Chapter 2: The Birth of "Potato Simulator 2024"
Ace's apartment transformed into a chaotic game development studio. Empty ramen containers and crumpled energy drink cans littered the desk, competing for space with scribbled notes, hastily drawn sketches, and the flickering screen of his ancient laptop.
He started by scavenging the internet for royalty-free assets, or, more accurately, stealing clip art. He found a low-resolution image of a potato that looked like it had been drawn in MS Paint in 1995. Perfect.
Next, he needed a plot. Ace stared blankly at the screen, his mind a swirling vortex of bad ideas. A gripping narrative about the existential angst of a potato? A thrilling adventure through the potato fields of Idaho? Nah. Too much effort.
He decided to use a random word generator. He typed in a few basic prompts – "potato," "adventure," "space" – and hit the "generate" button. The results were gloriously nonsensical.
[The potato must navigate the treacherous asteroid belt to retrieve the sacred spatula of Spudonia, guarded by the fearsome Space Squirrel King.]
Ace grinned. "Genius!"
He copied and pasted the random plot into the game's description. He didn't bother to add any context or explanation. The more confusing, the better.
For the gameplay, Ace opted for the simplest mechanic he could think of: tapping. The entire game consisted of tapping the potato image repeatedly. There were no levels, no objectives, no challenges. Just endless, mindless tapping.
He added a few sound effects – the crunch of breaking glass, the squawk of a seagull, a distorted voice saying "potato" in reverse – and called it a day.
After a grueling 48 hours of coding (which mostly involved copy-pasting snippets of code from online tutorials), "Potato Simulator 2024" was finally ready.
Ace uploaded the game to a mobile app store, setting the price at a ridiculously low 99 cents. He knew no one in their right mind would pay for this garbage, but he needed to follow the motions.
He even created a terrible promotional video, featuring himself awkwardly holding a potato in front of a green screen, spouting random nonsense about the game's revolutionary gameplay.
[Coming soon! Potato Simulator 2024! Prepare to tap! Prepare to… be amazed? (Probably not.)]
He uploaded the video to YouTube, fully expecting it to be ignored by the internet at large.
Ace leaned back in his chair, exhausted but satisfied. He had done it. He had created the worst mobile game imaginable.
He waited, with bated breath, for the money to start flowing in… or, more accurately, flowing out. He imagined the System's notification popping up, showering him with digital cash for every copy of "Potato Simulator 2024" that didn't sell.
But days turned into weeks, and nothing happened. The game languished in the app store, unloved and unplayed. The promotional video garnered a grand total of three views, two of which were from Ace himself.
Ace started to panic. Had he underestimated the internet's tolerance for terrible games? Was his plan doomed to fail?
He checked his System Inventory. The funds remained stubbornly at $100,000.
"Come on, System," Ace pleaded, staring at the notification that popped up in front of his eyes. "Give me something! A penny! Anything!"
The System remained silent, its digital interface mocking his incompetence.
Just as Ace was about to give up hope, a notification flashed across his screen.
[Potato Simulator 2024: 1 Sale!]
Ace stared at the screen, dumbfounded. Someone had actually bought his game.
He braced himself for the System's notification of a measly one-cent profit. But instead, another notification appeared.
[Potato Simulator 2024 is trending on social media! #PotatoSimulator2024 #WorstGameEver #SoBadItsGood]
Ace's jaw dropped. He clicked on the notification, and his eyes widened in disbelief.
"Potato Simulator 2024" was going viral.