Lin's Café.
In the upstairs room where the Lin family lived, Lin Baicheng was coding on his computer while taking a break from dictating his novel to rest his dry throat.
That IBM computer had cost him nearly 200,000 Hong Kong dollars—an enormous sum—but computers in this era were expensive to begin with. And since he'd gone for a higher-performance model, the price had only climbed higher.
All of it was for one goal: to make a game.
When he first decided to develop a game, Lin had spent days thinking about what kind of game to make.
As someone who came from 50 years in the future, his mind was filled with countless classics. It seemed like almost any game he recreated could become a smash hit.
But once he considered the limitations of 1970s computer hardware, his own budget, and the fact that he'd be developing alone, Lin reluctantly dismissed one idea after another—until only a few options remained.
Finally, he settled on Tetris—an incredibly simple yet timeless puzzle game invented by a Russian in the 1980s, as far as he remembered.
The gameplay was straightforward:
Different-shaped blocks made of small squares would fall from the top of the screen. The player adjusted their position and rotation to form complete horizontal lines at the bottom. Completed lines would instantly disappear, earning points and freeing space for new blocks. But if the pile of blocks reached the top, the game ended.
Though simple, the game was pure genius—and practically immortal.
Strictly speaking, Tetris wasn't the best fit for arcade machines. It was more suited to home consoles, handhelds, or computers.
Still, Lin decided to make it anyway. After all, he only vaguely remembered that a Russian invented it sometime in the 1980s—he couldn't recall the exact year.
It was now 1977. What if the real Tetris didn't appear until 1980? That meant only a few years' difference. So Lin figured he should make it first and claim the idea before anyone else.
Besides, while Tetris might not be ideal for arcades, that didn't mean it wouldn't work. The gameplay itself was still fun.
Of course, once his version was done, he wouldn't call it Tetris.
The name "Hong Kong Blocks" (Heung Gong Fong Gwai) suited it better.
He had thought about using something like "Chinese Blocks", but given that Hong Kong was still under British rule and Western countries weren't exactly friendly toward China at the time, he decided it was safer not to risk controversy that could sink his game.
At first, Lin had also considered developing gambling arcade machines, like the fruit machines and poker machines that would become popular in mainland China in the 1990s. Anyone who'd been around then would remember the catchy Justice Bao jingle constantly playing in those halls:
"In Kaifeng there lives Bao Qingtian, whose face of iron distinguishes the just from the wicked..."
Those gambling arcades were easy to make and incredibly profitable. Lin believed that if they were a hit in the '90s, they'd definitely be successful in the late '70s too.
But ultimately, he gave up on the idea for two reasons:
He had other, cleaner options. There was no need to tarnish his or his company's reputation with gambling.
He didn't want to deal with shady underworld figures. Right now, he had no money, no power—if he tangled with the wrong people, they'd swallow him whole.
The risk far outweighed the reward, and with better options available, Lin put the idea aside.
After about half an hour of coding, Lin's throat had recovered enough to continue dictating his novel, which his hired scribe transcribed by hand.
By working like this, he could still produce around 20,000 characters a day, and with just over 100,000 characters left in the story's conclusion, he estimated he'd finish within a few days. Then, he could finally focus entirely on game development.
That evening, his sister Lin Shufang came home from the factory.
At first, taking over the company's finances had been overwhelming for her—she had no experience and didn't even know where to start. Fortunately, she did understand one key principle: protect the money. Because of that, nothing major went wrong.
By the afternoon, things had improved—Liu Yihui had hired a professional accountant to assist her. With guidance, Lin Shufang began to understand how the job worked.
She told her brother how unaccustomed and uneasy she felt that day, afraid she might not be capable of doing it right. Lin comforted her, telling her no one starts out an expert—and that he needed her to keep an eye on the company's funds. He hoped she wouldn't give up.
Of course, Lin Shufang wouldn't quit. She just worried about making mistakes that could cost her brother dearly.
Over the next few days, Lin stayed home. Even when Liu called to tell him that Wu Jianjun had already recruited the new security guards, Lin didn't go to the factory. He wanted to finish his novel in one push before diving headfirst into game production.
Within those few days, Lin Shufang—now working closely with the accountant—became comfortable with her duties. She realized the job wasn't as complicated as she'd feared: manage the books carefully, and there'd be no big problems. Small errors could be fixed easily.
Meanwhile, the factory—now renamed Galaxy Games Company (星河游戏公司)—saw little change for most workers. Their new boss didn't seem to affect their day-to-day much, except that everyone's wages had quietly increased by 5%.
Only the management knew what was really happening: the factory would soon stop assembling arcade cabinets and instead produce a game designed by their new boss. If the game failed to sell, the company's future—and their jobs—would all be in jeopardy.
Then came July 16th, 1977, a clear and sunny day.
Lin Baicheng finally finished his novel, "Wind and Cloud: The Overlord of the World" ("风云雄霸天下")—over 1.9 million characters long, though the exact count would be confirmed by the newspaper or publishing house.
He'd started writing it in early February, nearly six months ago. Thanks to his professional scribe, he'd maintained a steady output of 20,000 characters per day—around 600,000 a month.
Although the novel was finished, Lin wouldn't hand it all over to The Star Daily or Haohan Publishing at once. He planned to deliver portions gradually, matching the serialization schedule.
But for Lin, the real excitement wasn't the book—it was what came next.
Now that the novel was done, he could devote himself entirely to game development, get the factory to build it, and finally start making money from games.
He had high hopes for this project. It might not conquer the world immediately, but as long as it sold well, it would earn far more than writing novels ever could.
The gaming industry was growing rapidly every year—
a blue ocean among blue oceans.