Pei Qian might have scoffed at visual novels as being outdated—but deep down, he knew the truth:
Outdated also meant reliable.
Visual novels were one of the oldest, yet most stable game genres around—tried and tested through the ages.
Thanks to his memories from his past life, Pei Qian knew that Chinese Parents, an indie game with a similar structure, had been a massive hit!
That kind of success? Absolutely unacceptable.
So he had to completely abandon the visual novel format!
Pei Qian cleared his throat and continued:
"My idea is this—we design a three-dimensional flowchart."
"That's right, a complex network structure—just like a spiderweb."
"Each square in the flowchart is a room. Each connecting line? A corridor."
"Players walk through corridors to make choices, and the rooms represent the consequences of those choices."
"Each room will have multiple doors, representing further branching decisions."
"Does that make sense to everyone?"
Everyone nodded… and then almost simultaneously shook their heads.
They got it… but not really.
Pei Qian's explanation let most of them picture what the game might look like.
They'd seen flowcharts before—created in Visio or similar software—used all over various industries, including game design.
It's a way of laying out logic trees, decision branches, and program flows—start with a trigger condition, go through a series of checks, then end with an outcome.
Now imagine replacing all those boxes with 3D rooms of varying size, and turning the arrows into hallways—that flowchart would become a massive maze.
And the protagonist would walk through it, choosing doors to enter different paths, eventually reaching a final room: one of the game's endings.
What they didn't get was—what kind of game is this?
They'd never seen anything like it.
Not in China. Not abroad.
Could it work?
Investing in all these elaborate 3D models and massive environments… just to make a game where all you do is walk?
Something didn't feel right.
Still—no one dared question Pei Qian.
Didn't understand?
Perfect.
Pei Qian's thinking was clearly on a higher plane.
Only people like Huang Sibo and Bao Xu could maybe half-comprehend what he was getting at.
The rest of them? Not even close.
Lu Mingliang understood this very well, and furiously scribbled notes in his little notebook.
Fortunately, this time President Pei was being very detailed—no need to guess.
Just do exactly as he said, and you'll be fine!
Lin Wan raised her hand. "President Pei, I think this is a really creative design! But… if players are just walking around the whole time, won't it feel a little boring?"
Boring?
Boring is exactly what I want!
That's the whole point!
But Lin Wan's question made Pei Qian realize something.
Could this still be… not extreme enough?
If it's just boring, maybe players will tolerate it.
Maybe they'll even start to enjoy the decision-making part and get addicted despite the boredom!
Pei Qian frowned in deep thought.
And then—
"Got it."
An idea struck him like lightning.
"We'll add a narrator to the game!"
"Narrator?" Lin Wan blinked, confused.
Narration in games wasn't unheard of—but usually it was just for opening cutscenes.
Adding it during gameplay? That would seriously break immersion.
Exactly.
Pei Qian chuckled darkly.
Why add a narrator?
To break immersion.
To ruin the experience.
To annoy the player.
That was the whole point.
Not only that—Pei Qian wanted to inject his own private agenda into the narration, ruthlessly mocking the players, making them angry, making them rage!
He wanted them to feel personally insulted, to the point that they would leave scathing reviews, not recommend the game to others, and completely destroy its reputation.
Imagine this: every time a player makes a decision, the narrator delivers a sarcastic, passive-aggressive jab at them…
A game that verbally abuses its players…
Delicious.
Any player with even a shred of self-respect should be slamming their mouse in frustration, right?
Pei Qian cleared his throat and offered a more "reasonable" explanation:
"The narrator is our way of engaging with the player."
"Right now, the player is just walking around endlessly—they'll get bored quickly. They feel like an outsider, just observing, which makes it hard to stay interested."
"So we'll use narration to interact with them. For example, if they choose a 'wrong' option, it triggers narration A. If they choose a 'right' one, narration B plays."
"This way, every choice gets feedback, and the player won't feel so isolated or bored!"
Lin Wan's eyes lit up, and she nodded enthusiastically.
This is exactly why President Pei is a genius!
To come up with such a brilliant idea…
That's what being a visionary game designer is all about!
She couldn't help but compare this to her past experiences at Tianhuo Studio.
Back at Tianhuo Studio, they held similar brainstorming meetings to fine-tune gameplay details.
But the vibe was totally different.
Zhou Muyan would always ask:
"Are there any other games that have done something like this?"
If the answer was yes, he'd analyze whether it was successful. If it was, then they'd consider adopting it.
If the answer was no—or worse, if someone had tried it and failed—then the idea would be scrapped immediately.
And that wasn't just Zhou Muyan. Most domestic game companies worked the same way.
For the sake of "safety," most designers avoided risks, always relying on past case studies.
Which is exactly why so many games ended up looking the same, like they'd all come from the same boring mold.
But President Pei?
He didn't care whether there were successful precedents.
He had the guts to be the first to eat the crab!
That kind of boldness… far surpassed Zhou Muyan and Tianhuo Studio by leagues.
Lin Wan felt a renewed admiration for Pei Qian—this man was without a doubt a genius designer. No question.
As for Lu Mingliang, he didn't fully understand Pei Qian's intentions… but he furiously scribbled notes anyway.
He might not get it, but he respected it.
He knew exactly how far he still had to go, so he didn't dare raise any objections.
Just follow orders. Stick to the plan. No questions asked.
Pei Qian, meanwhile, was in an incredibly good mood.
Everyone was on board. No resistance. The plan was fully under his control.
It felt amazing.
"Three days to produce the design draft. One week for a complete gameplay flow. Two weeks for all art assets. Is that doable?" Pei Qian asked, turning to Lu Mingliang.
Without hesitation, Lu Mingliang stood up straight and nodded.
"Of course, President Pei! I'll get it done!"
Then, just a little uncertain, he added:
"Uh, President Pei, if I can't finish in time… may I apply to work overtime?"
After all, overtime was a privilege reserved for the most trusted employees—and he wasn't sure if he was good enough to qualify.
Pei Qian thought for a moment and nodded.
"Sure, but don't go past 9 PM. You're all still young, but health is important too."
"Yes, sir!" Lu Mingliang nearly teared up.
Such humane care!
Only at Tengda could an employee be treated with this much dignity!
How could he not work himself to the bone for President Pei?
If he didn't go all in for this man, was he even human?!
<+>
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