

So. You've already chosen "microtransactions" over a "buy-to-play" model as your game's core revenue strategy.

You actually listened to me.

Good.

Very good.

I must say, that was a brilliant decision. Selling add-on services is so much more profitable—why on earth would you ever refuse free money, right?

But now… another fork in the road.

Will you go full whale mode? Or will you take the more restrained route?

Going full whale means high-end price tags.

Think… the Rainbow Neon Fire Qilin of 888 Yuan kind of high-end.

Light monetization, on the other hand, means keeping prices grounded. The most expensive item in your entire game? Just a few dozen yuan.

My advice?

Whale it up.

No particular reason. 

Other than—it prints money. Isn't that enough?

If you cared so much about reputation, why didn't you just make the game pay-once from the start?

So come on. Choose heavy monetization.

Trust me.

You won't regret it.

. . . . . . .

Then, once the player commits and walks through the chosen door, the narrator doesn't let up. The hallway echoes with their voice again—but depending on your decision, the tone shifts dramatically.

If you chose "Whale":

. . . . . . .

Ohoho~ I knew it.

Between ideals and profit, you chose cold hard cash. Predictable.

As a gamer, you cursed greedy devs and swore you'd never become like them.

But now that you're the one making the game?

Suddenly, those price tags seem a bit too low, don't they?

No need to explain—I get it.

It's only human.

People like you? Game industry's got dozens of cases like you every single day. Nothing new.

But hey… have you considered the worst-case scenario?

You don't make money… and still get slammed with bad reviews?

Haha. Kidding. (Maybe.)

So? Ready to become a heartless profiteer—counting money with one hand while blocking insults with the other?

. . . . . . .

If you chose "Light Spending":

. . . . . . .

How utterly foolish.

Why... why can't you just listen to me?

Sure, maybe you salvaged a sliver of goodwill… but do you realize how much revenue you just threw away?

And it's not even a fixed number!

The more successful your game becomes, the more money you lose!

Imagine—millions lost, all because of this one, absurd decision.

Regretting it now?

No?

Still pretending you're fine?

Fine, be stubborn. But I guarantee, once the numbers are right in front of you, there's no way you'll stay this calm.

Regardless… you've made a truly foolish choice.

But don't worry.

Next time, I'll still be here…

Giving you the correct advice.

It's not too late—if you'd just do what I say.

. . . . . . .

In Pei Qian's design, this narrator serves a dual purpose:

First, the deliberately stiff tone constantly breaks immersion, reminding players that this is just a game, disrupting any sense of role-play.

Second, it's all about provocation—taunting the player, needling them, infuriating them.

A perfect two-for-one punch!

And best of all? The narrator's advice is always, always wrong.

If the player obediently follows every suggestion, they'll end up with the absolute worst possible ending—and the narrator will roast them alive for it.

Mocking them as a spineless CEO… someone who can't think for themselves… someone who's lost their original purpose.

In short: merciless, brutal ridicule.

A game that insults the player?

You better believe it.

There was no way this game wasn't going to crash and burn. Total loss? Guaranteed!

Pei Qian meticulously walked Lu Mingliang through the entire design document, combing over every line, every decision. He was confident—utterly confident—that he'd plugged every possible hole.

"Alright," Pei Qian said, closing the folder. "This is the finalized draft."

"For art, music, sound effects—and especially the narrator's voice actor—I want top-tier talent. If it doesn't cost a lot, then you're doing it wrong. Got it?"

Lu Mingliang nodded fervently. "Don't worry, President Pei! I'll handle everything to the highest standard!"

With that, Lu Mingliang left.

Pei Qian let out a sigh of relief and took another sip of tea. But just a few moments later—

Knock knock

"Brother Qian!" came Ma Yang's enthusiastic voice from outside. "The pro I mentioned is here! Wanna meet him?"

"Oh, sure," Pei Qian replied, setting down his cup and standing up.

He took Ma Yang's responsibilities seriously, even if the man himself could be a bit scatterbrained. Still, the person he brought in—was he reliable? Pei Qian had to see for himself.

If this guy turned out to be too smart, well… he'd have to come up with an excuse to turn him away.

. . . . . . .

Outside the building of Tengda Network Technology Co., Ltd., Zhang Yuan stood nervously at the front entrance.

To say this whole situation was bizarre would be putting it lightly.

In his day-to-day life, Zhang Yuan was a bar's resident singer and part-time bartender. But because of his love for building PCs, he was pretty active in a hardware forum and had even become a small-time moderator.

Then, out of nowhere, someone from the forum contacted him a few days ago, saying they urgently needed his expertise.

Zhang Yuan's first thought?

Scam. 100%.

There were all kinds of jokers on the internet. As a forum mod, Zhang Yuan had banned more than his fair share of trolls and idiots. So it wouldn't be surprising if someone tried to prank him out of revenge.

He ignored the message.

But the next day, the person messaged again, this time sounding downright desperate. They begged him to come to Jingzhou, promising to reimburse all travel, lodging, and meals—plus a 3000-yuan "hardship fee."

Zhang Yuan still didn't really believe it. But that 3000 yuan?

It did catch his attention.

Just what kind of PC build would be worth that much?

Out of curiosity, he added the person as a contact. Without even exchanging pleasantries, the guy sent over a 200-yuan red packet, just "as a token of sincerity."

That's when it hit Zhang Yuan:

This guy's legit.

No scammer just hands out money like that.

The person sent over a proper address—a commercial office in Jingzhou—and transferred money for his round-trip train ticket, no strings attached.

So now, here he was, in Jingzhou.

He was greeted at the station by a college-aged kid named Ma Yang.

The kid seemed friendly enough, though Zhang Yuan couldn't shake the feeling that something was… off. Like maybe he was a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

One thing was certain: there was no way this guy was the one paying that 3000 yuan.

And sure enough, Ma Yang brought him straight to a company building, then whispered something about meeting the CEO—President Pei—who wanted to personally speak with him.

Zhang Yuan felt like a deer in headlights.

He stood there, staring up at the office signage:

Tengda Network Technology Co., Ltd.

One quick search on Qiandu, and it hit him—this was the company behind Ghost General and Ocean Fortress!

A game company. Filthy rich. Absolutely loaded.

Zhang Yuan started sweating.

Soon, a tall, elegant assistant led him to the reception room. And then… he came face-to-face with the boss of this mysterious tech empire.

Now he was really panicking.

Ma Yang hadn't told him anything. Not what job he was here for, not what skills were needed—nothing. Probably because the final decision was up to this President Pei.

If President Pei liked him, great.

If not, then it was goodbye 3000 yuan.

At this point, Zhang Yuan was totally lost.

He couldn't imagine why a bar singer-slash-bartender had ended up being scouted by a CEO of this level. What exactly did they want from him?

Was he supposed to perform a song?

Maybe show off some cocktail flair?

Or—god forbid—sing while mixing drinks?

...No, that couldn't be it.

Wait a minute...

Could it be… they want me to build a PC?

That was the only explanation that made sense.

Still, even that felt kind of crazy.

<+>

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