Chapter Seven: Testing the Waters, Stirring the Waves!

Staring at the two short messages in the backend, Yin Jian hesitated for a long time before finally choosing the intern operator named Stone.

He hadn’t considered Green Bamboo because he was worried the other person might be his class monitor from university. Back then, he was always bragging about operations management, saying all sorts of things about how it should be done. Just thinking about it made him cringe. He couldn’t even remember what was going through his head at the time—he was full of immature nonsense.

He honestly couldn’t bring himself to face his old classmates. It was just too embarrassing.

Shaking off those shameful memories, Yin Jian moved his finger and added Stone as a friend.

Here, adding a friend didn’t mean a contact in the neural network, but a friend in the game assistant’s backend.

When he saw the approval go through, Yin Jian immediately sent a message: “Are you there?”

He wanted to ask about the details of the recommendation process, hoping to get his game listed as soon as possible.

He only had 200 left in his wallet—enough to last about two weeks if he was careful. But what about after that? Dumpster diving? Not in this era—trash was instantly vaporized outside, and there wasn’t even kitchen waste left to eat.

So time was tight.

“I’m here. (File) This is the electronic contract. Take a look. If there’s no problem, fill it out and send it back, and we’ll be officially signed.”

Apparently, Stone was right at the computer—the reply came less than five seconds after he sent his message.

Seeing this, Yin Jian didn’t rush to ask his questions. Instead, he opened the contract file and began reading carefully.

He skipped all the opening formalities and went straight to the sections on copyright and revenue share—these were what mattered most to him.

[Copyright remains with the designer, but if the work generates copyright income outside of the game, the platform receives ten percent as compensation for promotional services.]

No issue with the copyright. In this era, that was taken extremely seriously. Buyers only got usage rights, not ownership. And after the creator’s death, the copyright didn’t go public but passed to their heirs; if there were none, or no designated inheritor, the state would manage it.

After reviewing the copyright section, Yin Jian looked at the revenue split.

He found that game revenue was split fifty-fifty with the designer. For the first three months after listing, there was also a monthly economic subsidy of 1,500. If monthly sales reached ten thousand after three months, the subsidy would be extended indefinitely, until sales dropped below ten thousand.

“This split is pretty unreasonable...” Yin Jian frowned. The upfront investment in game development was just too high. He’d already cut every possible corner and still spent 2,800. For other games, he doubted you could make one for less than tens of thousands.

As for using assets purchased for previous games in new projects—forget it. You’d get a cease-and-desist from a lawyer. Copyright was taken extremely seriously here. The assets you bought for one game could only be used in that specific game.

If you wanted to use the same resources in another game, you had to buy them again.

That was the most infuriating part. The industry really was a case of feast or famine—some made huge profits, others lost everything.

Though he found the contract a little unfair, he knew he had no say.

“I’ll have to strike out on my own once I have some capital,” he thought. Relying on a platform imposed too many restrictions.

But he was just starting out; it wasn’t the time to think about that.

He quickly filled out the contract and sent it to Stone, asking, “How soon can you arrange for a recommendation?”

Stone didn’t have many resources, but it was still worth a try. If there was no help to be had, he’d just get the game listed as soon as possible. His skeletal wallet was in dire need of sustenance.

“In three days.”

The operator Stone, far away in the Qiyou Tower, replied quickly.

“So impatient,” Yu Jia muttered under her breath. Who asks about recommendations right after signing a contract?

Normally, a new designer would ask for feedback on their game first. Why wasn’t this guy following the script?

She looked at the long evaluation and analysis she’d written for him and felt all her effort had been wasted. If he didn’t ask, she couldn’t just dump all her thoughts on him unsolicited.

After waiting a moment and seeing no response, as if he truly didn’t intend to ask, she couldn’t help herself and sent another message:

“What do you think of your game? Any shortcomings?”

“It’s great, no issues. Just waiting for a recommendation to take off.”

Yu Jia gaped at the reply, then inhaled sharply. That confidence reminded her of Yin Jian from university.

Seriously, the game was like a mosaic—where did he get that confidence?

Was it just a quirk of people named Yin Jian, or was it just her luck to keep running into them?

Yu Jia looked frustrated. She really wanted to see the designers she worked with go far, but...

Oh well, she’d take it one step at a time.

With that thought, she sent Yin Jian a group number.

It was the designers’ group shared by the intern operators—all five of them would invite their signed designers. After March, the group would become a dedicated space for the operators who passed their assessment. If none of them made it, the group would be taken over by the senior operators.

...

In the afternoon, Yun Ying returned with four intern operators.

“Think carefully about what you learned today. See if you can use the methods I taught you to find a good game in the library.”

After giving instructions, she walked over to Yu Jia. “Have you thought it through?”

“I sounded out the director for you. He wasn’t bothered by what happened this morning.”

“His mood was good today, but don’t be so reckless in the future,” Yun Ying warned.

Yu Jia just nodded. She didn’t care much for workplace politics; she just wanted to do her job well.

When Yun Ying finished, Yu Jia handed her a printed application form.

“Senior Yun, I want to apply for a trial recommendation next Monday for the game I signed.”

“You signed a game?” Yun Ying frowned as she took the form. “You only get ten chances to apply for trial recommendations during your internship. Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Yun Ying nodded, about to say more, but then her gaze froze on the part of the form that listed the game’s genre:

[Sandbox]

Sandbox games—using the same assets to endlessly expand a map. That was a stopgap from the days when technology was limited; now, with enough funding, you could recreate the entire universe perfectly.

Sandbox games had long since gone out of fashion. The best-selling sandbox release in recent years had only moved 7,000 units a month. The operations department had reached a consensus to skip reviewing sandbox games altogether.

“Putting resources into a sandbox game is a waste, you know?” Yun Ying rubbed her forehead, feeling her recent efforts had all been for nothing.

Yu Jia’s eyes didn’t waver. “I trust my judgment.”

Seeing this, Yun Ying was exasperated. “Girl, you need to work on your attitude, or one day you’ll hit the wall hard.”

“Alright, I’ll submit your trial recommendation. But this is the only time—next time, let me review your application before you send it.”

She figured Yu Jia needed to experience failure for the sake of growth.

“Okay.”

Once Yun Ying agreed, Yu Jia replied softly and turned back to browsing the game library.

Yun Ying sighed; bringing up newcomers was exhausting. Next time, she swore, she wouldn’t take the job, or she’d be gray-haired by thirty from all the worry.

...

“You’re making me join the group chat?”

“Is no one here?”

Yin Jian checked the member list and found that, including himself, there were only seven people in the group. Six were admins. His operator Stone was one, so the other five must also be operators.

With nothing of interest in the group chat, Yin Jian closed it and opened the Little Trash Game Engine.

He planned to add more elements to “My Little World.” The main appeal of MC was playing with friends. Since he couldn’t afford the mini world sharing framework, he’d have to add more interesting features to keep players engaged.

Otherwise, when the recommendation came, the current content wouldn’t be enough to retain even a handful of players.

Time slipped by as he worked tirelessly.

Before he knew it, Monday had arrived—the day his game would get its trial run.